Case One (25 page)

Gemma knew enough to be wary when a bloke came up to her like that, but Dean wasn't creepy. He acted like he was genuine and he was decent-looking too – about thirty – so Gemma reckoned he'd probably got a girlfriend or a wife. He was just asking if she was okay, so she smiled at him and said
Thanks for asking
and that was how they got chatting – sitting on the steps of the bandstand in the park in the August sunshine.

Even after she went to stay with him at the flat she liked to go back to the park when the weather was nice. They'd just stroll together in the sun, holding hands, talking, making plans. When it was really hot they'd sunbathe on the grass and she'd lean her head on his chest, like a pillow. They'd share a can of lager, exchanging beery kisses, or get sticky from melting ice creams, bought from the kiosk by the gates.

Whatever they did, Dean made Gemma feel like she was special. He never treated her like she was only sixteen, but always like she was more his own age. He didn't make her feel like an idiot either, and he was always honest with her. Like when he told her that he'd had a girlfriend for three years, but she'd left him six months ago and it had taken him this long to get over it. He said Gemma was the first person he'd met in a long time who he knew he could trust. That was why he was telling her this. He
could
trust her, couldn't he? She
was
different.

And because of the look on his face and the need in his eyes, Gemma held him close then and said
Yes!
– meaning it and knowing, for the first time, that she was in love with him.

Of course, he wasn't perfect, she knew that. She knew the stuff he kept in the spare bedroom was nicked, but so what? It was like he said:
he
didn't nick it, he just sold it to people round the estates who couldn't afford to pay supermarket prices for vodka or fags.

And sometimes he did have a temper, but not often. And if he did lose it he always said sorry afterwards, making it up to her with kisses and presents. That was more than Gemma had ever seen her dad do with her mum, so this had to be better. It had only been a few weeks, but she knew that she loved Dean and that he loved her too.

She looked at him now, across the busy pub lounge, waiting for him to come back to the table. He was chatting with a guy in a denim jacket by the fruit machine, but every now and then he glanced over to her and smiled and she smiled back.

She didn't mind waiting. She knew he was probably talking business, doing a deal. It didn't matter. She always felt good when she went out with him like this. She liked it when he watched her get dressed up before they left the flat, like he was proud to be taking her out, like they were properly together: Gemma and Dean; Dean and Gemma – a real couple.

She was still thinking about that when she felt him sit down next to her again and put a hand on her arm. She hadn't realised that she'd gone off in a dream, staring blurrily at the tabletop and the glasses. She jerked her head up to look at him and smile, but it took her a few seconds to focus on his face. Maybe it was because of the rum and Cokes she'd been drinking, or the half an E from earlier. But it didn't usually make her feel this way. Could it have been something else…?

“All right, babe?”

Gemma nodded, smiled again. “Yeah.”

Dean stroked her arm, then nodded away to the guy by the fruit machine.

“He fancies you.”

“Get out.”

“No, he does: he said.”

“Get out.”

Even so, she couldn't help looking towards the guy in the denim jacket. She was still having trouble focusing though. Everything more than a metre away was a kind of hazy blur – fuzzy and weird. And now her head felt heavy – disconnected, kind of unbalanced.

While she was thinking about that she lost interest in trying to see the guy by the fruit machine and instead pulled her gaze back to the table, refocusing with a kind of blink. Then she saw that Dean had been watching her – letting her look at the other guy, like he was waiting to see what she'd say.

“So?” he asked. “What d'you think?”

She smiled at him, even if it was a bit lopsided. By now she'd forgotten the question. Had there been one? – How pissed was she?

“'Bou wha'?”

That hadn't come out right, had it? She frowned and felt dazed.

“D'you fancy him?”

“Wha'? No! Get out!”

She tried to make a gesture so he'd know she really meant it, but her hand and arm didn't want to cooperate. It was odd, seeing them jerk around, all uncoordinated.

“I don' fancy nobody – nobody else – 'cept you. I love you.”

