Death Trap (47 page)

She flicked an ancient switch and an old-fashioned bulb flashed a few times as if blinded by its own light before coming on. The archive was row after row of dusty shelving while shoeboxes of evidence from long-forgotten cases were scattered around on the floor as if the place had been burgled. On the shelving were stickers indicating which year the evidence had been collected. The final one was 1966. But there was nothing from 1966 on those shelves. On the next row was a sticker which had ‘1964’ typed on it, to which had been added ‘–1965’ in biro.

Rio walked along the shelves. There were boxes with faded writing on the side cataloguing different types of crimes – murder, kidnap, bank robbery. Rio opened a couple at random. In one was a balaclava and a plastic bag containing two spent bullets. There was no paperwork inside and it was impossible to decipher the writing on the box. She kicked several more boxes on the floor by accident as she walked intently along, her feverish hands examining everything she found which gave way to an angry gasp of disappointment when she didn’t find what she was looking for.

She slowed down her search as the boxes for 1964 and 1965 began to trail off. She checked her watch.

Forty-one minutes.

‘Fuck.’ Rio kicked a shoebox across the floor in frustration.

She sucked in a heavy breath, pulling back her determination. Foster was not going to outfox her. She turned and went to the next row: ‘1963’.

Sixty-three had been a busy year – the shelves were jam-packed - but Rio soon realised that was because boxes from other years had been dumped on it at random. She found evidence from a bank robbery in ’61 and a bloody jacket in a bag from a grisly murder in ’62. Underneath these she found another box with no date and no name on the side. Rio picked it up. Its weight brought new hope to her. She opened the lid and found a polythene bag. Inside was a revolver from World War Two and three spent bullets. Tiny flakes of discoloured blood from the bullets were scattered inside the bag. And there was a brittle brown envelope.

It seemed at least one detective from those days of swinging London had managed to do his job to the carefully regulated standards that an officer like Rio was expected to meet in the present day. There was a series of carefully typed, dated and signed statements concerning the murder of John MaCarry on May 4th 1965. Shot dead as he left a fashionable restaurant in London’s West End, there were numerous statements from witnesses who’d seen a masked man emerge from an alleyway before calmly firing six shots into the victim. He died in the arms of what onlookers thought was MaCarry’s girlfriend but the police subsequently discovered was a high-end call girl. Then the killer had calmly walked off into the crowds.

But that hadn’t been the end of the story. An off-duty soldier had given chase and attacked the murderer. In the subsequent struggle, the soldier had managed to wrest the killer’s weapon from him before he managed to slip away and escape. Tests proved that there were no fingerprints on the gun. Gloves were worn and the weapon had been carefully wiped with a handkerchief or cloth before use. It was untraceable. There had been no arrests although the case team were certain that the hit was ordered by MaCarry’s business rival Maurice Cloud after an argument about money. But he had a conveniently rock solid alibi for the evening of the murder.

Rio put the paperwork back in the envelope, picked up the bag containing the gun that the soldier had recovered and examined it as if it were a religious relic. There might be no fingerprints, but back in 1965 DNA had not revolutionised police work.

seventy-one

Rio rushed into the forensic unit on the third floor of The Fort with twenty-three minutes left. She scanned the open office trying to find the chief forensic officer, Charlie. Shit, Rio couldn’t see Charlie anywhere.

‘Where’s Charlie?’ she shouted, bringing the room to a standstill. But no one spoke, they all just gazed at her.

‘I need her now.’ Rio stepped into the centre of the room.

‘She’s in the lab—’ a tall, thin man in his thirties started to answer.

‘Where?’

The man frowned. ‘You can’t go in there. She’s doing a closed test.’

Rio strode over to the man and got so deep in his space that he started regarding her as a crazy. ‘Please.’ Only then did Rio hear how breathless she sounded. ‘I need her urgently. Can you get her?’

The wrinkles on his forehead deepened. ‘This is highly irregular . . .’ That’s all she needed: a replica of herself, a man determined to play it by the book. But she let out a huge sigh when he nodded and said, ‘I’ll get her.’

As the forensic team buzzed back to work, Rio stood alone in the middle of the room. No, she wasn’t alone; diminishing time stood right with her.

Twenty-one minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Come on, Charlie.

Nineteen minutes.

Charlie appeared halfway through the eighteenth minute. Rio didn’t even give her time to speak; instead she thrust the polythene bag with the revolver in it into her hand.

‘I need you to test the DNA on this against the DNA in this file.’ She handed over the manila folder.

‘It will have to wait—’

Rio savagely swung her head. ‘No-can-do; I need this now.’

Charlie held the bag up and scrutinised the gun. ‘This looks like a really old piece of evidence. Any DNA might have disintegrated with time, although the bag might have offered a layer of protection—’

‘I don’t have time for this. Can you test it for me?’

‘It’s going to cost you a pint on a Friday of my choosing. Come back in an hour—’

‘I don’t have that kind of time. I need it in fifteen minutes flat.’

Charlie twisted her lips. ‘I’m a forensic specialist not forensic Superwoman—’

‘Please, Charlie.’

‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m warning you that this isn’t possible in that time frame.’

‘I’ll be downstairs near the interview rooms. A young girl’s life depends on this.’

seventy-two

Fourteen minutes.

Thirteen minutes.

Twelve minutes.

Rio paced outside the Interview Room waiting for word from Charlie. Strong stood leaning up against the wall, arms folded across his chest, a short distance away. He didn’t say a word, just kept a silent vigil with Rio.

Come on, Charlie.
Rio chanted the words over and over with the power of a magic spell to make the forensic officer appear. But she didn’t.

