21
‘We can request an adjournment,’ McAvoy said. ‘I’m sure the panel would be sympathetic.’
That’d make a nice change.
Cox was buttoning up a clean blouse she’d borrowed from McAvoy (‘Always keep a spare outfit in my car – presentation is everything’). Her arm ached badly.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘We’ve come this far, we might as well see it out.’
The barrister nodded, smiled briefly, moved away to speak to one of her colleagues on the legal team. Cox made use of the break to check her phone; wondered if there was any news from Wilson or Chalmers.
One missed call – and a voicemail. She didn’t recognize the London number.
‘You lying fucking cow.’
I’m popular today, she thought sourly.
It took her a second to place the voice: Stevie Butcher.
‘Have a word with the fucking Parole Board, you said. Now here I am back in-fucking-side and all the cunts in here think I’m a fucking nonce. What the fuck have you been saying?’ Must’ve been calling from a Pentonville payphone, she surmised. What the hell? ‘Listen, I want out. I’ll tell you what you want to know, all of it. Merritt was fucking nothing, you get me? The fucking mask. I’ll tell you, and only you, all right. If you can fucking get me out of here. I’ll tell you it all. I’ll –’
The voicemail service cut him off. Cox hit 7 to save the message, quickly dialled up Chalmers. Butcher was supposed to be cut loose, not banged up again. Must’ve been a breakdown in communication somewhere.
‘Cox. What’s up?’
She sketched out the message she’d just received; asked what the hell Butcher was doing in Pentonville. Had Chalmers forgotten to send over the recommendation to the Board?
‘Not me,’ Chalmers said. ‘I sent it over, is crossed and ts dotted. The Board were all set to let him off, till word came through that Butcher’s breach was under no circumstances to be overlooked. Orders from on high, I gather.’
Cox had a sinking feeling.
‘How high?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure, but from what my contact on the Board said I’d guess AC, maybe commissioner level.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know. How does a scrote like Stevie Butcher make enemies in such high places?’
From across the lobby, Serena McAvoy was signalling to Cox to cut short her call – the inquiry was due to reconvene. She thanked Chalmers quickly, rang off. Switched off the phone. All that could wait till later, she told herself. It’d have to wait. She’d need all of her focus to get through the rest of this session; she couldn’t afford to be distracted.
Still felt shaken, though, as she took her seat. The MPs were already in place. Baroness Kent smiled at her as she reopened the session – but Cox wasn’t buying the ex-QC’s act this time. She was getting a bit sick of being manipulated.
Kent asked if she felt all right to continue; she replied breezily that yes, of course she did – the implication being, she hoped, that a Met DCI wasn’t thrown off her stride as easily as they might think.
‘Very well,’ nodded Kent. Folded her hands in a down-to-business manner. ‘Is it difficult, inspector,’ she asked, ‘maintaining a police career and a family life?’
Here McAvoy cut in.
‘Is this line of questioning really pertinent to the matter at hand?’ she objected. ‘We aren’t here to scrutinize Inspector Cox’s personal life. And,’ she added bitingly, ‘I rather doubt that a male officer of Inspector Cox’s rank and experience would be asked such a question if he were in her place.’
Nicely done, Cox thought.
‘I was merely trying to clarify the inspector’s state of mind during the period in question,’ Kent said. ‘We were given to understand that the Tomasz Lerna case dominated her life. I was curious as to the extent of her preoccupation. But very well – your point is noted, Ms McAvoy.’ She veered sideways – came in on an unexpected tangent. ‘Inspector, is leaking information to the press a regular feature of your job, would you say?’
It caught her cold.
‘What? I mean, no – no, of course not.’ She sounded flustered, she knew. A flat, one-word denial would’ve done.
‘It’s not something you’d consider central to your duties as a police officer?’
‘It’s not,’ Cox said, ‘a practice I’m familiar with.’
Baroness Kent raised an eyebrow. That meant trouble; she had something up her sleeve, and Cox, her head beginning to ache, could guess what it was.
Kent let Ridley, the Tory back-bencher, take a turn.
‘It seems jolly odd to me,’ he said, ‘that all this stuff – the surveillance decision and suchlike – should find its way into the papers so readily. In fact, I seem to remember there being some criticism of this fact at the time.’
Cox nodded. So did she. But she’d no intention of helping the panel out here; Christ, they were more than capable of gutting and filleting her without her assistance.
‘Do you have a question?’ she stonewalled.
Baroness Kent sensed her moment.
‘I have here,’ she said, drawing a sheet of paper from her file, ‘a copy of a newspaper article published on the morning before Tomasz Lerna’s body was found. It includes several pieces of information that – one would imagine – would be known only to an individual with privileged access to the investigation. The piece was written by Mr Greg Wilson – the same journalist who covered the alleged escape of Warren Boyd from police surveillance.’ She looked at Cox beadily. ‘Do you have any idea, inspector, how Mr Wilson might have come by the privileged information in question?’
