The Informant (34 page)

After standing under the shower for five minutes and downing half a carton of orange juice and three paracetamol he managed to call Turnbull’s PA. The instructions he received were
precise: meet the boss at eleven outside City Hall, wear a suit. He decided the tube was a bad idea, it would probably make him chuck up. So he took a cab and had it drop him at London Bridge in
the hope that a short walk by the river would clear his head. He arrived a couple of minutes late and saw Turnbull pacing near the main entrance.

Bradley hurried towards him, flattening his unruly hair with one hand, trying to appear calm and collected. ‘Sorry I’m late sir. Problem on the tube.’

Turnbull frowned, scanned the suit, the loosely knotted tie. ‘You’ll do I suppose. Just do something about that tie.’

Bradley did up his top button and tightened the knot. Turnbull was already striding into the building. He had to trot to catch up.

‘Umm, what are we actually doing sir?’

Turnbull didn’t slacken his pace. ‘The Deputy Mayor has asked us to give a briefing to some members of the Police and Crime Committee on current efforts to curb organized crime in
the capital. I’m going to sit behind the Assistant Commissioner, you’re going to sit behind me.’

For the next two hours Bradley did just that, sitting behind and slightly to the right of Turnbull’s shoulder in a large, airy meeting room. Light glistened off the river, voices floated
across the table around which the main players sat. The atmosphere was soporific. Bradley fixed his gaze on the face of an elderly, balding gent directly opposite; observing his every snuffle and
twitch was the only way Bradley could stay awake. He was dimly aware of the Assistant Commissioner’s voice, light and melodious but with undertones of authority. Marcus Foxley, the Deputy
Mayor for Policing and Crime, led the questioning and occasionally the Assistant Commissioner would turn her head slightly as Turnbull whispered the odd comment in her ear. Finally the Deputy Mayor
announced a break and Bradley was tasked with fetching cups of coffee for his bosses.

He collected the coffees from a catering assistant at a table in the corner of the room. He decided to go for a tray, he wasn’t too confident of the steadiness of his hand and this seemed
the less dangerous option. Weaving his way back across the room, he made it without any spillages.

Turnbull smiled, lifted a cup and saucer from the tray and handed it to the Assistant Commissioner. As she took it Fiona Calder’s eye alighted on Bradley. She seemed to be trawling her
memory.

‘DC Bradley isn’t it?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

Calder nodded then her face broke into a benevolent smile. ‘You’ve done very well Bradley. Turning Karen Phelps into a chiz can’t have been an easy task.’

Bradley darted a look at Turnbull, but his face remained inscrutable. Calder gazed very directly at Bradley, he sensed his cheeks reddening; he felt like a guilty schoolboy hauled in front of
the head.

‘I understand she’s been providing you with some very useful intel on her brother and his activities. The net is closing.’

Bradley cast Turnbull a beseeching look, but he was gazing out of the far window.

‘Well er, yeah. But . . . she’s very difficult to handle.’ Bradley was close to panic, he didn’t want to fling himself into a headlong lie. So he gabbled. ‘She can
be unpredictable and sometimes it’s hard to know if she’s telling the truth. As to whether we can rely on anything she says . . .’

Calder nodded thoughtfully. ‘Use of informants is always a thorny issue. Media can go off on bouts of righteous indignation all they like, but how else do they think we’re going to
get reliable intel on organized criminals except through informants and so-called supergrasses?’

She gave him a long appraising look. Easy to see why Turnbull had picked him. To say he was handsome wasn’t accurate. He was beautiful, a complete headturner. Yet he seemed quite modest
with it. Calder could see that for most women that would be a winning combination.

Bradley felt awkward under her scrutiny, which turned to embarrassment as he noticed what he took to be a hint of salaciousness creep into her eye.

‘I trust there’s nothing untoward in your relationship with our source.’

Bradley shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh no, not at all ma’am. I can assure you of that.’

A thin, mischievous grin spread across Calder’s features. She shot a glance at Turnbull. ‘Because if there is, I certainly don’t want to know about it. Or read about it over my
muesli.’

