20
Two hours later. Cox sat in the CID suite, swirling the dregs of another tasteless coffee in her cup. She felt deadened, stale. Butcher was still downstairs, sweating it out in his cell. Not for long, though: his girlfriend had confirmed his alibi, such as it was, and their neighbours in the tower-block hadn’t given them any decent reason to doubt it.
‘Face it, Cox, we’ve got fuck-all,’ Naysmith had grunted. ‘Turn him loose.’
He was on his way home. First day of the inquiry tomorrow, he reminded Cox, as if she needed reminding; he had homework to do. He was going to be asked to lay out the background of the Tomasz Lerna case.
Cox gulped down the last of the coffee. Screw it; she was calling it a day, too. The DCI was right, they didn’t have anything like enough evidence to charge Butcher with murder. Time to kick the poor bastard out. She headed downstairs.
In the car park she passed Dan Chalmers. He was leaning on a bollard, smoking a cigarette. Must’ve worked his way through a pack at least, today. He didn’t show a lot on the surface, Chalmers – but the Merritt murder had rattled him. It’d rattled everybody.
‘You off?’ he called.
She nodded. Chalmers dragged on his cigarette, discarded the butt.
‘He’s telling the truth, isn’t he?’ he said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I know the background, the abuse, harassment, it all points to Butcher – but Cox, I don’t think he did it.’
Cox rubbed her stiff neck, made a face.
‘I don’t think so either,’ she said. ‘The guy’s got a grievance, a serious one, too, who can blame him, but what was done to Merritt – Christ, it’s in another league.’
Chalmers jerked his head back towards the nick.
‘Want me to have one last crack at him?’
‘Nah. Let him go. I think we’ve got all we’re going to get from Stevie Butcher. Sort out the recommendation to the Parole Board, would you? Breach of conditions to be overlooked in recognition of exceptionally helpful blah blah blah. You know the drill.’
Chalmers nodded; flipped her a lazy wave by way of goodnight.
In her car, as she buckled her seatbelt, she wondered if she should’ve said something to Chalmers about what’d happened in that interview room – why she’d lost the run of herself over a crude sketch of a face. Chalmers was a decent guy, not fazed by much. But how could he ever understand, really understand, what it meant?
No. This was something she’d have to deal with alone.
She called Greg Wilson before she drove off. She’d been keeping him posted – by text, and very much on the quiet – as the day had worn on: the murder of Merritt, the raid on Butcher, the mention of a child’s death at Wolvesley Grange.
He’d been busy.
‘There was a fire at Wolvesley, early 1987,’ he said. ‘That’s on the record: press coverage as well as local authority reports. And there was a death: a young girl, Jessica Arnott, seven years old. Fire service reckoned she’d started the fire herself, playing with matches.’
‘And the boy? This Robbie’s brother?’
‘No record of a boy being killed.’
Cox sighed.
‘Shit. I was hoping we might actually be on to something here.’
Wilson made a tutting noise.
‘Cox, Cox, Cox,’ he said. Hearing the smile in his voice, she could see it in her mind’s eye: cynical, excited, wolfish. ‘Have you learned nothing? I said there’s no record of it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’
The buzz of her phone woke her. She blinked, pushed her hair out of her face. The room was steeped in muted silver-grey. Light already? Squinted at the clock: just gone eight. She’d climbed into bed a little before eleven. When was the last time she’d slept for nine hours straight? Must be good stuff in those painkillers …
She took up her humming phone from the bedside table. Clocked the number; swore softly.
‘Serena. Good morning.’
The barrister sounded cross – more so than usual.
‘DI Cox, are you with DCI Naysmith?’
‘Naysmith?’ She rubbed her bleary eyes. ‘No. I’ve just woken up. Are you at the inquiry?’
‘I am,’ McAvoy snapped back. ‘But your chief inspector is nowhere to be seen. He’s due to be called in two hours’ time, and we’ve barely begun briefing. He’s not answering his phone, either.’
It’s not my fault, Cox wanted to reply. But being petulant would get her nowhere. Besides, it was a worry – what the hell was Naysmith playing at?
He didn’t always cope well with stress, she knew.
