It Should Have Been Me Read online

  The main reason she was there, besides the need to babysit Darryl, was because the tip-off, which had located this place, had come from Razan. And Razan was her chis – Covert Human Intelligence Source – an eighteen-year-old kid they’d pulled out of the back of a lorry with twenty other Syrians at Clacket Lane services on the M25. But Razan was canny and way too cynical for her years. She spoke passable English and had immediately demanded to speak to the officer in charge. Then she’d offered them a deal. The traffickers still had her little sister, whom she was desperate to find. So for a guarantee of fast-tracked asylum she’d return to the Kelmendis, put herself on the line and gather information for the police.

  Jo had been stunned by the matter-of-fact courage of this unassuming Syrian girl and, as her handler, she was determined to ensure she got out unscathed.

  Darryl pulled out one of his earbuds and huffed. ‘We’re talking about a possible delay. Some problem with one of the ARVs, maybe a flat.’

  One of the Armed Response Vehicles had a flat tyre? Fifteen pre-dawn raids across the capital were being held up because of a flat tyre? Jo gave her head a weary shake. She took a pack of chewing gum out of her pocket and unwrapped a stick.

  Darryl grinned. His features were barely discernible in the glow of the monitor. ‘Don’t I get a bit?’

  She ignored the tone and offered him the gum. That’s when they heard the scream. It was loud enough to make Darryl jump as it leaked from his earbud.

  ‘What the hell?’ Jo glared at him. ‘Give it to me!’

  Darryl fumbled with the earbud. Jo grabbed it and listened. A low keening, sobs of pain then a pleading female voice. ‘Please . . . please, no! No no.’

  The wet thwack of fist on flesh was followed by another howl.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Boden clenched her fist. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  ‘Is that your chis?’

  ‘Well, it’s not one of the bloody Albanians, is it? Something’s gone wrong. What’s the ETA now for the armed response team?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sounded as if he might cry.

  ‘Darryl, get a grip. Five minutes? Ten? Ask them.’ Jo was on her feet.

  ‘Okay okay.’

  ‘Tell Command we’ve got a problem – looks like our chis is blown and we need armed backup now. Got it?’ She slid open the side door of the van.

  ‘What you going to do? What if they see you?’

  What was she going to do? She had no idea. All she knew was she had to do something or Razan could end up dead. Her brain was rapidly calculating. How many of them inside? Since she’d come on shift there’d been no movement. It would be in the log but she had no time to check that.

  ‘Don’t crap your pants, Darryl. Just do as you’re told. Inform Command.’

  Jumping out of the van into a slab of moist, freezing air, Boden twisted her shoulder-length blonde hair into a coil and tucked it up under her hood. She zipped her jacket, shoved her hands in her pockets and let her shoulders settle into a slouch. Even so, it was hard to disguise her height. In a ballgown she’d have turned heads on any red carpet or catwalk. In a hoodie, a tatty denim jacket and jeans she had to work at becoming invisible. But she’d had plenty of practice.

  Emerging from the alley into the main road she broke into a trot. Traffic was still sporadic, it was hours before dawn, London was frozen in a dark wintery stillness. Nitrogen oxide laced with soot hung in a toxic smog, it zapped her lungs. She wrapped her scarf round her face and skirted a couple of illegal meat vans belching diesel, arriving to bag a good pitch on the edge of the market. Reaching the pocked concrete yard at the front of the garage she lowered the scarf and removed her gum.

  Next to the entrance to the building was a metal, half-glazed side door. Jo hesitated, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping; should she wait or go in? It was easy enough to guess what the gold commander’s instructions would be: err on the side of caution and wait for backup. But she wasn’t that sort of police officer.

  Keeping her head dipped, she rapped on the door. She had to repeat the action a couple more times before it opened a crack. A scowling pair of eyes rested on her.

  She didn’t meet his gaze, she just mumbled. ‘Need to score, mate. I’m desperate.’

  ‘Fook off!’

  ‘Naaa, please! Know you sell the stuff. I got cash. And I’ll give you a blow job. I’m good.’

  The door inched open. His hair was shaved up the back and sides, his cheeks pitted with acne and he looked about fifteen.