She managed to find his hand on the table, grabbed hold of it, squeezing. He stroked her fingers.

“How much?”

“Wha'?”

“How much d'you love me?”

The question confused her. It was hard to work out what he meant. She wanted him to talk about something easier.

“Mass-es,” she said. “You— Masses 'n'— massesnmasses…”

She lopsided-smiled again but then she felt her head loll downwards because she'd forgotten to keep it upright and when she tried to correct it it went too far the other way, backwards. Why was it so hard to get it to be in the right place? It wasn't usually this hard, was it?

“I love you masses too,” he said.

She must have closed her eyes for a moment. Next thing she knew he was beside her, helping her stand, putting an arm round her waist. She giggled as she stood up. Giggled because it was funny, trying to stand when she felt all floaty and floppy and lovely and loving. She could just hug him, and she did, or at least tried to while he helped her towards the door on her uncoordinated feet.

Outside the fresh air felt good – cooler – and because it was dark she didn't bother to try and see where they were going as he supported her across the car park. She knew he'd be taking her to the van, to go home. She thought she heard him saying something but she wasn't sure. It didn't seem like he was talking to her.

“You got it, right?”

Who was he talking to?

She tried to look round but her head was too heavy to lift from her chest.

“Who— Where…goin'?”

“Shh-shh,” he told her. “Not far. Just to the van. You need a lie-down, babe, that's all.”

“Mmm… Lie down wi' you,” she said, snuggling against him, feeling dreamy and lovey.

“Yeah, later,” he said. “In a bit.”

When they reached the van he held her up with one arm round her waist as he unlocked the doors. Through the heavy, warm cloud in her head she was vaguely aware that this was the back of the van, not the front, but it didn't seem to matter. Dean knew what was best. He must be doing something… Could she— What?

“There you go, all cosy – look.”

Look at what? What was he showing her?

“Just climb in there. – Yeah, that's it. That's the way. Pull your legs in. – See? Nice and soft with that mattress, didn't I tell you? There you go.”

Soft… It
was
soft. Like a bed… Like snuggling up on a bed in the back of the van. Lots of space… Dreamy, floaty space – like she was swimming…

Voices…somewhere…

“Come on then. Christ's sake…”

“No, man – she's out of it. I don't do…”

…Like she was swimming – floating – just on top of the water…rocking…rocking…

“Gem? Gemma?”

Something on her cheek. Harder. Sharp. Slapping. Try to look. Move.

“There. See? She's awake enough. Won't make no difference anyway. Do it in her sleep. I told you.”

Rocking…rocking… She heard the van door close, tried to sit up, to see where he was. Dark – or were her eyes closed?

“Dea—?”

Then she felt him moving beside her.

“All right, sweetheart.”

“Dea-n?”

No. No, it wasn't.

“It's okay. He's just outside. – Come on, turn this way…”

“Dean!”

She cried out but it was hardly a sound.

Saturday

Six months later

1.

Safe House
Linholt Road
12:23 hrs

The room still felt chilly and damp despite the hiss of the gas fire – turned up full. Holly Blades kept her hands in the pockets of her jeans and looked out through the window at the winter-yellowed grass of the back lawn, untidy and strewn with last year's leaves.

It was March but the greyness of the sky showed no sign that spring was anywhere close yet. It was depressing, Holly thought. As depressing as the fact that Taz Powell was late – again.

In the kitchen DC Danny Simmons clattered a spoon into the sink and Holly turned away from the window. Like the rest of the house, the room was adequately furnished but empty of anything personal, anything that would have made it feel lived in – because it wasn't. It was a safe house and only occupied at times like this, for meetings with people who didn't want it known that they talked to the police.

“She's got till we've finished these,” Danny said as he entered the room with two mugs of coffee. “Whatever the excuse, if she's not here by then we're leaving. She's taking the piss now.”

“Okay,” Holly said, accepting it.