‘We sent a car to his home,’ McAvoy went on, ‘but apparently there was no one there. No one in any fit state to answer the door, anyway.’
Cox sighed. So the QC knew about Naysmith’s boozing. Good job she’s on our side, she thought, before correcting herself: McAvoy wasn’t on their side, she was on the side of the Metropolitan Police Service.
A few years ago, it’d never have occurred to her to make that distinction.
‘I’ll go round there now,’ she said. ‘Take a look. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.
‘Please do,’ McAvoy huffed. The line went dead.
Naysmith lived in a three-bed new-build up in Ladbroke Grove, near the Westway. His car – a blue Focus, nothing flashy – was in the driveway. Curtains pulled. No sign of any trouble – yet. She parked two doors down, approached the house warily.
A square-edged privet restricted her view of the house-front. The estate employed a gardener who kept everything tidy, tasteful and lifeless. It was a place for overworked professionals, mostly single, no kids, people who wanted a decent place to live – and could afford one – but hadn’t the time or energy to think about cleaning or upkeep.
She walked up the bricked path. Nothing out of order. Reached up to take the spare key from where Naysmith kept it tucked in the matting of a hanging basket. She’d given him some ribbing over that, first time he’d told her about it: we’ve got PCs going round telling people how to secure their homes, and here’s a DCI keeping his door key where any mug could find it …
She was glad of it now. Wiped the dirt off the key, eased open the door. The chain snapped tight.
‘Guv? You here?’
No reply. She called again.
When, after a few seconds, there wasn’t a sound, she put her good shoulder and all her weight into the door. The chain gave way easily.
She stepped cautiously into the hall. Her foot chinked against broken glass. Looked down; red liquid was seeping into the fabric of her shoe.
Oh Christ …
But the surge of panic quickly subsided. The stink of alcohol was overpowering. Not blood, but cheap wine – Naysmith must’ve dropped a bottle when he was bringing in supplies.
She kicked the shards aside angrily, wiped the wine from her shoe and marched through the hall into the living room.
TV on, tuned to a late-night soft-porn channel. Three empty bottles of red lined up on the coffee table. Foil carton greasy with takeaway leftovers. Half-pint bottle of supermarket whisky on its side on the carpet – that, too, was empty.
Naysmith was asleep on the sofa in yesterday’s clothes. Tie loosened, one sock on, one sock off. A shirt-button had given way, exposing three inches of bloated gut. He had his mouth open, and his tongue lolled against his lower lip.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Cox sighed.
She dug a toe-end into Naysmith’s side. The DCI grunted, turned over heavily. Cox chewed her lip irritably; she wasn’t in the mood for this. The man was meant to be her boss, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t feel in the slightest guilty about busting the chain.
‘Guv,’ she shouted. ‘Wake up.’
Gave him another kick.
Naysmith opened his eyes.
‘Inquiry day,’ said Cox.
Naysmith’s cheeks bulged.
‘I’m gonna be sick,’ he said.
Cox turned away, biting down hard on her anger and disgust. Tried to ignore the noise of Naysmith vomiting painfully on to the carpet; stepped out into the hall, dialled Serena McAvoy’s number.
No preamble.
‘Have you found him?’
‘Yes. He’s – indisposed.’
McAvoy snorted.
‘I’ll assume you mean dead drunk. Well, I can’t say it’s an enormous surprise. I’ve already sounded out the inquiry – discreetly, of course. They’re prepared to adjourn for the morning. It was made quite clear to me, however, that the inquiry will be in session this afternoon. That means either that DCI Naysmith will have to be feeling better by then – or that you, inspector, will have to give evidence in his place.’
Cox’s insides froze up. Behind her, in the living room, Naysmith was on his feet – she could hear him talking loudly to himself. Gonna give this so-called inquiry hell … Proud to work with you, Cox, bloody proud … Poking their noses into police business …
That man was not going to appear before an inquiry today.
‘I – I haven’t been briefed, or, or –’ Cox protested.
‘Then perhaps you should have turned up to one of our briefing meetings,’ McAvoy said crisply. ‘Have you any idea how much the state pays to convene these things? We’ll see you at the inquiry at two o’clock sharp.’
