Dead or Alive (4 page)

‘That's not what she says.'

Sep looked at Phoebe. ‘When did this happen, darling?'

‘You know,' said Phoebe.

‘But I don't know. I know that
you
didn't see me hitting Mummy.'

‘I was in bed. I heard you though.'

‘I don't know who you heard, but it wasn't me.'

‘Mummy said it was.'

Sep sighed; he didn't want to have an argument with his daughter. He looked at Cope. ‘What's all this about you staying here?'

‘I stay here sometimes. I know Rachel told you because that was what your argument was about.'

‘I didn't know, and there was no damned argument!' said Sep, angry at this man's lies.

Phoebe spoke up. ‘When I came home last night I went straight to bed and I heard you and Mummy arguing.'

‘Phoebe, when I dropped you off, I didn't even come in the house. I brought you to the door as I always do, then I drove straight off.'

‘You didn't Daddy. I heard you arguing with Mummy.'

‘You might have heard
someone
arguing with Mummy, darling, but it wasn't me.'

‘Mummy said it was. I heard the door bang and your car drive off so I came downstairs and saw Mummy with her face all bleeding. She asked me to ring for an ambulance. Uncle Lenny got here just before the ambulance arrived.'

Sep looked at Cope and said, ‘Did he really? How convenient.'

‘I do hope you're not saying I hit her,' said Cope. ‘Why on Earth would I do that?'

‘I don't know. God moves in mysterious ways and so do creeps like you.'

‘Mummy says it was you, Daddy.'

‘Well, it wasn't, Phoebe.'

‘I think you'd better go before I arrest you,' said Cope.

Sep looked down at his daughter who was weeping silently and he felt a depth of despair he'd never felt before. Events not of his doing were causing him to argue with, even hurt, the person he loved most in the world. Worse still, the person he knew was responsible for all this was standing right in front of him with a smirk on his face; a man he could throw out of this house without breaking sweat, and the temptation to do just that was almost overwhelming, but he knew he mustn't because this smirking man would simply have him arrested and make his life even worse.

‘Cope,' he said, ‘I know you're as bent as an Arab's dagger which is why you quit The Met and came up here. But now I've got time on my hands I'll catch up with you, mister. Be very sure of that.'

The artificial laughter which was Cope's response was a sound that would ring in Sep's ears for some time to come. It was laughter that needed ramming back down Cope's throat, but not right now. His problem right now was leaving his daughter with this bloody man, but he had no option. Stay, and Cope would have had him arrested and further humiliated in front of Phoebe. So Sep said goodbye to his tearful daughter and went out of the home he'd done so much to create; the home where he'd lived with her since she was born; down the crazy-paving path he'd laid himself and out into the street where he'd taught Phoebe to ride a bicycle. A neighbour across the street waved to him, Sep waved back, got in his car and just sat there, trying to clear his head. In the space of a few hours everything he valued had been taken from him with frightening efficiency. How the hell did he get back from this?

Take a deep breath and try and think clearly, Sep. Was there anything at all he could salvage? Money? Yes, he needed money, proper money, not credit card money that he'd have to pay back with interest. He checked his wallet. Forty-five pounds. The only good thing about this day was that it had happened three days after his salary had been paid in, but it was a joint account – an account also available to his wife. His wife who had dishonestly accused him of assaulting her. Shit! He hadn't checked his account since his salary went in. If she could lie about him assaulting her what else was she capable of?

Sep took out his iPhone, went on to the internet and thence to his bank account, cursing to himself when he saw she'd been in the bank and had drawn out a thousand in cash on each of the previous two days – the maximum allowed without giving them notice. Bloody hell! She'd been planning this! He had just twelve hundred and eighty-two pounds left in the account which he transferred electronically to a rarely-used savings account – an account in his name only. Including the money in his wallet his personal disposable wealth was now thirteen hundred and twenty-seven pounds. How long could he live on that?

At ten o'clock the next morning, Sep was standing in front of Ibbotson's desk once again. This time he had a Police Federation representative with him. The rep was doing the talking.

‘I understand the difficult situation Detective Inspector Black is in but I have checked with the IPCC who are not currently planning to take action against him.'

‘That will be because the dead man died of an epileptic fit and not strangulation,' added Sep.

The rep glanced at Sep is if to tell him to shut up. Sep got the message. The rep continued: ‘If the post-mortem shows the man to have died of natural causes then they have no case against Inspector Black.'

‘I know that,' said Ibbotson. ‘But I also know that an epileptic fit can be brought on by extreme stress, such as a man holding him in a headlock.'

‘The man was struggling, violently. I was using a standard restraint procedure,' said Sep.

‘He was also a very large man,' added the rep. ‘Restraining him would have required exceptional force.'

‘I know all this as well,' said Ibbotson. ‘But I also know the difficulty it will place the police in if we take no action at all against the officer who restrained him, and who is also facing a charge of criminal assault against his wife.'

‘I haven't been charged yet,' Sep pointed out.

‘Charge or no charge, we have to look at the broader picture,' Ibbotson said. ‘If the media gets hold of the wife story, they'll make mincemeat of us.'

‘Not if we give them the details of Johnstone's crimes against kids,' said Sep, ‘and you are overlooking one major advantage in Johnstone being dead.'

‘What's that?'

‘I imagine there'll be lots of parents out there very relieved that their kids won't have to relive all the horrors they've been through in court – and that's not to mention the kids themselves who'll no longer have the spectre of their abuser still being present in their lives. Complete closure, you might call it – if that's at all possible.'

‘I get your point,' said Ibbotson, ‘but we have orders from the Home Office to give no details of why, or even
that
he was arrested,' said Ibbotson. ‘They're talking about issuing a D Notice to that effect.'

‘D Notice? That's only for matters of national security,' said Sep.

