The Intrusion E-Book

Charlotte Langley

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 387

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In a town full of secrets the truth must be uncovered before it's buried forever. When a police detective is found murdered in the town of Wakestead, all clues point to local woman Amma Reynolds. Amma has a clear motive. She hates the police for failing to properly investigate her brother's death, which was written off as an accidental drowning. Amma has always believed her brother was murdered. Could she have killed DI Mark Stormont in revenge? Former detective and private investigator Erin Crane is hired to find out. As she digs deeper, Erin realises that first she needs to uncover why Amma's brother turned up dead in a river all those years ago. Even if it means tearing her friendship with DI Lewis Jennings apart. Because there are some secrets the Wakestead police force would rather stay buried… Praise for previous novel The Blame; 'Searingly topical' The Telegraph on The Blame 'Shocking' Heat on The Blame

Leseprobe

JOIN OUR COMMUNITY!

Sign up for all the latest crime and thriller

news and get free books and exclusive offers.

BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

Praise for The Blame

‘This thriller is a read-in-one-gulp triumph’

Claire Frost, Fabulous

‘This absorbing mystery also takes a look at police misconduct’

Heat

‘I love a police procedural, and this debut ticked a lot of boxes. The tension kept me swiftly turning the pages’

Nina Pottell, Prima

‘Fun as well as thoughtful, this will be gobbled up by fans of Cara Hunter and the like’

Jake Kerridge, Daily Telegraph

THE INTRUSION

Charlotte Langley

Contents

Cover

Praise for The Blame

Title Page

Prologue: Thirteen years ago

PART I

Chapter 1: Saturday21st August

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Earlier That Day

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Sunday, One Day Later

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Monday

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13: Tuesday

Chapter 14

Chapter 15: Wednesday

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

PART II: Then…

Chapter 18: Two Months Earlier

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

PART III

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31: Thursday

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35: Friday

Chapter 36: Saturday

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41: Sunday

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50: Monday

Chapter 51: Tuesday

Chapter 52

Chapter 53: Wednesday

Chapter 54

Chapter 55: Thursday

Chapter 56

Chapter 57: Friday

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61: Saturday

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68: Tuesday

Chapter 69: Wednesday

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77: Thursday

Chapter 78: Friday,20th August

Chapter 79: Now

Chapter 80

Chapter 81: Monday

Chapter 82: Three Months Later

Chapter 83

Also by Charlotte Langley

About the Author

Keep Reading …

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Thirteen years ago

NO ONE NOTICED HE WAS gone until the fireworks stopped.

Every year, Bonfire Night brought an almost frenzied energy to the town of Wakestead. The park near the town centre had been transformed, the usually verdant field trampled into a muddy slurry by the shuffling crowd. Vans serving up burgers and fried doughnuts poured cooking smoke into the freezing night air.

Afterwards, witnesses told the police that the group of boys must have arrived at around 8 o’clock. The boys said they had been drinking at one of their houses before heading to this one event in the town’s calendar, the alcohol numbing them to the cold.

The fireworks began shortly after. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders for a better view, mesmerised by the high-pitched shriek of each rocket sailing into the night sky, leaving golden trains in their wake, before exploding and showering back down to earth.

Perhaps the pummelling of the night sky concealed the sound of an argument breaking out between the boys. Whatever it was, something made one of them turn around and abandon their friends, slipping away almost unnoticed. Another followed. A handful of families remembered seeing two figures pushing their way back through the crowd with some effort, wading against the current. But that was the final in-person sighting. No one looked round to see a lanky teenage boy stalking across the field in the direction of the car park. On the busiest night of the year, the town of Wakestead was transfixed on the display.

All the police knew was that, at approximately 9 o’clock, a group of boys turned around to discover two of their party had vanished – one of them forever.

PART I

1

Saturday21st August

‘STILL NOTHING?’

DCI Gregory looked up as DSU Adlington re-entered the observation room, handing him a paper cup of coffee from the machine in the corridor.

‘Nothing whatsoever,’ Gregory replied.

Together they looked at the woman on the other side of the one-way glass. For ten minutes, she had not moved. Resting her head on her hands, elbows on the table, she stared straight down, a wild mane of black hair shielding her expression as the two detectives who sat in front of her waited with visible frustration for her to cut out this act and finally speak.

Amma Reynolds had not said a single word from the moment of her arrest less than an hour ago.

‘I want to remind you that you have every right to request to speak to a solicitor, Amma,’ Lewis Jennings said.

No movement. No change in expression. No flicker of comprehension in her face. It was as if Lewis had said nothing at all.

Gregory leant forward until his face was almost touching the glass. He was interested to see how Lewis handled this one. The detective inspector was soft on everyone – colleagues, witnesses and suspects alike. While Lewis’s young partner Chris Baldwin sat clenching his jaw, struggling to contain his rage, beside him Lewis watched Amma with concern in his eyes.

