It Should Have Been Me Page 3

  During her time on the squad she’d had little personal contact with Hollingsworth. His approach, like his manner, was distant. He was always ready to praise his officers for teamwork but was a stickler for protocols and procedures and, Jo suspected, old-fashioned respect for the chain of command.

  She waited for him to speak.

  ‘You made a judgement call, Jo, I appreciate that.’

  Her brain and body were fizzing with fury. The thumping pain across the bridge of her nose and down her face made it worse. Keep quiet, just listen. She couldn’t.

  ‘If we had an officer undercover, why was Razan even in there?’

  ‘To gain as much intel as possible. He couldn’t wear a wire, it was too dangerous.’

  ‘But not too dangerous for her.’

  His thin lip curled. ‘These are strategic decisions, taken with the utmost care.’

  ‘She was a decoy, wasn’t she? Ardi finds the wire on her, slaps her around a bit. Then when he gets nicked his old man isn’t going to be looking for any other plants in the organization. We were using her to protect our undercover officer.’

  The words tumbled out of her mouth before she had time to consider. Still pumped with adrenaline she felt both right and righteous. It was the longest one-to-one exchange she’d ever had with Hollingsworth. And in that moment the prospect of a promotion any time soon had evaporated.

  His pallid eyes came to rest on her face but the look was impossible to read.

  After several seconds he sighed. ‘Jo, this is a difficult job at the best of times. You have to learn not to take these things too personally. As the girl’s handler, you did everything you could. So did Jabreel. And . . .’ he paused for effect. ‘I’m going to recommend you for a Commissioner’s commendation.’

  Half an hour earlier Jo would’ve been delighted. But he was playing politics, she knew that. She was female and photogenic, it would make a great photo-op for the Commissioner. Our brave young officers out there risking their lives to keep London safe. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him where to stuff it.

  Instead she forced a smile, which made her wince. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She fingered the swelling.

  They stood for a moment facing each other, in a silent space with only the motorway traffic providing a background hum. Jo didn’t know what to do. The meeting seemed to be over, she was merely waiting for some indication that she could go. But the dead-eyed gaze continued to scan her, still assessing and calculating.

  ‘That looks pretty nasty. Have you got painkillers? You should take the rest of the week off. Then we’ll see.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir. I’d rather keep busy.’

  ‘It’s an order, Boden. Go home.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Interview over, she headed back down the corridor and the realization of what had happened began to sink in. Then we’ll see. See what? Her anger had simply got the better of her; as a result, she’d handled the situation stupidly and naively. Her attempt to rescue Razan had created problems. Still, it had been well-meaning and Hollingsworth might have accepted that, if she hadn’t waded in with a direct challenge to his integrity. All the months of hard work she’d put in, establishing her place in the squad, making sure the bosses knew she was a solid officer who could be relied upon. She’d thrown it all away – and for what? Because she wanted to be right? She was smarter than that. Or she thought she was.

  Stopping by the vending machine she put her hands in her jeans pocket for some change. In the absence of frozen peas, a can of something cold and fizzy would have to do. But her fingers fumbled on the keypad, she missed the correct button, the interior mechanism spun its wheels, clunked and failed to deliver. She thumped the plastic housing with the side of her fist.

  ‘Abuse of government property could be considered a disciplinary offence.’

  She spun round to face the speaker.

  ‘DC Boden, isn’t it? The girl who tried to nick Ardi Kelmendi single-handed.’

  Jo didn’t like his tone. But attacking yet another senior officer so soon was probably not politic. She settled for a surly look.

  Removing her coins from the reject slot, he fed them back into the machine.

  ‘This stuff rots your teeth and turns you into an obese blob. Which sort do you want?’

  ‘Anything that’s cold.’