Cox felt like she’d been led out to face a firing squad. Would’ve been easier if they’d blindfolded her. Then she wouldn’t have had to see this lot …
A lot of dark suits, a lot of designer glasses. A couple of the faces she knew by sight; she’d never been one for following politics. There were five of them, MPs from all the main parties. They were ranged along a semi-circular desk; Baroness Kent, smart in a petrol-blue jacket, sat in the centre.
Cox had Serena McAvoy on one side of her, two other middle-aged guys from the Met legal team on the other – but God, she felt alone.
Plenty of press there, too. They couldn’t take photos, there in the Westminster committee room, but the television cameras were rolling.
‘Tread carefully,’ McAvoy had told her, concluding a woefully inadequate half-hour briefing session in a side-room. ‘Most of them will just be after the truth, and that’s fine – but some of them want to tear you apart. At least your appearance will lend you some sympathy. How is the arm by the way?’
‘Getting better, thank you.’ Didn’t think McAvoy really gave two shits.
She poured herself a glass of water, trying to keep a steady hand.
Baroness Kent thanked her for appearing, especially in light of her recent accident; asked her to state her name, rank and connection with the case – she managed that without a stumble, thank God – and then suggested that, by way of introduction, she should tell them exactly who Tomasz Lerna was.
You can do this, Kerry. She scanned the MPs’ faces: every one of them, it seemed, zoned keenly in on her, hawk-like, predatory. You’ve been through way worse. You’ve got this.
She took a deep breath, leaned in to the microphone and told them exactly who Tomasz Lerna was.
‘Tomasz was an eight-year-old boy, a Latvian boy,’ she said. ‘Lived with his parents in a suburb of Riga. His mother reported Tomasz missing in January last year. The report was followed up by the local police but wasn’t logged with Interpol or any other transnational agency – there was no reason to suspect Tomasz had left the country.
‘However, we believe that in April – or possibly as early as March – Tomasz was smuggled into the UK, probably through Calais in a lorry or a car, but we can’t be sure of that.’
Baroness Kent looked up from her notes and slid her reading-glasses a little way down her nose.
‘Could you describe the circumstances of Tomasz’s death? They’re not pleasant, I know – but please go into as much detail as possible.’
‘He starved to death,’ Cox said flatly. ‘He was found in a lockup, already dead.’
One of the MPs, a man – a Conservative back-bencher, Cox thought – interjected: ‘Where was this lockup?’
‘Near Bishop’s Stortford. The lockup,’ she added, ‘belonged to a local man – a Mr Boyd.’
‘We’ll get to that later,’ Baroness Kent said, making a note. ‘You say Tomasz was “found” in the lockup. Was he imprisoned there?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long, do you think?’
‘Five weeks, more or less.’
‘That seems a very precise figure. How did you come by it?’
Cox hesitated. Well, they wanted the truth …
‘It was an estimate,’ she said, ‘based on the quantity of faeces surrounding Tomasz’s body when we found him. By factoring in the extent of his starvation, we were able to arrive at what we think is a pretty accurate estimate.’
She looked again from face to face to face. They all looked sickened. So they should, Cox thought. She could hear someone weeping in the public gallery.
A young MP, a blonde woman with a neat bob who was, Cox gathered, a rising star on the Opposition front benches, asked about the boy’s body. Had he been abused, mistreated?
‘Yes, he had,’ Cox confirmed. ‘Extensively, and systematically.’
A few people walked out of the public gallery over the course of the next five minutes – one or two reporters, too. The MPs’ faces grew steadily paler, sicker; mostly, they looked like they regretted volunteering to sit on the inquiry panel.
Cox spoke calmly and authoritatively about the physical damage inflicted on the boy: the broken bones that had never healed, the severe harm to his anal cavity and rectum resulting from repeated penetration, the infected lesions caused by the repeated application of tight binding – cable-ties, it was thought – to his wrists, ankles and other body parts, the untreated sexually transmitted infections from which he was found to have been suffering.
‘In short,’ Cox finished, ‘Tomasz was subjected to sexual and physical abuse on a scale that, as far as we know, was unprecedented in UK criminal history.’
She stopped. Took a sip of water. None of the MPs seemed to have much stomach for further questions.