‘We’re in our rights to keep you here for thirty-six hours. Potentially longer,’ Lewis said. ‘No one wants that to happen. But we will do it if we have to.’

His eyes implored her to speak. But silently Amma turned her head to the left, in the direction of the observation room. Beneath the sweep of unruly hair, her dark eyes flitted around the one-sided mirror, as if searching her reflection for a chance of escape.

Gregory imagined their eyes connecting through the glass. Remember me? he thought.

Another silence, each one seemingly longer than the last.

‘Where were you this morning, Amma?’ Lewis asked again, for what felt like the tenth time in under an hour.

Amma said nothing.

Watching Amma’s listless stare, Gregory let out a sigh of frustration through his nose. Sometimes calmness and patience worked in these situations; sometimes not.

Perhaps he’d made a mistake giving Lewis this one. Too soft, just as he’d thought.

So he felt a deep sense of satisfaction when finally Lewis’s partner leant forward across the table and spoke up for the first time in the interview:

‘A police officer has been killed, Amma. We need you to start talking.’

2

STEPPING OUT OF THE INTERVIEW room, Lewis noticed a dull pain between his eyes as his vision adjusted to the brighter overhead lights. After a long and fruitless hour with their silent suspect, the cooler air of the corridor was a welcome relief. The moment the door was closed behind them, Chris locked his fingers behind his neck and raised his head to the ceiling, letting out an aggravated groan.

‘Fucking. Cow.’

At 25, Chris was seven years younger than Lewis but his stocky build made him appear older. Lewis always felt slightly uncomfortable giving orders to the broad-chested young officer with a buzz cut, who looked like he could beat him in just about any test of physical fitness. But now was the time to say what he’d wanted to tell his partner for the duration of the interview.

‘I know it’s frustrating,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘but in my experience, when a suspect isn’t cooperating, it’s better to focus on establishing a connection with them, rather than—’

Chris interrupted him. ‘I don’t understand how you can be so calm. Surely if she won’t say anything, it’s because she’s done it, right? So why bother establishing a connection? We need to be harder on her.’

Lewis bit the inside of his mouth and said nothing. He had never had to manage anyone in his life until being paired with Chris. Ideally, the super would have given him a shy and self-effacing partner. A nice practice run. It was just his luck to get Chris instead – who had absolutely no trouble voicing his opinion and seemingly no respect for authority either.

As they headed for the office kitchen in search of a much-needed coffee, Lewis thought of Amma’s mournful eyes, fixed constantly on the table. He didn’t agree with Chris. Usually suspects said ‘no comment’ because they either couldn’t comprehend the damage they’d done or face up to the consequences. But that wasn’t the impression he got from Amma. He got the impression she was simply scared. A terrified 25-year-old woman. Despite what had happened, he pitied her. And he needed to hold onto that pity in order to find out what had happened, and why.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as soon as they entered the main office. The usually bustling space was eerily quiet. Over by the water cooler, a young officer was pink in the face with emotion, talking with obvious distress while Adlington patted him reassuringly on the arm. On one table, a group of officers gathered around one computer, streaming a TV news report. Their expressions were solemn.

The newsreader’s calm, well-spoken voice rang coldly around the office:

‘This morning, the body of a man was found at Crays Hill in Wakestead, Oxfordshire. A woman in her twenties has been arrested on suspicion of murder. The woman remains in police custody at this time.’

Only then did it start to sink in – the long, painful journey that today’s events had set in motion.

3

Earlier That Day

LEWIS PARKED BESIDE THE OTHER police cars at the top of Crays Hill and walked towards the viewpoint.

In their white overalls, the forensic team looked like alien figures drifting across the grassy slopes. Constables flanked the blue-and-white police tape strung between two upright logs that marked the entrance to the top of the hill. He showed one of them his warrant card and stepped over the tape, thinking how strangely calm the scene was. News hadn’t reached the local reporters yet. But it was only a matter of time.

As he approached the top of the slope and the ground dipped away beneath his feet, the full scene revealed itself. A tent had been set up near the base of a huge sycamore tree, which stood apart from the blanket of woodland that rolled down the hillside. Behind that wall of trees the town of Wakestead lay sprawled out, the silver thread of the river gleaming in the sunlight, the church spire the tallest discernible point among the cluster of houses.

DS Adlington stood watching the forensics team. The wind up here had blown his grey hair into a crazed steeple on top of his head.

Reaching his side, Lewis said, ‘Have we found anything?’

‘Nothing yet. No weapon so far.’ The older detective’s expression was grave.

‘It is him, isn’t it?’ asked Lewis.

Adlington nodded. ‘It’s DI Mark Stormont.’