  What was it with blokes and vending machines, Jo wondered? There must be some YouTuber or journo – bushy beard, backside hanging out of his jeans – giving advice about chatting up women. Bullet point three: sidle up to her casually at the office vending machine and say something cool. Jo had a tendency to attract male attention, it was a fact of life, and she usually bought her drinks and snacks in the canteen in order to avoid these not-so-random encounters.

  He handed her a can of some kind of sports concoction laced with taurine, but it was cold and dewy.

  ‘Thanks.’ She held it against her forehead and waited for him to go away.

  He folded his arms. ‘I’m Steve Vaizey.’

  ‘I know who you are. Sir.’

  Operation Grebe had taken up residence in the adjacent suite of offices about a month earlier. Secretive and special, they were tasked with targeting gun smuggling. Vaizey was in charge and his reputation preceded him. Young for a Detective Super, not yet forty, he was known for getting results.

  Jo had noticed him. Everyone in the squad had noticed him. Getting on a specialist op was the holy grail to success in the Met.

  Tall and lean, he fidgeted with his key fob, flicking it back and forth with a restless energy as he looked her up and down. She found the scrutiny uncomfortable but wasn’t about to let him know that.

  Finally he smiled. ‘You know, DC Boden, there might be something useful you could do for me. Have you worked much undercover?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Fancy a secondment?’

  Jo met his gaze, a hard flinty stare, impossible to read. Was he being serious?

  ‘Erm, yes.’

  ‘I’ll have a chat with Dave Hollingsworth. See if we can borrow you. Is the nose broken?’

  Jo nodded.

  ‘Looks painful. Take a couple of days, then come and see me.’

  He gave her another smile and sauntered off down the corridor.

  Jo wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or petrified. Her undercover experience comprised mainly of posing as a potential drug buyer to street pushers with half a brain. She’d done the course, she’d done every course on offer, but role-playing in the classroom hardly prepared you for stepping out into a live operation against organized crime.

  Jabreel Khan flashed into her mind, the weary hunted look he had, the product no doubt of stress and worrying 24/7 that the target was going to suss you out and shoot you in the head.

  But she was being offered an opportunity any one of her colleagues would kill for. Going undercover. A high-profile op. It was a frightening prospect. And she was overjoyed. It was the break she’d been waiting and working for, the chance to step out from the pack and show them what she could do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nathan Wade believed that all things in life contained a hidden purpose, though it was seldom revealed. He didn’t link this to a belief in God in any conventional sense, although his parents had been regular churchgoers. This feeling had emerged gradually, more as a survival mechanism, a hook to grasp and haul his thoughts up from the pit of resentment and despair. In earlier years his rational mind had been attracted to nihilism, he knew this, but he’d seen enough prison inmates turn that into an excuse to embrace monstrous ideologies. No way was he going down that road. There were easier ways to commit suicide.

  As always, he’d woken around dawn and sat in a half-lotus on the floor of his cell, focusing on his breathing. Meditation was a daily ritual. Detachment was always his goal; it was the only way to stay sane. Thoughts drifted in and out of his mind. On the surface he was calm, but the nattering irritants that plagued his life knew how to bushwhack him: the ingra
ined grime on the floor, the greasy Blu Tack stains on the wall, the smell of stale sweat infusing his mattress . . . He hated these things. Sometimes his temper would erupt and it would require extra discipline to keep it in check. But today he was on an even keel. He could loosen the reins.

  The first thought that had come into his mind was of Sarah. He often thought of Sarah. The familiar procession of fractured memories began to kick in and he knew better than to resist them: getting high; her belligerent mood that night; the row; waking up the next morning with the police kicking down his door and dragging him out of bed; his life imploding in the ensuing nightmare. Then there was the frustration of forever grasping for what he couldn’t recall, for the details that were lost.

  He’d been charged with her murder twenty-four hours later. It was surreal. He remembered the look on his mother’s face, her pain and doubt. The police interview had been interminable; one of the detectives pretended to be his friend. He insisted Nathan may have blacked out or forgotten what he’d done. All the dope he’d smoked would’ve been a factor. He kept going back to the row; what did they argue about? What didn’t they argue about? They were always having rows. Followed by sex. Nathan told them he couldn’t remember, which was true. But he did remember how beautiful she was.