  ‘See face?’ The accent made him virtually unintelligible.

  Lifting her chin, she shot him a timid look. Shoulders hunched, she let her body shake. It wasn’t hard – she was chilled to the bone – and it created a passable impersonation of a junkie. He opened the door and beckoned her in.

  She found herself in a small office with an inner door to the garage beyond. That door was ajar. She could hear male voices, some kind of discussion. But worryingly the crying had stopped.

  The boy was staring at her and unzipping his fly.

  ‘Let’s see the stuff first.’

  He sneered. ‘Stupi’ bitch! No drug.’ Easing his penis out of his jeans, he gave her a curt nod. ‘Now you do.’

  Jo smiled. This was turning out to be easier than she’d imagined.

  Moving with lightning speed, she grabbed the penis with her left hand and twisted it, while clapping her right palm over his mouth and ramming him back against the wall. He gave a muffled squeal.

  Lifting her palm, she splayed her fingers and slammed her right forearm diagonally across his throat, causing him to gag and splutter.

  Her voice was a silky whisper in his ear. ‘Nice and quiet, butch, or I’ll rip your dick off. Understand?’ She gave his deflated member a tug. ‘Understand? Nod your head.’

  Face red, gasping for breath, tears in his eyes, he nodded. He was a gangly teen, the stubble on his upper lip and chin was downy. Fooling the men in the garage would not be so simple.

  Releasing her grip on his manhood, she spun him round, yanked his arm behind his back and jerked it up as far as it would go. Thrusting her index and middle finger into the pressure point under his jawbone, she propelled him forward towards the internal door.

  They stopped just short of the threshold. Peering over the boy’s shoulder she counted three men standing over a body on the floor curled into the foetal position: Razan. She wasn’t moving.

  Jo was hoping for a couple of seconds to assess the situation but she wasn’t in luck. Ardi Kelmendi had already turned towards the door and was staring straight at them with a puzzled look.

  ‘Çfarë qij?’

  She shoved the lad forward into the garage. Jeans round his knees, he stumbled over and landed in a heap.

  Ardi burst out laughing.

  Short and beefy, Jo recognized him from numerous surveillance photos, plus she’d read his file. The eldest son of Fejzi he was the de facto boss. For the last five years he’d been his father’s enforcer and was the prime suspect in a number of gang-related homicides.

  A black leather jacket was hanging on the back of a chair about two metres to the Albanian’s left. Looped over it was a belt and a gun in a holster designed for concealed carry.

  Ardi folded his arms, both etched from knuckle to elbow with serpentine tattoos. Shaking his head with amusement he addressed the boy. ‘Çfarë po duke luajtur në?’

  The boy was too ashamed to even look up; still on his knees, he mumbled a reply.

  The Albanian’s chilling black eyes then came to rest on Jo Boden. ‘And what the fook are you?’

  She met his gaze. The next few seconds would determine the outcome of this encounter, for her and for Razan, who might already be dead. Displaying any kind of fear was not an option. Like a rabid dog the gangster would smell it, see it as an invitation to strike.

  Pushing back her hood and standing tall, Jo smiled. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  Ardi gave a hoot of laughter and placed his hands on his hips. ‘A
cop? You look more like a whore to me.’

  He chuckled but Jo noticed his glance straying to the holster on the chair. His two thugs also seemed to be enjoying the joke. One was a carbon copy of Ardi, solid muscle but with a sagging gut. The other was bearded and wiry, Asian or possibly Arab, with an intense angry stare. Jo figured he was the one to watch, some kind of wandering jihadist who’d washed up on the gangster’s payroll.

  ‘A lady cop?’ Ardi’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘And have you come to interview me or just to suck my dick?’ Both he and the carbon copy chortled.

  ‘No. I’ve come to arrest you.’ Jo glanced at Razan; still motionless on the floor, she didn’t appear to be breathing. ‘And here’s what you need to consider, Ardi, before you go for the gun and do something stupid. We’re recording all this – audio and video.’

  He stared at her, then laughed again.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Jo pointed upwards. ‘We drilled holes in the roof.’