It was a dog walker who had found him – or rather, their dog. Lewis imagined the golden retriever nosing excitedly through the grass several hours earlier, chasing the invisible scent trail that had led it to this morbid discovery. Maybe the dog had let out a fearful whine. Maybe it had wagged its tail with pride as its owner approached. But whatever it had done, Lewis was certain it hadn’t responded with the full human horror its finding deserved.

The man was lying face-down in the grass, not far from a wrought-iron bench perfectly positioned to watch the sun setting over the town below. He wore a light black jacket. Lewis thought of the crumpled form of a fallen raven, wings still spread as if in flight. One arm was stretched out in front of him, as though he had tried to crawl across the clearing. The other was bent beneath his body, where he had tried to stem the bleeding. It had not rained for weeks and the parched earth drank in the blood greedily. Rather than bright red it had turned the yellow-green grass around the body dark brown in colour, like patches of shadow.

The sound of a car door slamming shut made them both turn around. Lewis watched in surprise as Chris ducked underneath the crime scene tape. Chris, who had been closer to Mark than many others. Who had – Lewis had suspected – wanted him as his partner, rather than Lewis. Who had looked up to the detective almost like an older brother. He was walking purposefully and at full pace in the direction of the body. Even at this distance, his face was dark with a strange mixture of determination and fear.

Lewis felt nausea in the pit of his stomach.

‘No, not him,’ said Adlington under his breath. ‘He doesn’t need to see this.’

‘Chris,’ Lewis called.

Chris ignored him. If anything, his strides lengthened. Lewis broke into a jog. He managed to intercept him at the last possible moment, half-running into the young detective, forcing out his arm as a kind of barrier, which Chris stumbled into, slowing as his eyes registered the person lying at their feet.

‘The fuck—’ he said.

‘Go back, Chris. Leave it with us.’

Chris pushed away from him. He breathed heavily and raised his hands behind his head. Then he turned and headed off on his own, away from all of them.

Adlington lurched up to Lewis, clutching his side, nursing a stitch. He stared after Chris with exasperation.

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for this,’ he groaned. He patted Lewis on the chest. ‘I’ll talk to him. You call the super.’

Lewis circled the sycamore tree, holding his phone to his ear.

‘We’ve got officers searching the area and knocking on doors around the park. Pathologist thinks he was killed a few hours ago.’

He heard Superintendent Warren draw in a breath. ‘Christ.’

Shortly before the call came in, the superintendent had prowled through the incident room, complaining that Mark was grievously late to work and not replying to messages. It had never occurred to Lewis that the detective could be in danger – not until the body was reported and the first officers had arrived on scene.

He had never worked closely with Mark. The detective had joined the force two years ago from London, having previously served in the Met. It was Lewis’s understanding he had moved to Wakestead in search of a quiet life. That he had been stabbed to death here and not in the capital seemed a cruel irony.

‘So Mark was working today?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was he last seen at the station?’

‘At around seven o’clock last night, according to CCTV.’

‘He wasn’t asked to attend any scenes this morning?’

‘No. Nothing. And he didn’t call anything in, either.’

Lewis frowned. Automatically, he had assumed Mark had been killed in the line of duty. Did this mean someone had actually targeted the detective?

‘What case was he working on?’

‘Aggravated burglary,’ said Warren. ‘No one was under suspicion yet. But you should get officers to reinterview the witnesses in that case. See if anyone had reason to obstruct the investigation.’

Lewis scanned the rolling hillside. ‘Was Mark based locally?’

‘No, he lived in a village nearby. Bexmere.’

‘So what was he doing out here then?’

‘I have no idea. Jennings, you’re all right to inform next of kin once you wrap up? His wife, Olivia.’

Lewis swallowed. This was the absolute worst part of the job.

‘Of course.’

‘All right. Speak to you later.’

As soon as he hung up, Chris came running up to him.

‘Lewis,’ he said, ‘they’re searching Mark’s car in the car park. There’s an address saved in his GPS. It’s a house just up the road from here.’

4

CHRIS THUMPED LOUDLY ON THE door of the house.

‘Police. Open up.’

There was no response. Chris checked his phone.

‘Lewis, registered owner details. It’s June Golding. No criminal record. No connection to any live cases.’

Lewis squinted. Why had Mark been visiting this woman’s house?

Chris’s eyes darted around the closed door. ‘Do we need to make a forced entry?’

‘I’m not sure that’s justified. Can you get the control room duty inspector on the phone now, see if they’ll clear it?’

At that moment the door edged open to reveal a mixed race woman in her late twenties. She was wearing a blue hoodie and she looked like she might have just woken up. Her dark skin was almost grey with tiredness.

‘Ms Golding?’

She shook her head. ‘Amma Reynolds.’ Her voice sounded hoarse.

Reynolds. Lewis knew that name. He was almost certain this was the sister of Isaac – the 17 year old who’d drowned tragically, more than a decade ago.

‘Do you live here with Ms Golding?’