‘He’s a professional journalist,’ Cox said. ‘Those people have their sources.’
‘But in this case specifically – who do you think might have given Mr Wilson this information?’
‘There were dozens of officers involved in the investigation, without even taking into consideration the huge numbers of police support staff. In theory it could have been any one of them.’
‘In theory, perhaps. But in practice?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
She could almost see Baroness Kent’s well-honed courtroom instincts kicking in, could sense her readying to strike – closing in for the kill. The glasses were high on the nose and gleamed white under the chamber lights.
‘Do you know Mr Wilson, inspector?’
‘A little.’
‘Elaborate, please.’
‘He took a considerable interest in this case, and several others. We crossed paths many times in a professional capacity.’
‘Always professional?’
Cox swallowed. Where the hell had they got this from?
‘I’m – I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Sorry; I’ll clarify. Your relationship with Mr Wilson – was the relationship ever anything more than might normally be expected between a DCI and a crime reporter?’
She tried to stall, knowing how much good it’d do: ‘“Anything more”? What does that mean?’
The dark-haired MP interjected.
‘Baroness Kent means “more intimate”, inspector.’ He smiled nastily. ‘To put it more frankly still: did you have a sexual relationship with Greg Wilson?’
There was a noticeable stir in the press benches. Here it was, Cox thought. Tomorrow’s front page.
McAvoy – more out of duty, it seemed, than conviction – protested, argued that again the panel was seeking to pry into Cox’s private life, that the line of questioning was prurient and verged on the offensive, that Inspector Cox’s sex life had no bearing whatever on the death of Tomasz Lerna.
This time, Baroness Kent batted her aside like a fly.
‘It is thoroughly pertinent,’ she said calmly. ‘And I’d be grateful if Inspector Cox would furnish us with an answer.’
‘Inspector Cox is not obliged to –’
‘She is obliged to tell the truth.’ Kent’s voice was like a jagged edge of ice. ‘Inspector, I am losing patience. Please answer “yes” or “no”: did you have a sexual relationship with Greg Wilson?’
Cox paused. Every police officer knew it was a mistake to go into a hazardous situation without knowing where the exits were – without an escape plan. But right now, no matter where she looked, she couldn’t see a way out.
She took a sip of water. Set down the glass carefully.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Uproar.
Baroness Kent was a still point at the centre of the chaos, sedately pouring herself water as MPs called to one another across the semi-circular desk array, as the press pack broke apart, dashing off to find wi-fi signals, file their urgent copy, as stewards fought to maintain order in the public gallery. Cox could hear someone up there yelling shame, shame, over and over again.
She turned to McAvoy, who was sliding her notes back into her file.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Without looking at her, the barrister shrugged, shook her head quickly. It might’ve meant: no problem, don’t worry about it, but Cox guessed otherwise. It meant, she thought: this isn’t our problem any more – it’s yours.
Baroness Kent’s voice rang out sharply over the hubbub. They were adjourning for the day, she declared; the inquiry would sit again in the morning.
Cox stood. She was half-aware of her legal team filing out in stony silence behind her, of Baroness Kent watching her carefully, of the back-bencher Ridley rocking back in his chair and chuckling to himself – but her real focus was on Sam Harrington, who had left the press benches and, walking quickly, had slipped out of a fire exit at the back of the chamber.
Scotland Yard had sent a car; it was waiting, engine running, outside a rear exit of the warren-like Westminster complex. The inquiry stewards had told her that this was the best way to avoid the scrum of photographers and journalists – but still, there were maybe a dozen waiting for her in the London drizzle as she hurried down the steps, jerking up a grey umbrella, keeping her eyes on the ground.
She’d thought this kind of thing was behind her, that the media had long ago had its fill of DCI Kerry Cox, the copper who let an eight-year-old boy starve to death.
Well, she’d just piqued their appetite again.
She pushed her way past the snapping cameras, the shouted, provocative questions (aimed at getting a reaction, not an answer), dived into the welcoming dark of the back of the car, banged the door shut. She knew the driver slightly: Dipesh, his name was. He gave her a sympathetic half-smile over his shoulder and hit the gas. Westminster, a muted grey through the windows’ blackout glass, dissolved away into the rain.
Cox closed her eyes. Sighed. God, she could use some sleep – but there were things that couldn’t wait. Stevie Butcher, for one thing, was suffering Christ-knew-what in a Pentonville prison cell.
She took out her phone and called DCI Naysmith.
‘Cox. Fucking hell, I’m sorry.’
He sounded wretched; his voice was weak, ragged. She knew he’d have been giving himself hell ever since he sobered up, sometime in mid-afternoon – it was no more than the stupid bastard deserved, she thought, but she couldn’t see any point in twisting the knife.