  The gaze of the two Albanians shot up towards the ceiling. The bearded jihadist continued to glare at her.

  ‘You really think I’d walk in here without any backup? You’ve been under surveillance for some time.’

  The Albanian’s lizard-eyed stare flicked back to her.

  He was hardly two metres away and she could feel the fury erupting from him like a wave.

  ‘Kurvë trashë!’ He spat the words at her. ‘And you think I let some bitch take me?’ He drew his index finger across his throat. ‘You dead meat. I promise you.’

  His tongue skimmed his lower lip and Jo knew what was coming next. He lunged sideways and made a grab for the gun. She threw herself forward. It wasn’t brave, it was instinctual. Stop him getting the gun. She head-butted him in the gut, he didn’t even stagger. Ripping the gun from its holster he whacked her across the face with the side of it. Hard metal cracked into the bridge of her nose, knocking her clean off her feet. As she hit the concrete floor and rolled, a volley of thoughts rattled through her brain – the excruciating pain of the blow, the metallic taste of blood, the mindless stupidity of it all. Why had she done this? Now he’d shoot her, what a futile ending. Would it hurt?

  What she heard next was a thunderous bang – puzzling because you never hear the bullet that kills you – followed by a blinding flash as the stun grenade exploded. It felt as though her eardrums would shatter, but somewhere out there, beyond the ringing in her head, she could just make out a muffled shout: Armed Police!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jo Boden entered the briefing room to a slow handclap. An hour’s wait in A&E had confirmed she had mild concussion and a broken nose. She’d been poked and prodded but there was too much swelling to decide yet whether she would need corrective surgery. Puffy mauve bags underscored both eyes and the treatment recommended was frozen peas and paracetamol.

  The twenty officers present rose to their feet and burst into song:

  Why was she born so beautiful, why was she born at all? She’s no bloody use to anyone, she’s no bloody use at all!

  They ended the ditty with whoops and a round of applause.

  Jo dipped her head in acknowledgement and gave her colleagues the middle finger. She didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention, although she appreciated the gesture.

  With a sweep of his arm, Darryl drew out a chair for her. He was basking in her reflected glory. She sat down at the large conference table to slaps on the back and congratulations.

  A hush descended as the Detective Chief Superintendent strode in and took his place at the head of the table. Dave Hollingsworth let his gaze travel around the room. His nickname was ‘the Undertaker’. A tall narrow man with vulpine features, he had a naturally mournful manner.

  ‘Well done, everyone. Good team effort all round. We now have ten gang members in custody, including Ardi Kelmendi. And the CPS regard the evidence as solid. So we should see some convictions.’

  He glanced at Jo. Was he about to single her out for praise?

  ‘That looks painful, Boden. Has it been looked at?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He nodded. It seemed as if he was about to say more then changed his mind. ‘Do we have an update on the Syrian girl?’

  Jo didn’t know. She’d been driven to hospital in a squad car, while Razan had been whisked away in an ambulance.

  A soft female voice whispered from the back. ‘She’s still—’

  ‘Stand up and speak up, DC Georgiou!’

  ‘Sir.’

  Jo craned round to look at a slight raven-haired girl dwarfed between two brawny middle-aged men. She felt for her. She’d been the rookie not so long ago. Now this young DC was a stand-in for Jo Boden.

  ‘She’s still in surgery. Some bleeding on the brain from a skull fracture.’

  ‘Do the medics think she’ll pull through?’

  ‘Hopefully.’ She sounded nervous. ‘I think so. She’s got a smashed eye socket too. So she could lose an eye. Sir.’

  Jo tried to give Georgiou a reassuring look, though she wasn’t sure the girl had noticed.

  Hollingsworth nodded again. The mood in the room was upbeat. After the successful conclusion to a lengthy operation everyone wanted to celebrate and a couple of the DSs had even taken bets on the chances of the boss cracking a smile. But his face remained grave.

  ‘Let’s hope she makes a good recovery. Outstanding paperwork should be completed today. The DCI will be issuing further actions. And there’ll be a drink for everyone tonight. Frank’s buying.’

  The DCI raised two fingers to his forelock in mock salute. This produced a muted cheer.