Amma nodded, still looking slightly dazed.

‘We just have a couple of questions for you, Ms Reynolds. The body of a deceased male has been found at Crays Hill.’

Amma’s reaction surprised him. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes seemed to cloud over for a moment.

‘Can we come in?’

She nodded vaguely and shuffled out of the way to let them enter the hallway. It was like walking past a ghost. Lewis was on high alert by now. Surely this woman didn’t have anything to do with Mark’s death. But that reaction – was she on something?

Chris was perhaps thinking along the same lines because he started climbing up the stairs to the first floor.

‘Anyone else here with you today, Ms Reynolds?’

There was a commotion at the front door. A rush of footsteps. Swinging round, Lewis watched in shock as Amma bolted out of the house.

‘Shit. Chris!’ he shouted. The staircase behind him exploded with noise as Chris came charging back down. But Lewis didn’t wait for him. He burst out of the house just in time to see Amma run to the end of the street and disappear down a dark, narrow cycle path.

Lewis launched himself forward. Sunlight bounced off the roofs of the parked cars. Darting between them, he pulled his two-way radio out from inside his jacket. ‘Suspect has run out of the house,’ he yelled into it. ‘Pursuing on foot.’ He propelled himself forward, ignoring the burning in his legs, eyes fixed on the path the woman had escaped down. His heart was pounding but deep down he felt only a cold, calm sense of dread. Very rarely did people run. There was usually one reason why they did.

He dodged past the barrier at the opening of the walkway, which plunged down, enclosed on either side by long wooden fences half-coated in moss and shielded overhead by trees’ entangled branches. The leaves glowed yellow in the sun’s rays. Down this bright tunnel Lewis flew, gathering speed. Amma was close to the bottom of the pathway already. Momentum helped him close the gap between them, but not in time to catch her before she darted out of the cycle path and onto the road at the bottom.

Lewis emerged, panting, onto another street lined with houses. Amma was nowhere to be seen. He looked around desperately, trying to work out where she could have gone. Then he spotted the field gate nestled between two of the houses. Running over, he saw her over the other side now racing up the hill, along the thin parting that separated one stretch of golden barley from another. He heaved himself over the rattling fence, landing clumsily on the other side. He scrambled to right himself and took off again.

The sun was strong here and Lewis could feel his entire body heating up as he slogged up the dirt track. The incline became steeper. Amma was starting to slow down. Lewis blinked away a bead of sweat that had slid down from his forehead, blurring the vision in his right eye, and gave himself that final, excruciating push he needed to close the distance between them.

He was going to have to grab her. He was terrified of how she might react. He watched one of his hands reach for the back of her hoodie, the other for her shoulder, and felt a rush of relief as she, sensing him close behind, slowed to a halt. She lurched forward, gasping for breath. Lewis stopped too and grabbed her by both arms, careful not to grip too tightly in case he hurt her.

‘You do not have to say anything,’ he panted, ‘but anything you do say—’

Amma dropped to the ground.

He was worried she had collapsed from exhaustion. She sat slumped with all her weight on one leg, her fingers splayed on the ground. A gentle wind swept across the barley, bending the feathered fronds in one coordinated movement, like a wave across the surface of the sea.

‘Are you okay?’

The woman stared into the field, catching her breath, squinting in the sunlight. Sweat gleamed on her forehead. She lay totally still except for the white trainer at the end of her outstretched leg. It was trembling violently, like a rabbit’s foot.

5

Sunday, One Day Later

THE REYNOLDS FAMILY LIVED ON the outskirts of Wakestead, in a detached house on the corner of a busy road.

Erin Crane had decided to walk there, not anticipating the deluge that would begin just ten minutes into her journey. For days the town had sweltered in the oppressive summer heat and now finally, this morning, the skies had burst open. Rain drummed across the shoulders of her light jacket as she followed the pavement up to the house.

She squinted at the large white building, its outline blurred by the rain. The parents must have moved here after it happened, so they wouldn’t be haunted by the memories of their young family. But the property they had retreated to was strangely exposed. Positioned so as to face the oncoming cars as they crawled up the road and turned out of town, it seemed to only highlight the family’s isolation.

A drenched cat streaked across Erin’s path, shot up to the house and sprung inside through an open window at the front. Relieved to escape the downpour, Erin ducked under the shelter of the porch. But before knocking, she took two deep breaths. Don’t get their hopes up, she thought to herself. Already she doubted she could do anything to help them.

Stephen Reynolds opened the door and beckoned her inside. ‘Erin, hello. Please come in, dry off.’

Erin peeled off her dripping jacket and hung it up on the coat rail, noticing Vicky – his wife – stood at the end of the corridor.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘That would be great.’

She followed the couple into the house, through to an open-plan kitchen, where the cat was curled up angrily in the corner, its damp hairs stood on end.