‘Ours is not to reason why,' said Ibbotson.

‘Ours is but to protect the reputation of parliament – at my expense,' Sep countered. ‘Imagine the embarrassment in parliament when all the eulogies Johnstone's been getting from his fellow MPs turn out to be for a prolific paedophile … and I have information to suggest that a lot of them strongly suspected it, but have said and done nothing.'

The rep intervened: ‘I submit that if my client signs your document prohibiting him from talking to the media, he be allowed to resign as normal and leave with full accrued pension and no stain on his employment reputation. Also no charges will be brought against him.'

‘I think I can get that agreed,' said Ibbotson, ‘but if the charges against Johnstone leak out into the social media this document will be declared null and void.'

‘But I've got no control over social media,' protested Sep, ‘no one has.'

‘There are experts who can trace such leaks back to their source,' said Ibbotson.

‘That's rubbish! Anyway, I'm hardly leaving without a stain on my reputation if you want the media to think I've been sacked for Johnstone's death.'

‘Sep,' said Ibbotson. ‘Think about it. With you being a senior police officer, the assault on your wife could get you two years, and you'd be kicked out anyway.'

‘Congratulations!' said Sep. ‘You bloody lot have done me up like a kipper.'

T
he only thing Lee Dench liked about this job was the five grand he was due to pick up for it. Five grand for less than forty minutes work, start to finish. Drive there, pick the kids up, deliver, job done. The pick-up shouldn't be a problem. They should pick themselves up. If they didn't the job was off. Five grand up the spout. Too risky to pick up two struggling kids in broad daylight, especially outside their school, and his boss was a minimalist as far as risk was concerned. Lee didn't like having to wear a woman's wig and a woman's coat, but he knew the only reason he'd been picked for the job was because he was slightly built, like the young woman he was impersonating.

His MO had been worked out for him. There'd be plenty of women and kids milling round. Cars parked all over the place. All he had to do was drive past the two waiting kids, who'd recognize the car, which had false plates to suit the real one. He'd park up a few yards past them. His information was that they'd approach him from behind and get in without any help from him. This is how they'd done it before. Their real nanny never bothered to get out of the car to help them, they were big enough to help themselves. The minute they shut the door he'd press the child-lock button and they were captured.

Milly Strathmore was in tears as she walked over to where her brother was standing at the school gates. He sighed in exasperation. ‘What is it now?'

‘George Butterfield's been bullying me.'

‘You mean calling you names? You'll have to learn to stick up for yourself.'

‘He's been calling me Squinty and getting all the other kids to gang up on me.'

‘You won't be squinty for long. You're having your operation in a couple of months.'

Milly said nothing. She wasn't looking forward to her eye operation. They'd been mucking about with her eyes ever since she could remember and she'd been told this was the big one – the big operation that would straighten her eyes for good.

‘He pushed me as well. I fell over and dirtied my dress, look,' she showed her older brother a grimy streak down the side of her dress, ‘… and I grazed my knee.'

‘What am I supposed to do about it? If I thump him I'll be in trouble – mos' probably expelled this time.'

‘I told him you'd bash his head in but he said you couldn't knock the skin off a rice pudding.'

James was ten – two years older than his sister. George Butterfield was big for his nine years – at least as big as James.

‘He said that, did he?'

‘Yes,' lied Milly, who knew her brother wouldn't let such an insult go unpunished.

James spotted George approaching, swinging his school bag around his head causing the people around him to take evasive action. It was home time. James looked around at the teacher who was on gate duty, ensuring that children who were waiting to be picked up didn't go galloping off on their own. She had her back to James. There were no other teachers around, just a huddle of parents standing by the school door, paying no attention to anything other than themselves. James walked over to George and grabbed his swinging school bag.

‘You owe my parents five pounds,' he said. ‘If you don't bring five pounds tomorrow I'm gonna knock your teeth down your throat.'

‘Why? What have I done?'

‘You know.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘You've been bullying my sister.'

‘No I haven't.'

‘You've torn her dress and made her leg bleed.'

‘So?'

‘So we'll have a fight around the back of the reception block at dinnertime tomorrow. Me and you are about the same size. If you don't wanna fight you'd better bring five pounds to pay for our Milly's dress.'

He said it loud enough for George's classmates to hear. George was considered to be a tough guy who would fight anyone. For him not to accept James's challenge would destroy his reputation. But he knew he could never beat James, who had a well-earned reputation as being the best fighter in the school – a reputation that had brought him no end of trouble, including a threat of expulsion. George dropped his eyes under James's threatening gaze and slunk off. James went back to his sister.

‘What did he say?'

‘Not much, but I might be a fiver better off tomorrow.'

As Laura Graham pulled up at traffic lights, her Picasso was shunted from behind. She swore and looked in the mirror at the car which had hit her. Its driver was holding up his hands in apology. Laura got out, taking care to remove the keys – she'd heard about car thieves using this method to steal cars left with the key in the ignition. The other driver got out. Laura looked around to see if any would-be thief was heading for her car. There wasn't.

‘I'm really sorry,' the man said, getting out of his car. ‘I'm not used to this car. My foot must have caught the accelerator as I put it on the brake.'

He was middle-aged, a fussy type, annoyingly so. Overly apologetic. A man who didn't use one word where ten would do. Other cars were now moving around them as the man insisted on giving her his insurance details that he had in his glove compartment, but which he couldn't find immediately. Laura looked at her watch.

‘Look,' she said, ‘I'm picking children up from school and I'll be late.'

‘They're here somewhere,' he said. ‘Look, this was all my fault. I'm not used to this car your see. I've just bought it. I'm fully insured so you've no need to worry about paying for repairs. It'll just take a minute. I always keep my details in the car. You never know when you'll need them …'