Turnbull sipped his coffee and smiled. ‘Bradley understands that ma’am. He’s a very astute young man, that’s why I picked him for the job.’

Calder scanned Bradley, but his discomfort made her wonder. ‘This is a difficult time for us Bradley. Met’s under pressure as never before. Cuts, privatization. The only way we can
protect our core functions is to prove we do the job better than anyone else. Nailing Phelps is really going to help us with that. You may have some . . . reservations about what you’re
doing, but your contribution is vital, you should know that.’

As he stood there balancing the tray Bradley could feel the sweat trickling down into the small of his back. He knew Turnbull had set him up and for the second time in twenty-four hours he felt
extremely stupid.

Kaz studied herself long and hard in the bathroom mirror. Under the bright halogen lights the mauves and yellows of her bruised jaw were fully exposed. But she could see some
healing had already taken place, it was now possible to open her mouth without too much pain. She examined the bloody sockets of the two teeth that had been knocked out. They were at the bottom and
not particularly visible. Helen had given her the number of her own dentist, he’d be able to sort her out, no problem.

She’d taken a shower, washed her hair and got rid of the dried blood caked round the gash. Her ankle was still swollen and mottled, but she could get a pair of trainers on and had managed
the short walk to the small mini-mart across the road. She still looked a fright, but the important thing was she was feeling stronger.

She wandered back into the open-plan sitting room, went into the kitchen area and opened one of the drawers. The gun was still there, wrapped in a plastic bag, as Ashley had left it. She lifted
it out and placed it on the counter. She’d spent half of a wakeful night wondering what to do with it. If Sean had wanted to kill her then she’d be dead. Joey had intended the gun to be
for her protection, but she’d come to the conclusion simply having it in the flat put her more at risk. She had no experience of firearms, if she tried pointing it at someone like Sean, more
likely than not he’d take it off her. In prison she’d relied on blagging her way out of trouble and that still seemed to her to be the best and safest course.

She picked up the gun and went out on to the balcony. She was five floors up and a small patch of private garden belonging to the ground-floor flat separated the building from the river. It was
low tide, the river was winding sluggishly down the middle of its course with a muddy and debris-strewn foreshore exposed on either bank. She could see immediately that throwing the gun into the
river from where she stood wasn’t going to work. The water was too far away. Even at high tide she’d be in danger of missing and dumping it in her downstairs neighbour’s garden.
Besides, there were security cameras mounted on the back of the building. She’d have to think again.

She was returning it to the kitchen drawer when her phone rang. It was a mobile number she didn’t recognize. She clicked the phone on.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Karen Phelps?’ The voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

‘Hold on please.’ There was the muffled sound of the handset being passed over, then another voice, low and croaky.

‘Kaz, it’s Glynis.’

‘Glynis. You okay?’

‘I’m in Basildon Hospital. Dave’s dead. Old bill have taken Sean in.’

‘Dave’s dead? How bad are you?’

‘Broken arm. Busted ribs. Cuts and bruises. Kaz I’m so sorry . . .’

Suddenly Kaz was glad she hadn’t thrown the gun in the river. She just wanted to find Sean and put a bullet in his head.

‘Look, I understand. You don’t have to say nothing. They keeping you in?’

‘They’ll have to. Ain’t got nowhere else to go.’

Kaz hesitated, but only briefly. ‘You can come and stay with me. Or Joey. Sean won’t go looking for you there, I can guarantee it.’

There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line then the soft sound of Glynis weeping.

‘After what I done to you? Surprised you’ll even speak to me.’

Kaz exhaled. ‘I known him longer than you. I know he don’t take no for an answer. You sit tight, I’m coming down the hospital.’

‘Thanks . . . thanks.’ Glynis’s words came in gasps between quiet sobbing.

‘It’s gonna be okay Glynis.’ Kaz was by no means convinced of this, but it seemed the right thing to say. She heard Glynis sniff and take a breath.

‘There’s this cop here, wants a word. Says you know her. Nicci Armstrong?’

Kaz shook her head ruefully. Well it was obvious Turnbull’s mob would be in on the act.

‘Yeah well you can tell her to go and take a long run and jump. I’ll see you in a bit babes.’