The years had taken their toll on Stephen. In the family photos Erin had seen on the news, he had been a sturdy man looming over his teenage children. Now he was a very slight figure who shuffled across the kitchen floor in the direction of the sofa.

‘I’ll sit down if that’s all right,’ he said. ‘Heart problems.’

Vicky returned with Erin’s tea and sat down beside them, chewing her lip. Erin could see she was anxious not to miss a moment of this conversation.

‘How long have you lived in Wakestead?’

‘Thirty-three years now,’ said Vicky. ‘You left recently, didn’t you? Good to be back, I hope?’

‘Sure,’ said Erin. No need to tell her she’d been dreading her return, however brief.

‘We left London not long after our son was born. Stephen grew up in the area, so we wanted to move closer to his parents.’

Erin noticed a hint of resentment in her voice. How could they have known that moving here would set their lives on such a tragic course? But this was how the bereaved tortured themselves. Every decision leading up to that tragic day was dissected, re-lived, reevaluated. What if I had never moved house? What if I had told him not to go? What if I hadn’t missed that final phone call?

‘We bought this house seven years ago,’ Stephen said. ‘Our friends ask us why we don’t just leave the area. But it felt wrong. It felt like we would be abandoning Isaac.’

‘So you already knew about the detective when we called?’ asked Vicky.

‘The news has been hard to avoid,’ Erin replied.

It was true. The discovery of a detective’s body lying in broad daylight in a country park had dominated the news cycle since yesterday. So when Vicky had called her first thing this morning, out of the blue, to explain her daughter was caught up in the case, Erin’s first reaction had been one of fear. Could she really help this family? During a live investigation?

‘But you didn’t know Mark Stormont personally?’ Stephen asked.

She shook her head. ‘He joined the police after I left. So I know about as much as you do. You said on the phone you’re not aware of any connection between him and your daughter?’

Vicky shook her head. ‘No. But then again, she’s not saying anything. Not to the police, not to us, not to anyone. We don’t understand. Maybe she’s in shock.’

Erin’s heart sank. Arrested for murder and not speaking to the police. This really wasn’t looking good.

Vicky continued: ‘But I think she could be convinced to talk to you, Erin.’

‘Why me?’

‘She doesn’t trust the police and frankly neither do we. You, you’re on the outside. You could help her. Convince her to tell us what happened.’

Erin swallowed. She was internally debating how best to let them down when Stephen narrowed his eyes at her.

‘You think you can’t do anything to help us, is that it?’ he said.

The directness of the question took her by surprise.

Reluctantly, she said, ‘Your daughter needs a lawyer. Not an investigator.’

‘We’re getting her a lawyer,’ Vicky said immediately. ‘They won’t do what we’re asking you to do. We’re asking you to find out who really did this.’

That’s assuming your daughter is innocent, thought Erin.

‘The police will have a better chance of finding out who did this than I will,’ she said. ‘The investigations where I can bring the most value are cold cases. Then I can take another look at what the police have found. But investigating during a live case…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have the same resources as the police. I’ll be one step behind them all the time.’

‘Will they find out who did this?’ said Vicky. ‘Do you really believe that? After what we’ve been through? After what you went through?’

Erin nearly winced as the image of her former partner flashed through her mind. It was a good point. After seeing firsthand how easily police could abuse their power – or choose to look the other way – her faith in the institution had been permanently shaken.

‘The police have already questioned us,’ Vicky continued, ‘and it’s obvious they’ve made up their minds already. They think it’s her.’

Stephen said, ‘The way I see it, there are two scenarios here. My daughter is innocent. Which means someone else is responsible and the police are about to ruin her life pursuing her. Or Amma did kill that man.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Vicky snapped. ‘Of course she didn’t.’

‘I don’t believe it for a second, but let’s just imagine that it’s true. If it is, she would have had her reasons. And if it makes them look bad, the police are not going to find that reason. Do you see what I’m trying to say?’

Erin took in a deep breath, nodding. ‘What if it was self-defence?’

‘Exactly. If he hurt her, then the police don’t exactly have a great reputation for finding that out, do they?’

Erin swallowed. Conversations with her former colleagues suggested that things were different now. Supposedly the vetting of new officers had been tightened up. If that was true, then she struggled to see how a bad apple could have slipped through the net. But that wasn’t a narrative she thought would land well with this family.

Vicky must have noticed the apprehension on her face because she said, ‘I know how we must sound to you. You must think we’re paranoid. But you have to understand, the police let us down so seriously when Isaac died. And now they think my daughter is responsible for the murder of one of their own. I just don’t trust them to investigate this case properly. That’s why we’ve come to you. You’re not a part of the force. You can find the answers they can’t. The answers we need.’

Erin clenched her fist in her lap. Could she really help these people? Or would she just be leading them into yet another crushing disappointment, when they had already been so profoundly let down?