  The trial had passed with him in a daze. His barrister, having consulted with his parents, took the decision not to put him on the stand. The members of the jury avoided looking him in the eye. The judge called him a vicious killer who refused to take responsibility for his crime. A few days short of his twentieth birthday he was found guilty of murder and given a life sentence with a tariff of sixteen years before he could be considered for release on licence.

  At thirty-five he’d seen the inside of a variety of nicks. Now he was completing his sentence at Ford Open Prison in West Sussex and working outside during the day to prepare for his release.

  Prison had completed his education, though not in the way he’d ever intended. He’d learnt how to survive the brutality of the system, how to play the game, how to tailor his behaviour and words to what the shrinks and offender managers wanted to see and hear and, above all, to express remorse.

  Contrition was the box they needed to tick, but getting it right was an art form. The amount of emotion that accompanied expressions of guilt had to be finely judged. Tears certainly, but not often. A surfeit of feeling, any tendency to gorge on self-pity and they’d whack you on some mind-numbing medication. Their definition of normal behaviour was a narrow one.

  Drugs that weren’t prescribed were another matter entirely. Jails might be awash with them but any involvement in either their consumption or trade invited hassle not just from the authorities but from other inmates. They fuelled violence and often ended any chance of early parole.

  Maybe all this was obvious, but it took Nathan the first five years of his sentence to work it out. The process was slow and bitter. It wasn’t until he joined the addiction programme and his addled brain began to clear that he started to face up to the reality of his situation. It took another couple of years for him to morph into a reformed junkie who did online courses and mentored other inmates. He still enjoyed the occasional spliff in secret, but in the end getting clean was a relief. He came to regard any intrusion on his body, from substances, from other people, as unacceptable. He couldn’t control much else in his life, all he had was his carcass and the psyche that inhabited it. And he was determined to keep both unsullied.

  The minibus left the prison each morning at seven to take inmates to a variety of jobs in the nearby seaside town of Littlehampton. Nathan’s careful years of reflecting back at the prison regime what it wanted to see ensured he was regarded as a model prisoner with a negligible risk of reoffending or being a danger to the public. As a result, he’d wangled one of the better jobs on offer to offenders. It was with a major coffee shop chain and they’d agreed to train him with the possibility of proper employment once he was released.

  Making coffee wasn’t a bad job. During his incarceration he’d done far worse. He found he enjoyed the precision and repetition; he also liked drinking the luxurious non-prison brew. He rapidly became a whiz at all the delectable permutations the shop offered; he was fast and meticulous, kept his work area clean, and Lech, the manager, regarded him as his star barista. Although they had little in common, the gabby Pole and the laconic convict got on. Lech wasn’t interested in what crime he’d committed; to him all authority was inherently suspect.

  For Nathan this was a novel experience, he’d had no truck with friendship since his conviction. Sixteen years inside had taught him that intimacy was probably more dangerous than aggression. His reputation as a recluse had protected him. He didn’t dislike Lech, he regarded his boss as an innocent, a man who thought well of everyone until he had a reason not to. To Nathan, this was naive. Nevertheless, Lech was useful. Once he was out, Nathan didn’t plan on remaining a barista, so a glowing reference from his good mate might come in handy.

  It was seven thirty when the prison minibus deposited the model inmate outside the coffee shop. Lech was helping the delivery driver unload the day’s supplies. Nathan pitched in. He hoisted two six-packs, each containing twelve litres of milk, on to his shoulder.

  The manager laughed. ‘Hey, look at you! Such muscles! That girl, that’s why she keep coming back.’

  Nathan was lanky but strong, his straggly hair had thinned on top to a monkish tonsure, he walked with a stoop – a habit acquired from years of avoiding eye contact – he knew he was no one’s idea of a catch. He smiled but ignored the tease.