Kaz didn’t wait for a response. She hung up.

Sean Phelps was fingerprinted, photographed, DNA swabs were taken, he bore it all with the stoicism of an old lag. The important thing was not to let them see they’d got
to you in any way. Yanking you out of bed at dawn was a favourite trick. The fact that they’d felt the need to bring in the heavy mob appealed to his vanity. It was almost a mark of respect
and he appreciated it. But by the time he was trussed up in the back of the patrol car he was fully awake, calm and ready to deal with the situation.

They took him to Basildon nick, a bit of a trip down memory lane, a couple of his early busts had happened there. He listened to the custody sergeant go through his rigmarole, that’s when
he learnt he was being charged with the murder of Dave Harper. He laughed out loud; did they really think he’d put himself at risk by going after that clown? He gave them Neville
Moore’s name and number and was kitted out in a white plastic jumpsuit. He refused to say a word until his brief arrived, except to ask for a bacon butty and a mug of tea. He got an egg
sandwich and a tepid cup of coffee, but he sat in his cell and consumed them without complaint.

Neville Moore finally arrived full of apologies and blaming the traffic.

Sean gave him a thin smile. ‘Ain’t exactly what either of us had planned for this morning is it?’

Moore opened his briefcase, pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen.

Sean took a deep breath. ‘First up this is a load of bollocks. I don’t know exactly when this went down but I got pretty solid alibis for the last two, three days.’

The lawyer nodded, made a note. ‘You want to talk to them then?’

‘Neville, I know the advice is keep shtum, but I really didn’t do this and I need to get out of here asap. I go “no comment” I’ll be sat here for the full
thirty-six and I ain’t got time for that.’

Moore gave him an appraising look. ‘You’re an innocent man, anxious to cooperate fully and clear your name?’

Sean nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I am.’

Cheryl Stoneham and Nicci Armstrong watched Phelps being interviewed on a video screen. Phelps was relaxed and polite, playing the reformed-gangster card to the hilt. He
happily admitted that his wife’s affair with Dave Harper didn’t please him. But he argued that the most important thing to him now was to remain at liberty. There was no way he wanted
to be caught breaching his licence, much less commit a murder for which he’d be the obvious suspect. That was plain stupid and he was no kind of fool. On the night of the murder he’d
been out sampling the delights of Bas Vegas. Some old mates of his ran the doors on the clubs there and he’d been letting his hair down a bit after his long incarceration. He offered a list
of names – all respectable businessmen – who could vouch for where he was and what he was doing.

Cheryl Stoneham sighed. She’d already given a grilling to the young woman arrested at the house and mistaken for Sean’s wife. Her professional name was Kylie, she described herself
as a hostess, definitely not a prostitute, but she was a homecoming present for Sean from some of his former colleagues in the security business. They’d been partying for the last two days
and Kylie’s main concern was whether or not she’d still get the bonus she’d been promised for showing Sean a really good time.

Stoneham shook her head wearily. ‘He’s gonna walk.’

Nicci glanced across at her. ‘Surely Sussex have got more than motive?’

Stoneham snorted. ‘An elderly neighbour saw “someone”, who she describes as a big bloke, pass her window en route to Harper’s flat.’

‘It’s obvious Phelps wasn’t going to do this himself. He contracted it out.’

Stoneham smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right Nic. But how the hell are we gonna prove that?’

Nicci nodded pensively. ‘Well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘You mean Glynis? She’s never going to dob him in.’

‘She might if she thought it was the only way to put him back inside.’

Stoneham swept a hand through her hair. ‘In your dreams mate. You can bet your bottom dollar he was battering her when she married him. If she was really gonna break free she’d have
done it while he was inside.’

Nicci considered this. ‘Well, it’s worth a crack. I’m going back down the hospital.’

‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

Stoneham glanced at her quizzically. ‘You’re up to something.’

Nicci paused at the door. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

Kaz arrived at Basildon Hospital in the late afternoon. Ashley drove her. They found a space in the multi-storey car park and followed the signs to A & E. After her
conversation with Glynis she’d phoned Joey; he was at home and from his airy tone and the giggles in the background she concluded he was not alone.