‘I’ll need to think about it,’ she said.

6

SILENCE FELL OVER THE OFFICERS as they waited in the meeting room for the super to start speaking. It was Sunday morning, the first time they had gathered together since Mark Stormont’s body was found the day before. Warren, the superintendent, addressed the team while leaning back on a table with his hands clasped together in his lap.

‘Some of you worked with Mark only briefly; others knew him very well,’ he said, ‘but I think I speak for all of us when I say that he was an extremely dedicated, kind, brave detective. This has been a huge loss not just to us as a team but also to the community.’

Some of the officers nodded in agreement. Lewis had never heard the super speak in such sentimental terms before. Looking around the team, he felt – perhaps for the first time since Erin had left – the invisible bonds of camaraderie between them.

‘There’ll be opportunities in the future for us to pay tribute to Mark and say our goodbyes,’ Warren continued, ‘but for now I want those of you involved in the case to focus all your efforts on bringing the person responsible to justice.’

His blue gaze swept across the room. ‘As you know, we’ve already arrested Amma Reynolds on suspicion of murder. But until we have the forensics back, we can’t be certain the killer isn’t still out there. Nor can we be sure whether this attack was unplanned or if the killer had murderous intent. Finally, we can’t rule out the possibility that the killer was working with others. For these reasons, I am instructing you all to take extra precaution. Uniformed or not, no officer should be out without a baton and irritant spray. Those who can should wear body armour. I want you to look after yourselves.’

Slowly, the room emptied of officers. Before getting up, Lewis glanced over his shoulder, finding Chris stood with his back against the wall. He saw his own confusion reflected in his partner’s eyes. Really? his expression seemed to ask. Lewis pulled a face and gave a small shrug to signal his uncertainty.

We can’t rule out the possibility that the killer was working with others.

Did Warren really think there was a group out there who had set out to kill police officers? That the rest of them were in danger?

He was getting ready to leave when Warren said, ‘You two, stay here. Let’s talk.’

Lewis and Chris approached the desk where Warren was stood. Physically, he cut a more imposing figure than his predecessor Peters, the former DCS. He was so tall that the furniture in the room seemed comically small by comparison. Lewis had the feeling he was a schoolchild about to be admonished by a headmaster.

Inside, he was squirming. They’d gotten absolutely nothing out of Amma so far and the super’s frustration was palpable.

‘Time’s running out, you two,’ he said. ‘We’ve only got her for about fourteen more hours and we wasted plenty of time yesterday getting nowhere. So let’s throw everything at it today. See what you can get from the post-mortem. Find out what we’ve got from CCTV, phones, social media. Find a connection.

‘Officers interviewed June Golding yesterday, Amma’s housemate. She said she last saw Amma the night before the murder, at a club called Prism. Amma got a taxi back early, alone, while June went to her boyfriend’s. So there’s no one to vouch for her whereabouts the following morning. June also claims she’s never seen Mark Stormont before.’

Lewis nodded, processing this information. Still no alibi then.

Warren’s gaze moved between each of them. ‘This campaign group that her family set up. I don’t think we can ignore it. As far as I can see, there’s a clear motive here. The brother.’

Lewis bit his lip. He’d thought he was hiding his emotions well, but clearly not – because Warren lifted an eyebrow at him.

‘You don’t agree, Jennings?’

‘Mark had nothing to do with that case. Why would she kill him over it?’

Warren shrugged. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t about Mark at all. Perhaps Amma just wanted a police officer dead.’

Chris asked, ‘When you said there could be killers still out there… did you mean her other family members? The justice group they’ve set up?’

Warren raised his hands. ‘It’s a possibility. Whatever the case, I’m not taking any chances that will put the team in danger. Another thing—’ his eyes shifted between them ‘—I think you were too soft on her yesterday. And I don’t think it was working. Every detective’s got their own style, and, Lewis – I hope you don’t mind me saying this – but provoking a reaction isn’t yours, wouldn’t you say?’

Before he could respond, Warren turned to Chris and said, ‘So Chris, if Lewis deals with putting the facts to her, I need you to be the one piling the pressure on, sound good?’

Chris nodded.

‘I don’t know if I agree with that,’ said Lewis.

Warren watched him, waiting for an explanation.

Lewis felt a shot of anxiety, but he pushed it down. ‘We know from Amma’s background that she has a deep-seated mistrust of the police. That’s probably why she isn’t saying anything, right? Because she thinks this whole process is rigged against her.’

‘Or because she’s guilty as hell,’ muttered Chris.

Ignoring him, Lewis said, ‘The more aggressive we are, the more she’s going to close up.’

Warren gave him an almost sympathetic, quite patronising look and said, ‘I know she’s young, Jennings. I know that makes this unpleasant. But we don’t have time to play nice with her. We need answers now.’