  Lech meant well but he didn’t understand. Over the years, Nathan had received plenty of letters from stupid women who’d wanted to befriend him. Some were weirder than others. Murderers seemed especially attractive to these types. When an article of his was published in a small anthology of prisoners’ work he’d received two proposals of marriage from total strangers.

  But that girl was a rather different problem. Briony Rowe had started to write to him a year previously. He hadn’t recognized the name until she reminded him that she’d been a close friend of Sarah’s. He had some recollection of a dumpy girl, rather shy, who’d been on their course. Sarah loved to give everyone nicknames, usually to torment them, and Briony had been dubbed Miss Piggy, he remembered that.

  He’d agreed to a visit and in it she’d explained that she was now a freelance journalist and film-maker. She had never believed him capable of her friend’s murder, she said, and she was making a film about it. What had happened to Nathan was a miscarriage of justice and she was determined to expose it. Funding was a problem, but with his cooperation she was hoping to rectify that.

  Nathan was amused then annoyed, the whole thing was clearly a scam. Briony Rowe was awkward and considerably overweight; she alluded to unspecified health problems, which had, she told him, adversely affected her career. When questioned about her many TV credits, she was vague.

  He wrote her what he thought was a polite letter saying he wasn’t interested. But she hadn’t given up. She continued to badger him with requests for another visit and now she’d tracked him down to the coffee shop in Littlehampton.

  The previous week he’d been serving a customer and realized she was filming him through the window on her mobile phone. Lech had thought it was a great joke.

  But Nathan found it deeply disturbing. The parole board was about to meet to set a date for his release on licence. This was the last thing he needed, some messed-up woman using him to give her failed career a boost. He didn’t know what to do. He considered confiding in his probation officer, but if they suspected he’d given her any encouragement or wasn’t accepting his guilt it might affect his release.

  The second time she’d put in an appearance he’d instructed Lech to tell her to go away and leave him alone. His annoyance had rapidly turned to bitterness and anger that anyone should presume they could exploit him in this way. He’d served his time, all he wanted was to put the pas
t behind him.

  It was the tail end of the morning rush and he was clearing tables when he caught sight of Lech out of the corner of his eye. And here she was again, he couldn’t believe it! The two of them were outside the shop having a conversation.

  Nathan took a couple of steadying breaths. He had a temper, he knew that, but he couldn’t afford to lose it. Not here, not in this situation. His release date was due any day. It was all too easy to get knocked back, he’d seen it happen: some trivial incident and they whacked another six months on your sentence.

  He watched them for a few minutes but all the while he could feel his rage bubbling inside. Lech was nodding his head, Miss Piggy was feeding him some line. Then the Pole glanced in Nathan’s direction.

  He strode into the shop and clapped his mate on the shoulder. ‘She tell me the story, Nathan. Man, you need to listen to her.’

  Gripping the edge of the tray he was holding, Nathan shot his boss a savage look. ‘That’s exactly what it is. A story. She just wants to use me. So she can get her silly film made.’

  ‘Okay. Well, you tell me. You really kill this girl? This Sarah Boden.’

  Nathan forced himself to take a deep breath. ‘Look, I know you mean well—’

  ‘She say to me she knows who did it. And it wasn’t you.’

  Nathan became aware of Briony Rowe. She’d followed Lech into the shop and was standing behind him, twisting the rings on her pudgy fingers.

  She edged forward. ‘I worked it out years ago.’

  ‘You know what she used to call you? Miss Piggy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. She had a great sense of humour.’

  Nathan glared at her. Her cheeks were damp and red, her eyes startlingly blue, like a deluded little gnome.

  ‘Some might say she was a vicious bitch who got what she deserved.’

  ‘You don’t think that.’

  ‘How do you know?’ He picked up the tray and started to walk away. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’