  The boss nodded again; he seemed to be hesitating. Something was niggling him. The truth, which he didn’t intend to share with his officers, was that the operation had been a shambles. He was annoyed. Broken-down vehicles, timings gone awry; they’d been lucky to get away with it. And several gang members had escaped.

  His eyes scanned the room then his lips turned upwards into a definite smirk. ‘We’ve rescued twenty-six children and young people today and put some seriously nasty villains away. It’s a great result. I’m proud of each and every one of you. But it all comes down to teamwork.’ Jo got the impression he was deliberately avoiding her eye. ‘Thank you.’

  Then as he got to the door he turned. ‘DC Boden, have you got a minute?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Jo accompanied him out of the room to winks and grins. DC Debbie Georgiou’s dark eyes followed her like a startled fawn. Jo got on with her colleagues, although most regarded her as an enigma. This was the persona she’d cultivated and it provided a protective carapace. She wouldn’t even tell them which football team she supported. The truth was she had no interest in football and she wouldn’t have admitted that either. But the view in the squad was unanimous: she deserved recognition for her audacity. If she hadn’t acted, the chis would probably be dead.

  Hollingsworth ignored her. He and the DCI set off down the corridor, leaving her to trail behind. The two men chatted about golf. When they reached Hollingsworth’s office he opened the door and nodded to her to enter.

  The room was sizeable with a large window and an eye-level view of the elevated section of the A40(M), wreathed in fog. The ghostly traffic swept by only metres from the building, the double-glazing reducing noise to a background rumble; but Jo didn’t notice any of it. All she saw was the person sitting on one of the two sofas. Dark curly hair, foot furiously tapping, it was Ardi Kelmendi’s bearded sidekick, the wandering jihadist. She stared at him in disbelief. He shot her a sullen look.

  Hollingsworth’s expression was impassive. ‘This is DC Jabreel Khan.’

  ‘Seriously?’ She shook her head. Her nose throbbed.

  ‘Sit down, Boden.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thank you, sir.’

  Khan jumped to his feet and jabbed a finger in Jo’s face. ‘What the fuck were you playing at? You could’ve blown my cover!’

  ‘How was I supposed to know you were in th
ere? I was trying to protect my chis.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’d stopped them killing her. Before you came blundering in.’

  This was too much for Jo. ‘She has a fractured skull and a smashed eye socket. What do you call that? Acceptable collateral damage?’

  ‘These are very dangerous men.’

  Jo stepped forward. ‘Oh, I get that. They obviously scared you.’

  Fists clenching, Khan also stepped forward. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You could’ve got us all killed. Some grandstanding amateur, angling for promotion!’

  Hollingsworth raised his palm. ‘All right. That’s enough.’ He glared at Khan. ‘Jabreel, enough!’

  Folding his arms, the undercover cop shook his head and turned away.

  Jo inhaled. The events of the morning were spiralling through her brain: struggling to her feet as the dust settled, surprised to even be alive, cradling Razan as they waited for the paramedics. Her own bloody swollen face. ‘Why am I here, sir?’

  ‘For operational reasons it’s necessary for you to exclude any mention of DC Khan from your notes. I wanted you to understand why.’

  Jo was furious. Operational bollocks! They’d had an undercover officer in there all along and Razan had still been beaten half to death. Now they were covering their arses in case the IPCC came calling.

  ‘Is that an order, sir?’

  ‘It’s a request. We’ve had a good result today. But it’s like cutting the head off the hydra. With his son in jail, Fejzi Kelmendi is likely to send others to try and pick up the reins.’

  Khan glared at her. ‘Yeah, and while you’re getting pissed up and petted by your mates, Boden, I’ve got to go back out there.’

  Jo glanced at Hollingsworth. ‘This isn’t my cock-up, sir. Surely the first duty of any undercover officer—’

  ‘Don’t tell me my job!’

  ‘All right, Jabreel. I think the point’s been made.’

  The DC took a breath but his dark eyes continued to bore into Jo. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks for coming in.’

  With a sneer DC Jabreel Khan pulled up his hood and disappeared out of the door, leaving Jo facing her boss.