He handed her a mug and sipped from his own, still looking hacked off. He was in his late twenties, taller than Holly by a head and he hadn't shaved for a couple of days.

“
And
the bloody pizza was a waste of money,” Danny went on. “Bloody anchovies and chicken. Who eats those together anyway?”

This time Holly didn't bother to reply. A few weeks ago she'd have stuck up for Taz, maybe offered reasons why she might be late, but now she knew Danny was probably right – Taz
was
taking the piss.

It had taken a lot of time and paperwork to get Taz registered as a
Covert Human Intelligence Source
– in simpler language, an informant – and because of that effort Holly didn't want it to end up as a washout.

And at first it had seemed that Taz was just what they needed. She'd given Holly really useful information when Ashleigh Jarvis had been attacked on the Cadogan Estate six weeks ago, and after all that had died down she'd called Holly again with the name of someone who had done a couple of muggings.

That was when Danny Simmons had decided Taz might be useful as an official informant. Coppers weren't welcome on the Caddy, but because Taz lived on the estate no one questioned her right to come and go. Having someone like her – gobby, nosey and street-smart – as their eyes and ears should have been a real advantage. But with Taz's constant lateness and two aborted meetings in as many weeks, it was becoming clear to everyone that she might be more trouble than she or her information was worth.

Then Holly heard the back door open and Taz's voice call out: “Hiya! It's me!”

“Just like she's popped round her nan's,” Danny said acidly.

“In here,” Holly called as Danny moved to check the street through the vertical blinds on the front windows.

“Hiya,” Taz said again, upbeat and smiling as she entered the room. “All right?”

She'd just turned fifteen and even though Holly was eighteen months older and a Trainee Police Officer, Taz always acted as if they were equals. Her cheeks were glowing, as if she'd been running, and she had a scarf tucked inside the collar of a short leather jacket, which Holly knew was only a couple of weeks old.

“Hi,” Holly said. “You okay? We were starting to wonder.”

“Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Why, I'm not late am I? I thought I was early. Half twelve, right?”

“Twelve,” Danny said pointedly, still looking out at the street.

“What? No.”

“Let's just get on with it,” Danny said, not bothering to argue any more. He came away from the front window, apparently satisfied that Taz hadn't been followed. He moved to the round pine table, sat down and opened a laptop.

“Listen, it's not my fault you got the time wrong,” Taz said. “I can't help that, can I?”

That was one thing about Taz, Holly thought: she always managed to turn an accusation back on the person making it. You'd never get her to admit she was at fault even when there was no doubt about it. It was a good skill for an informant to have, but only if it helped them get useful information.

“Do you want pizza?” Holly asked her as a distraction. “It's keeping warm in the oven.”

“Anchovies and chicken?”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” Taz said, unwrapping her scarf. “I'm starving.”

“Okay,” Holly said. “Two minutes.”

“Sit down then,” Danny gestured to Taz. “Let's go through the photos from last time.”

In the spartan kitchen Holly took the pizza box out of the oven and a couple of boxed sandwiches from the fridge – hers and Danny's. She was hungry too, but they'd waited to eat because sharing a meal or drinks with an informant was supposed to help gain their trust and cooperation.

When Holly carried the food through to the other room, Danny was already directing Taz's attention to a series of grainy pictures on the laptop screen. They were all stills taken from CCTV footage of various suspects.

“I might've seen him,” Taz was saying.

“Might have or did?”

“It looked like him. It's a crap picture though, innit?”

“Where was he?”

“In the precinct, on the estate.”

“When?”

“Last week. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“Nah, on his own,” Taz said. Then: “Oh, ta,” when Holly put the pizza box in front of her.

Danny made a note on a pad. “Anyone else?”

“Uh-uh,” Taz said, biting into a pizza slice and shaking her head. She hardly glanced back at the screen.

Danny gave it a moment, then pulled the laptop back towards him so he could use the keyboard. Holly could tell by the look on his face that he already thought this was going to be a waste of time.