‘What’s done is done, guv.’
‘I know what that means. It means you’ll pretend to forget all about it, until such a time as you need to use it against me in future. Something to look forward to.’ He cleared his throat noisily. ‘I fucked up, Cox. Badly. And I’m sorry. End of. Now – how’d the inquiry go?’
‘You’ll be able to read all about it in the papers tomorrow.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘No. No, it wasn’t good. But guv, that’s not what I’m calling about.’
‘Oh?’ He sounded wary.
‘Yesterday, guv. Steven Butcher, the guy we pulled in for the Allis murder. We struck a deal with him – he gave us some useful info, we promised the Parole Board would overlook the bag of weed we found at his flat. But he just called me – from Pentonville Prison.’
‘Tough break.’
‘Did you know about this?’
‘We didn’t need him any more, did we?’ Naysmith’s tone was querulous, defensive. ‘I thought he’d told us everything he knew.’
Cox wanted to scream at him. She forced down the lid on her anger.
‘Well, maybe, maybe not, but that’s not the point, is it? I made the guy a promise.’
‘Then you should consider this a lesson,’ Naysmith said, ‘in not making promises you can’t keep.’
The line went dead.
Christ. When Naysmith was drunk, he was an irresponsible mess; when he had a hangover, he could be a nasty piece of work.
This seemed worse than usual, though. It wasn’t like Naysmith to be heartless – when the subject of Butcher had come up, he sounded downright callous. That, Cox guessed, was a defence mechanism; the DCI’s default response to having his hand forced, to being made to act against his own inclinations.
Naysmith was backed into a corner. Cox didn’t know how, or who by – but she needed him to come out fighting.
She leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘Change of plan, Dipesh,’ she said. ‘We’re not going back to the station.’
‘No problem, ma’am,’ he said without looking round. ‘Where to, then?’
‘Pentonville Prison.’
‘Lovely.’
Spray hissed up around the car as he pulled off the main road, swung deftly through a double-junction, merged into the traffic heading north.
Stony faces on the black-clad guards at the main gate. A heavy, louring atmosphere in the entrance lobby. Cox showed her ID at the desk, said that she was there to see Steven Butcher; the officer on duty, a heavy-set woman with a West Indian accent, told her to take a seat and wait. Cox sensed a faint hostility in the woman’s tone; thought back, with a quiver of unease, to what Butcher had said on the phone: they think I’m a fucking nonce …
Screws were no keener on sex offenders than prisoners were.
She took a seat on a plastic chair marked with a black cigarette burn. There was no one else in the waiting area. Idly, she scanned the notices pinned to the walls: info about drugs, booze, mental health, sexual health, rehab programmes, support groups, back-to-work schemes for ex-cons …
Life inside was bloody tough, Cox reflected – but once you’d done your time, making things work on the outside was no picnic, either. Stevie Butcher didn’t have a lot to fall back on; sooner or later, she thought, he’d have slipped up again and wound up back here anyway.
It was no comfort. Fact was, Butcher was in here, right now, because of her; because she hadn’t kept her promise.
She turned. She was expecting a prison guard – black uniform, bunch of silver keys – to take her to Butcher; standing in front of her, hand extended, was a middle-aged man in a suit, with neatly parted grey hair and silver-framed glasses.
‘I’m Richard Dovey,’ he said. His handshake was dry and firm. ‘I’m the governor here. I gather you’re here to see Steven Butcher?’
‘That’s right. It’s about the judgement of the Parole Board.’
‘I see.’ He folded his hands together. ‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if I might have a word with you in private.’ Gestured to a side-door. ‘Just through here.’
Cox, puzzled, stood and followed the urbane governor through to a corridor and to an empty office furnished sparely with a desk and two chairs.
It was here, speaking slowly and with an expression of profound sadness, that the governor informed her of the unfortunate death of Steven Butcher. He had fashioned a blade from part of an iron bed-frame, the governor said, and opened his wrists in the shower that morning.
The Eleventh Day of Christmas, 1986
Used to knock around in Walsall a bit when I was a kid. Had a mate there. That sounds like it was a fucking hundred years ago – feels like it, too. What was I, nine, ten?
Bus driver let me on for free. I’m piss-wet, covered in grime and blood – said I’d had an accident, had lost my bus-money. Showed him my broken hand – Christ, it’s a right sight.
‘I can call your mum and dad if you want, son,’ the bus-driver said.
I told him no, it’d only worry them.
Interfering old sod. But it was good of him to let me on his bus.
Got off in the city somewhere, south-east side. Found a bus-shelter. No one about; must be pretty late.
Felt mad, falling asleep in a Birmingham bus-shelter. But I huddled up in the corner and tucked my arms inside my T-shirt and in hardly any time I felt my eyes starting to close. Maybe it was the effects of that fucking sedative. Or maybe, once you’ve learned to fall asleep in Hampton Hall, you can fall asleep bloody anywhere.