Baroness Kent, however, was nowhere near done. She was a smart woman, Cox knew – sure, she was well liked, could be affable and empathetic, but before moving into politics she’d been a partner in the Criminal division at one of the big City law firms: that meant forensic intelligence, tactical nous, technical knowhow and no small amount of courage. She’d been tipped for elevation to the High Court Bench before she’d surprised everyone by taking up local politics. Within two years she was heading up the Tory council in Harringey. A seat in the Lords followed soon after.
Cox remembered McAvoy’s words of warning: tread carefully.
‘Do you think,’ the baroness asked, tapping a pen thoughtfully on her notepad, ‘that anything could have been done to prevent Tomasz’s death?’
Cox could feel Serena McAvoy’s eyes boring into her.
She nodded.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Could you please elaborate.’
Another sip of water.
‘One, Tomasz’s disappearance wasn’t registered with any transnational agency. In retrospect, that would have been helpful.’
The MPs were all taking notes, she saw. If she made a misstep here, there’d be no wriggling out of it.
‘But that wouldn’t have been standard practice?’ Kent prompted.
‘No. The Latvian police had no reason to suppose Tomasz would be transported out of the country. You asked me what could have been done, considering the case in retrospect. That’s very different to saying what should have been done.’
She paused. It seemed to her like a key point, and she thought she’d made it well – but no one on the panel was writing it down.
‘Very well,’ said Kent. ‘Please go on.’
‘Two, Tomasz was brought into the country illegally, by organized traffickers. Obviously, that suggests an operational failing on the part of the Border Force. Beyond that, I’m not qualified to comment. Three, it’s likely that after his arrival in the UK Tomasz passed through the hands of a number of known paedophiles and sex offenders, of whom Mr Boyd was just one. This suggests a major failure –’
‘I should say so,’ harrumphed the Tory back-bencher.
‘– not only operationally – in terms of the surveillance and management of known offenders – but strategically, in terms of the failure of a number of police authorities to coordinate their efforts and to share information in respect of paedophile networks operating across the jurisdictions of various authorities.’
There was some murmuring in the public gallery. She heard the faint hum of a television camera zooming in.
The back-bencher steepled his fingers.
‘You seem very accomplished,’ he said, ‘at pointing out other people’s shortcomings.’
There seemed to be nothing Cox could say to that – so she said nothing. Poured herself more water.
The young female MP spoke up again.
‘Could I try and narrow this down, inspector? Do you think there’s anything that your department in particular could have done to prevent Tomasz’s death?’
Kent put in: ‘For instance, didn’t you take Warren Boyd into custody quite early on in the investigation – while Tomasz was still alive?’
Cox swallowed. Her throat felt bone-dry. She glanced across to the press benches; she could tell from their faces that they were on high alert. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to write the next day’s headlines.
‘At the time, we were stretched extremely thin in terms both of staff and resources –’ she began.
‘Excuses, excuses …’ the back-bencher droned.
‘We brought in Warren Boyd, yes. But he was one of a large number of known sex offenders who we interviewed as part of our investigation. He had been an exemplary parolee, he had been attending his mandatory therapy sessions, and we had absolutely no reason to link him with Tomasz Lerna. As you say, it was at a very early stage. At that point we were still looking for leads.’
‘And,’ put in an MP who hadn’t spoken before – a dark-haired man, around forty, telegenic and suited in smart blue-grey, ‘you let him slip right through your fingers.’
Here we go, Cox thought. They can smell blood.
‘That would be a dramatic way of putting it,’ she said, trying not to sound too defensive.
‘If you’d banged Boyd up there and then, Tomasz Lerna would still be alive, isn’t that true?’
‘No. We still wouldn’t have known where Tomasz was being kept.’
‘Come on,’ the man scoffed. ‘Boyd would have told you, if he thought he was facing a hard time. Everyone knows, for better or worse, what happens to his kind inside.’
He was testing Cox’s temper. She was almost glad it was her and not Naysmith who was getting this treatment. The DCI would have blown his top by now, especially if he had a hangover.
‘I don’t know what you think we should have done,’ Cox said evenly. ‘We simply didn’t have the evidence to charge Boyd.’