7

LATE SUNDAY MORNING, LEWIS AND Chris pulled on their plastic overshoes and stepped into the morgue. Cecilie, the pathologist, was waiting for them by one of the steel tables where Mark’s body lay outstretched.

Lewis felt his knees go weak as he registered the detective’s face. He’d had all morning to prepare for this and still it was as though his mind hadn’t accepted the reality of his colleague’s death.

They’d already heard from the forensic pathologist that he’d probably been dead for two hours before he was found, before rigor mortis had set in. That meant he’d likely been killed at about seven o’clock on Saturday morning.

‘The victim has two stab wounds and a number of slash marks across the palms of the hands and over the chest. The slash marks make it less likely that the wounds were self-inflicted. They imply that the victim attempted to fight back.’

She pointed to a jagged hole on Mark’s upper right chest. ‘This was the first stab wound made…’ Then indicating another, ‘This second wound was fatal. The depth of penetration and the slight bruise around the entrance would suggest the attacker managed to push the entire blade in.’

‘Anything you can say about the kind of knife they used?’ asked Lewis.

‘The stab wounds are between half an inch and one and a half inches thick. The size of the entrance wounds is consistent with an ordinary kitchen knife.’

‘Can you tell if it was a woman who did it?’ said Chris.

Cecilie considered Chris with her eyes half closed in exasperation. ‘Stab wounds are not distinctly male or female,’ she said.

‘There’s got to be something that points one way or the other.’

‘I can tell you if the attacker was likely to be stronger or weaker, but that does not mean we can say with confidence that they were a man or a woman.’

‘So which is it? Strong or weak?’

‘The first stab wound was fairly shallow. Some of the others have minimal bruising. We cannot say conclusively, but these two factors imply the attacker was not particularly strong. I also suspect they were shorter than Mark, given he sustained no wounds to the face.

‘However,’ she said, ‘to go back to your point about the victim’s physical prowess, if the attacker was indeed weaker than him, smaller than him, then it is surprising that he allowed himself to be overpowered. On his body there are no other clothing fibres, no hairs, no human cells under his fingernails or anywhere else on his body. I cannot speak for evidence you found at the crime scene, but it looks to me as though he was… restraining himself.’

Sheets of rain tumbled down over them as they dashed back to the car. It was the first downpour after a long summer, and instantly the air was filled with the smell of the vegetation from the stretch of green beside the morgue. Once inside the car, Lewis swept his wet hair off his forehead and bent to put the keys in the ignition. It took him a moment to notice Chris had slumped against the inside of the passenger door. His partner was watching the rain with a hopeless expression.

Lewis sat up straight.

‘Are you okay?’ he said.

Chris’s questioning eyes searched the tarmac outside.

‘Why didn’t he fight back?’

Lewis felt a wave of guilt.

‘I’m sorry. Maybe you shouldn’t have seen that.’

Chris rubbed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No, I wanted to come.’ He sniffed. ‘Why though? You know, he was a strong guy, bigger than them too. Why didn’t he just—’ he curled his hand into a fist and thumped the door of the car ‘—fucking do something?’

Lewis said, ‘Maybe because it was someone he knew. Because he didn’t want to hurt them.’

Chris nodded. ‘Because it was a woman.’

Lewis’s guilt edged into frustration. ‘Not necessarily.’

‘Kitchen knife’s the sort of weapon a girl might use, isn’t it?’ said Chris.

Lewis felt a strong urge to smash his own face into the steering wheel. ‘Anyone can grab a knife from their kitchen. No, I think, if he didn’t fight back, then that means he knew them.’

Chris bit his lip.

Lewis continued, ‘That attack. It was aggressive, but it wasn’t a frenzy. If they really hate the victim, you’ll see dozens of stab wounds. But this… you can imagine the attacker realising what they’re doing and stopping.’

‘Yeah,’ said Chris. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’ He continued to gaze out of the window, lost in his own thoughts.

Once they were on the road, Chris spoke up again.

‘What Warren said—’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about what Warren said,’ Lewis interjected. ‘He just wants us to be careful.’

‘What if this is part of a plan, though? Killing off coppers?’

‘We don’t have any evidence yet that there was more than one person involved. If anything, the evidence is suggesting that this was personal.’

‘I’ve just been having this feeling,’ said Chris, directing his thoughts to the ceiling of the car now, ‘that something like this was always going to happen.’

Lewis frowned.

‘You know, like it was inevitable,’ said Chris.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know what it was like before. But I joined just after they caught him, right.’

Lewis felt his mouth dry out slightly. His hands squeezed the steering wheel.

‘And so I was there early enough to feel this… this shift in how everyone saw us. You know, one moment my family’s so proud of me, my mum and dad so happy I’ve chosen this career. And the next moment all anyone wants to ask me is whether I think any of my colleagues are pieces of shit, when we’re going to sort it all out… I just think, maybe someone was always going to snap. Maybe it was always going to boil over. And it’s just bad luck it was Mark.’