Eight minutes.

Seven minutes.

Six minutes.

Rio’s brain was screaming. She couldn’t let Foster go out of the main door because she knew she would never have this chance to nail him again. Life couldn’t be this unfair, could it? Then she thought of all the murder victims she’d come across in her career who’d probably thought the same just before their lives were snuffed out. She wasn’t going to add Nikki Bell to that list.

Four minutes.

Three.

Two.

Rio took up position in front of the interview-room door, her whole body guarding it as if she was not going to let anyone past.

One minute.

No. No. NO.

The efficient, clean footsteps of the Assistant Commissioner broke through the air. The older woman reached Rio.

‘Just ten more—’

‘Cut. Him. Loose.’

Rio didn’t bother pleading again. Her long shot hadn’t paid off. Her time was up.

Rio stood there, feeling like the last person on this earth as her superior walked away. Just like she was going to have to let Foster walk away. She twisted around and raised her fist to slam it into the wall, but a larger palm closed over her balled hand.

‘He’s not worth it,’ Strong said. The electric tension in her hand vibrated through his body. ‘People like Foster always get what’s coming to them in the end.’

He let her go, stepped back. Without looking at him Rio ran the hand that seconds ago had been a fist over her forehead.

‘I need to make a call.’

Strong walked away as Rio pulled out her mobile.

‘I’m sorry, Nikki, we’re going to have to let him go.’

‘Go? How can you let him go? He murdered them all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rio repeated. She couldn’t even add the promise that she’d try to get him in the future; once Foster was out of the door he would never give her another chance to get anywhere near him.

‘You did your best, Rio.’

And then she rang off.

When Rio returned to the interview room, Foster took one look at her face and smiled with triumph, ‘We’re finished here are we, Detective Inspector?’

‘This isn’t over, Foster.’

The solicitor confidently stood up. ‘It’s over for you, Ms Wray. By the time I’m finished with you, you won’t be able to get a job cleaning this building, never mind detecting in it.’

Rio’s whole team were waiting in the reception area. They stood in an ominous silence watching Stephen Foster with hard gazes. In that moment Rio was truly proud of her people – for their bravery and tenacity during this investigation.

Once he had collected his belongings Rio escorted him to the exit. The doors to the front of The Fort swung open, letting in soft afternoon sunshine. There was a large crowd of reporters waiting for him outside. There was shouting and the clicking of cameras as Rio remained at the top of the stairs, left on her own in a lonely and troubled place.

Rio watched as Stephen Foster descended into the middle of the media scrum. He held up his hands until everyone was quiet. The bastard was going to milk his triumph for all it was worth. She moved to the outer edges of the steps to see his lying face as he spoke.

Foster cleared his throat and announced, ‘Ladies and gentleman, as you are no doubt aware, two days ago I was arrested by the police and questioned about a number of serious crimes. Of course, I fully answered the questions that were put to me and I’m pleased to say that I have now been released without charge. As you will know, over the years, I have always endeavoured to defend the innocent and stand up for justice, without fear or favour. Obviously my work has caused a lot of discomfort to the police.’

His voice dropped slightly. ‘Perhaps it was too much to hope that they would respond in a professional way to my work, instead of pursuing a petty and vindictive vendetta against me. But I make no complaint about that. I’ve no doubt too that they are hoping that their campaign of intimidation will deter me from pursuing justice in the future. They are wrong, it will not . . .’

‘Rio.’ She left Foster’s sickening words and turned to find Strong next to her. ‘Charlie in forensics said to give you this. Said to tell you you owe her a fountain worth of pints for doing this in record time.’

Rio ripped the paper out of his hand. Read.

‘Come with me,’ she told Strong.

With a look of confusion he followed her as she pushed and struggled her way into the media ring.

‘My legal career has been based on two founding principles – a love of the law and a love of justice . . .’

Abruptly Foster stopped speaking as Rio stood, legs braced apart, in front of him. The crowd fell silent, leaving an expectant, almost explosive hush in the air.

‘Stephen Foster, I am arresting you for the murder of John MaCarry in 1965. You do not have to . . .’

As Strong cuffed a dazed and disbelieving Foster the crowd shifted and swelled into a crashing noise and flashing camera bulbs. As Strong led Foster away Rio looked at the man who had a few moments ago been speaking about justice; well justice had finally found him.

seventy-three

One Month Later

7:00 p.m.

‘I would just like to say a few words,’ DSI Newman said to the crowd gathered in the pub.

Rio smiled because his words came out more like, ‘I thood jus like to shay a phew wurds.’ The DS was well on his way to being rip-roaring drunk; and he had the right to be. This was his retirement and farewell do: a celebration of his thirty-seven years on the force. The place was packed with officers, but no family or friends; this was
their
time to say goodbye to one of
their
own.

It was good to see everyone so outrageously happy, Rio thought, after the fallout from Stephen Foster’s arrest. Even though details about Foster’s past relationship with Maurice Bell had surfaced in the press, some of his glam-pack celeb clients were vowing to stick by him. More like he had dirt on them that they never wanted to come to light, Rio suspected. But she was determined that Foster was going down for life.

‘Looks like the guv is going to fall flat on his face,’ Detective Jack Strong whispered in Rio’s ear.

They stood together, jammed with others at the back of the room near the bar.

Rio turned to him. ‘You should be up there as well, Jack. This was your last day too.’

That’s how she thought of him now – not Strong but Jack. His blue eyes twinkled. ‘Nah. I’m not into big goodbyes. A couple of farewell pints will do me fine.’

They both looked back at the mini stage at the front as Newman addressed the crowd again.