‘You should have done your job, inspector,’ the backbencher crowed, rheumy eyes glittering. There was a spatter of applause in the public gallery.
Cox felt bewildered. All at once, she was under siege.
‘We – we did everything we could,’ she said.
‘But it wasn’t enough.’
‘Look, the team’s record on tackling people-trafficking –’
‘We are not talking about the team’s record,’ the dark-haired man put in sternly. ‘We are talking about poor little Tomasz Lerna, starving to death in an abandoned lockup while, as far as we can gather, the Met’s finest do nothing but chase their own tails.’
More applause. This was getting way out of hand. Cox glanced across at Serena McAvoy – but McAvoy was studying her notes; wouldn’t meet her eye.
On your own again, DI Cox …
Baroness Kent restored a degree of calm.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, offering Cox a hint of an encouraging smile, ‘you could give us a little bit of context with regard to the team’s operations. I think that would help us to understand how the investigation into Tomasz’s disappearance came about.’
Cox nodded gratefully. This was firmer ground. Facts.
‘The taskforce I was assigned to had a great deal of success in tackling trafficking gangs that were smuggling women into the UK – mainly from eastern Europe and the Baltic states – for purposes of prostitution. That was the taskforce’s principal remit. We rescued, for want of a better word, more than a hundred women from traffickers and made numerous arrests, most of which led to successful prosecutions. The vast majority of the women being trafficked,’ she added, ‘were over eighteen. The practice of trafficking children for purposes of abuse wasn’t really on our radar.’
‘And when did it, so to speak, appear on your radar?’
‘When we spoke to the trafficked women. They told us stories about children as well as women being smuggled from Latvia, Estonia, Belarus. Even then, it wasn’t much more than rumour – but it put us on the alert.’
‘Do you think you should have been on the alert before then?’
‘A force can only act on the information it has. Going by guesswork isn’t an option.’
‘So you wouldn’t say the taskforce was negligent?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
The back-bencher snorted.
‘Turning loose a predator like Warren Boyd sounds pretty negligent to me, inspector.’
He pronounced inspector as though the word had inverted commas round it. Cox looked at him sharply.
‘We deploy our resources as we see fit,’ she retorted. ‘There was more to this case than Warren Boyd.’
The press pack snapped to attention.
On the edge of her vision, she could see McAvoy staring at her and writing something urgently on her notepad. It was her turn to look away.
Baroness Kent tilted her head and looked at Cox curiously.
‘That seems an extraordinary thing to say, inspector,’ she said, ‘given that the boy was detained and died on Mr Boyd’s property.’
Cox held her eye.
‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘But it’s my belief that Mr Boyd wasn’t aware of Tomasz’s presence on his property.’
The silence that gripped the room felt taut, tensioned. They wanted the truth, Cox thought truculently. Well, they’re getting it.
‘Could you explain that statement?’
‘It’s my belief that Tomasz was planted in Warren Boyd’s lockup in order to implicate Boyd and protect the people who were really responsible.’
Kent took off her glasses and looked at Cox along the line of her strong nose. Now her half-smile seemed superior, mocking; now she looked like a QC. It wasn’t often that Cox felt a lot of sympathy for criminals, but Christ, she was glad she never had to face this woman from the dock.
‘That,’ Kent said, ‘is what I think is called a conspiracy theory.’
‘The framing of Warren Boyd,’ Cox replied, ‘was what I think is called a conspiracy.’
At least one of the press pack was already on his phone, texting. So much for a Twitter blackout, thought Cox. The number of camera lenses trained on her seemed somehow to have multiplied; the public gallery was buzzing with conversation.
To her surprise, Baroness Kent smiled.
‘You said, I think, inspector, that a police force cannot rely on guesswork.’ She slipped her glasses back on. ‘I think we should all try and remember that the same principle applies to this inquiry.’
By five o’clock, things had turned personal. Cox had been expecting it; that didn’t make it any easier to handle.
‘You were a liability on this case, isn’t that true?’ The Tory back-bencher, slouched low in his seat, blinking at her malevolently, was leading the inquisition. ‘Physically, mentally – you were simply not up to the job.’
There was no point in getting mad. Apart from anything else, the guy had a point.