Proper crick in my neck now.
Still drizzling. Still dark, too. God knows what time it is. There’s a few people around, a few cars. It’s morning, anyway. Time I moved on. No one calls the cops on a teenager sleeping in a bus shelter – and that’s a bit mad, if you think about it – but I don’t want to risk it.
Shirley’s out west somewhere – but what am I going to do, wander around west Birmingham till I find it by magic?
A bit down the road there’s a WH Smith’s. It’s open – so it’s not that early, maybe half six, seven o’clock. Go in. There’s an old feller standing there looking at a porno mag, right in the middle of the shop. Dirty bastard.
I keep behind him, proper shoplifter-shifty. I get to the shelf where they keep the A–Zs without the lad at the till seeing me. What’s he going to do, anyway? Looks about ten.
Snatch a Birmingham street map and make a run for it, back out into the rain. Keep running; don’t look back. I know it’s only a 50p A–Z, they’re not going to send the Flying Squad after me – but running feels good, anyroad.
This is Shirley, I reckon. Nice houses. Street after street of nice houses. The rain’s made a bloody mess of my A–Z, can’t make out the street names – but I’m not far off, I know that.
In one front room I can see a family watching breakfast telly, eating breakfast.
We were never like that. We weren’t a proper happy family, like off an advert. But we were a family. And any sort of family, I reckon, has to be better than no family.
I’m hungry. If I keep walking I don’t feel it as bad, but every time I stop my belly thumps, and I think I might puke.
Doesn’t help that every time I hear a police siren in the distance I nearly shit my pants.
There’s a feller coming the other way, wheeling a racing bike. Middle-aged bloke in a cap. Nothing else for it.
‘ ’Scuse me, mister – I’m a bit lost. Where’s Wolvesley? Y’know, the children’s home?’
He looks at me, does a stupid grin.
‘Runaway, are you?’ he says. Laughs. Yeah, very funny, mate.
‘D’you know where it is?’
‘I do.’ He points back the way I’ve come. ‘About two mile that way, son. Was a farmhouse when I was a lad.’
So I turn around and I carry on walking.
It’s up a lane, an unlit lane, part gravel, mostly mud. It’s just starting to get light; I can see the building from the road, a bloody big place, not a farmhouse any more, new brick extensions every which way.
There’s a wooden sign: Wolvesley Grange Children’s Home.
I trudge up the path. Should be trying to sneak up, trying to duck and dive, but I’m too tired. It’s not like they’ll be expecting me – bet those bastards at Hampton haven’t even noticed I’m gone.
There are some flash cars out the front, proper nice, a big Rover, a classic Jag – and one I know. A bottle-green Ford. We watched Gordo being driven off in that, never to be seen again. Merton’s car.
I go round the back. There’s a door, but it’s locked. No glass in it, solid wood, so I can’t bust my way in. A window’ll have to do.
The far end of the back wall is in the shadow of an overgrown hedge. That’s the best bet. There’s a window there. There are shutters over it, wood shutters like on a house you’d see in a bloody picture-book – been here since it was a farmhouse, I s’pose.
The staff here are no better at maintenance than those lazy bastards back at Hampton. The screws holding the shutter-hinges in the wall are fucked. I force my good hand into the gap, levering it wider. And from here I can see the glass of the window – and what’s behind the window.
There’s a light on, a sort of lamp-light. And there’s someone there. A woman in a dressing-gown, I think. No, it’s not a dressing-gown – it’s a robe, and I think it’s a bloke what’s wearing it. A monk or some bloody thing, I don’t know.
Feel properly sick. And then the bloke turns round and I nearly wet myself.
This is some fucking place, I think.
The bloke’s wearing a mask, a mad mask with horns on. And I can only see him from the waist up but I can see he’s got nothing on under his robe.
I duck, trying not to breathe, trying not to make a sound.
He can’t have seen me, not with the light on in there and it being so gloomy out here. He can’t have.
But what if he has?
There was a phone-box back on the main road, I remember. And you don’t even need 10p to call 999. Even if I have to go back to Hampton, even if they pack me off to juvenile detention or prison or whatever – I can’t leave our Stan in there, can I?
And the coppers might be bastards but once they know what’s going on in there, what sort of mad stuff I just seen, they’ll have to do something, won’t they? They can’t just ignore me …
I find the phone-box. It stinks of piss inside, like they all do. Pull the door shut behind me.
Grab the receiver, hammer the button like mad.
I hear a voice answer, hello, emergency serv –
And then I feel a cold gust, right up my back, and I turn round, and the door of the phone-box is open, and there’s a man there –
He grabs the receiver from me, bangs it back on its hook.
‘You’re a long way from home, Robert,’ he says.
It’s Radley. The copper.