Lewis knew exactly what he meant. He’d felt it too – the subtle change in people’s perception of his job, even from those he hardly knew. It had been difficult to ignore. There was shame where there hadn’t been shame before. A feeling of impurity, like you were contaminated.

Maybe, from someone’s perspective, they were. And maybe someone had decided enough was enough.

It was highly unlikely that any officer would be killed in the line of duty. Nevertheless, if you were serious about joining the force, it was a possibility you had to come to terms with. Lewis always believed he had. But now, he realised he had only accepted the possibility if it meant dying as a hero. The information they had so far suggested Mark could have been killed as part of an unprovoked attack. Targeted and slaughtered. Like prey.

As Lewis drove them back to the station through the downpour, he took a call from Rob, one of the scene of crime officers. Lewis knew immediately from the disappointment in his voice as it filled the car that his search of Amma’s property wasn’t going well.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have much news for you right now,’ Rob said, ‘except to say we haven’t found any blood in the house.’

‘None at all?’

‘No drops in the carpet, no bloodied fingerprints. We’ll see what comes up in the analysis. There might be smaller traces of it somewhere. But given the amount of blood at the crime scene, it’s surprising not to find anything at the suspect’s property. Unless she did an extremely good job cleaning up after herself. Anyway, we’ll see what comes up in the analysis but, you know, it’ll take time.’

Lewis chewed the inside of his mouth. Time, which they didn’t have.

‘Got you. Thanks for the update, Rob.’

He let out a deep breath. The results of the post-mortem had left him feeling conflicted. If Amma was innocent, then why wasn’t she talking to them?

*

It was cramped and dark inside the tech team’s office. As ever, they weren’t short on snacks; the sugary smell wafting from an open packet of biscuits left invitingly on the desk made Lewis’s stomach ache. He wouldn’t have much time to eat today – he made a mental note to grab something from the vending machine before they next spoke to Amma.

Ignoring his hunger pangs, he watched the video clip play over one of the officer’s shoulders. The last known footage of Mark alive, it captured his car driving up the road that would eventually lead him to Crays Hill.

One of the officers, Josh, said: ‘No cameras around the park or in the residential areas near Amma’s house. And this road could have taken him either way.’

‘So we don’t know whether he met Amma at her house,’ said Lewis, ‘or whether he met someone else first. What did his wife say?’

‘She said he left at the usual time that morning – 6 o’clock. Nothing out of the ordinary. Although he did seem stressed, she said. But she didn’t know what about.’

‘He didn’t say where he was going?’

‘No. Apparently he usually went to the gym first thing, so that’s what she assumed. But the SOCOs said his gym bag was still at the house when they checked.’

Lewis squinted at the image on the screen. Mark’s face had been reduced to a blur behind the windshield. What had he been thinking? What had been going through his head in those final hours?

‘As for Amma, we’ve found CCTV footage confirming she went to the club Prism the night before. But we can also see that she took a taxi back later that night. So no alibi at the time of the murder, as far as we can see.’

‘And where are we at with establishing a connection between Mark and the suspect?’

Josh swivelled back and forth in his chair, shaking his head. ‘We haven’t got the passcode to Amma’s phone or laptop so it’s going to take a while to get her messages. However, Mark’s wife knew his email password and his phone passcode so we’ve had a look through and found no messages between them or anything like that. He didn’t receive any texts or calls from unknown callers in the days before his death. There is an encrypted folder on his laptop, though.’

‘Really?’

Josh shrugged. ‘I mean it could just be a load of nudes of Mrs Stormont, let’s be honest.’

Lewis swallowed. Maybe the officer was right. Or was Mark hiding something else?

‘How long will it take you to get in?’

‘Some time, unfortunately, because we’ll have to outsource the decryption. We’re not getting in within the next twenty-four hours, that’s for sure.’

‘Can we make that a priority?’

This was their last chance. Charge her, or she would be let out. And they would have no one.

‘There is one possible connection between them, though,’ said Josh. ‘Stormont was investigating an aggravated burglary. It bore no relation to Amma, that we can see, and he never investigated her brother’s murder. But they may have crossed paths at the very start of this year.’

Josh turned his laptop around. On the screen was a CCTV still depicting a grey-and-black sea of figures packed together in what looked like a town square. A figure on the fringes of the crowd was circled in red.

‘This is Stormont,’ he said, ‘policing a march in central London where Amma was also present.’

‘A march?’ said Lewis.

‘It was to raise awareness about unsolved cases where the victim was black, Asian or Middle Eastern.’

‘Why were officers sent to this?’

‘It was just a precaution. In case anything kicked off.’

Lewis took a closer look at the photo. The scene was unsettling. Mark Stormont looked like a prowler, circling this community of angry friends and relatives.