‘The stressful nature of my work on the taskforce meant that for a time I had trouble sleeping,’ she said. ‘At times I was extremely tired. But I’d put it to you that many people are tired when they have difficult jobs and work long hours. Perhaps it’s the case for MPs?’
A couple of people laughed, and though Cox felt a moment’s respite, the faces of the panel hardened.
‘This isn’t a time for jokes,’ said Baroness Kent.
Cox nodded, chastened. ‘What I mean is that, although I was tired, I could still do my job.’
‘How would you describe the support you received from your superiors during this period?’ Kent put in.
‘Outstanding. DCI Naysmith had my back.’
‘But medically, psychologically?’
‘We were all under the supervision of an excellent specialist medical team,’ she said – a line McAvoy had fed her in the briefing. ‘They monitored us throughout the investigation.’
Or at least, they did if you turned up to the sessions.
The back-bencher – Cox had gathered that his name was Ridley – returned to the attack.
‘You mention this fellow DCI Naysmith.’ He peered theatrically at his notes. ‘I understand he was scheduled to appear before us today, but was unfortunately, ah, taken ill?’
Cox pasted on a poker-face.
‘That’s right.’
‘And he was your commanding officer during the time we’re talking about?’
‘Yes, he was.’
He took off his glasses, tapped one of the plastic temples against his teeth in a show of contemplation.
‘I’m wondering if there were any disagreements within the taskforce with regard to the investigation,’ he said. ‘I mean to say, a complex operation, high levels of stress, a lot of strong characters, no doubt …’
‘Of course there were,’ Cox nodded. ‘There were disagreements over strategy – that’s inevitable. But I wouldn’t call them personality clashes – we’re professionals. There are chains of command in the police service, and we respected that.’
‘You don’t recall any serious disagreements?’
Where was this going?
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
Baroness Kent shook out a folded sheet of A4 paper.
‘I’m going to read something to you now, inspector. Afterwards I’ll ask you to comment on it.’ She cleared her throat. ‘A source close to the investigation revealed that notorious predator Warren Boyd was put under surveillance by Scotland Yard as part of the probe into the disappearance of little Tomasz Lerna, 8 – but that the bungling cops let the convicted paedophile get clean away.’ She set the paper down, looked up. ‘You’ll excuse the tabloidese, but I don’t believe the factual content of the piece has been challenged. Do you recognize that report, inspector?’
She’d recognized it within two seconds.
‘Yes, I do. It was a news report by Greg Wilson in one of the tabloids.’
‘And what’s your opinion on Mr Wilson’s version of events?’
‘Heavily biased. Highly selective. Utterly sensationalized.’ She shrugged. ‘Exactly what you’d expect from a tabloid news story.’
‘But the events Mr Wilson describes – did they in fact take place?’
‘No. We placed Boyd under surveillance after his release from custody, that much is true – but we didn’t lose him. We took the decision to call in the surveillance team.’
‘That’s even worse!’
Cox stonewalled.
‘It was a strategic decision.’
‘A strategic decision to let Boyd get away scot-free.’
‘To focus our resources elsewhere.’
‘I have some simple questions,’ Baroness Kent said. ‘I’d be grateful if you could try to answer them simply.’ She folded her hands delicately on the desktop. ‘Who ordered that Mr Boyd be put under surveillance?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘We wanted to see where he might lead us.’
‘More guesswork,’ Ridley heckled.
‘An informed strategic decision. We called the team off, as I said, after a couple of days.’
Kent affected a puzzled frown.
‘But you had some suspicions about Mr Boyd, then? Even after you released him?’
‘I didn’t think he was responsible for Tomasz’s disappearance, if that’s what you mean.’
‘In view of subsequent developments, it seems that your judgement was flawed.’
‘Not in my view. I still don’t believe that Boyd knew where the boy was.’
Kent paused – then asked, with a barrister’s steel-edged precision: ‘Whose decision was it to call the surveillance team in?’
Cox shifted in her seat.
‘It was DCI Naysmith’s.’
‘Did you support his decision?’
‘Of course. He was my commanding officer.’
‘Then let me rephrase my question. Did you agree with his decision?’
‘I – I understood it.’
‘But you wanted to see where Mr Boyd would lead you. An informed strategic decision, you said. Did you argue with DCI Naysmith over his order to withdraw?’
We fought like cats in a sack.
‘We talked it over. It was a resource issue. As I say – I understood the decision.’
Baroness Kent nodded, reached for her glass of water. Cox let out a sigh. She’d fought on through another round; no one had landed a knockout blow on her yet. But there was a lot more scrapping to come.
She scanned the room with tired eyes. The press benches were fuller now, she thought, than they had been a few hours before; word must’ve got out that DI Cox was good box office.
Then, at the farthest end of the front bench, she saw a familiar face. Couldn’t place it for a second – was he one of the crime reporters on the regular west London beat?
Then it clicked, and her stomach lurched.
Harrington.
What the hell was he doing here?
When the answer struck her, like a slap to the face, she couldn’t believe she’d been so damn stupid. With this inquiry approaching, Harrington had been tasked with keeping tabs on her; he hadn’t been at the Radley scene because of who Radley was – he’d been there because of who she was.
She felt a yawn coming, covered her mouth. Saw Baroness Kent watching her wryly. With a thin smile, the baroness covered her microphone with her hand, and mouthed: nearly done.
Then the questioning began again.
‘Let’s return to an earlier point – your exhaustion during the investigation.’
‘Not exhaustion.’ Firmly, emphatically. ‘I was tired.’
‘Tired, exhausted. I feel we’re quibbling. Did your superiors ever suggest to you that you should take time off as a consequence of your tiredness?’
Cox hesitated. She saw where this was going.
‘I – I was given the option of taking leave on medical grounds. I didn’t take it.’ She shifted in her seat, forced herself to look the baroness in the eye. ‘And I’d be interested to know what prompted you to ask me that.’
Kent ignored her last remark.
‘Why did you reject the recommendation that you take sick leave, inspector?’
‘It wasn’t a recommendation, it was an option.’
‘You wanted to see the case through to its conclusion, I suppose?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I did. I wanted to see the case solved – and I believed that I was the person most likely to do so.’
Kent nodded, made a face that seemed to Cox condescending, even pitying. She took off her glasses and set them carefully on the desk.
‘I think we’re arriving at the crux of the problem,’ she said to the room at large, with a faint sigh in her voice. ‘Investigating officers pursuing their own agendas; critical, relevant intelligence not being properly disseminated; due diligence not being undertaken. A catalogue not, perhaps, of errors, but of fundamental, systemic operational shortcomings.’
Cox felt herself colouring. How to Rile a Police Officer #1: talk as though you know how to do their job better than they do. She knew that McAvoy, on her right, was giving her a warning look.
She ignored it.
‘If the baroness knows of a better way to conduct a police investigation, I’d be glad to consider her suggestions,’ she said.
The look Kent gave her was iron-hard.
‘The question of how the investigation might have been better conducted is what we are all here to address,’ she said softly. ‘I know it has been a long afternoon for us all, inspector – but there is no need to raise your voice.’
That was an old trick: no quicker or easier way to undermine someone than to suggest that they’d lost their temper. She’d done it herself in the interview room. Suddenly, you were unstable, or panicked, or hot-headed, or worse …
She heard a noise, from up above, from the public gallery; shouting, and the sounds of a scuffle. The MPs all looked up sharply. Cox spun in her seat. Something struck her hard in the chest, on the left-hand side.
‘Unnhh –’
Her jacket, her desk, her notes were splattered with red. She put a hand to her breast – the red liquid was cold and thin.
Not blood – not even wine.
She saw that the rubbery rag of a burst water-balloon had fallen at her feet.
Looked up into the public gallery. Two uniformed stewards were tussling with a young woman, long raincoat, cropped chestnut hair, who was leaning far out over the balcony edge and staring with wide, dark eyes directly at her.
Cox recognized her. Oh, Christ.
‘Child killer!’ the woman screamed hoarsely as she was hauled away. ‘Murderer! Child killer!’
The room erupted; cameras flashed, chairs tipped over, TV lenses wheeled to capture the moment.
The woman’s name, Cox knew, was Kaisa. She was Tomasz Lerna’s mother.