Behind Closed Doors (43 page)

‘Are you okay?’ Sandra – or whatever her name was – asked. She stopped typing for a moment. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No,’ Lou said. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Will he be much longer?’

From the other side of the heavy wooden door, a burst of raucous male laughter erupted. Whatever they were doing in there, Lou concluded, they were enjoying themselves.

‘Hope not; he’s supposed to be seeing the chief in half an hour.’

The door burst open and Buchanan emerged, shaking hands warmly with an older man in a suit, whom Lou didn’t recognise. They both looked very pleased with themselves, Lou thought miserably. She was exhausted, and feeling particularly uncharitable towards anyone who seemed to be having a good time when they should have been working at keeping the Queen’s Peace.

‘Sir,’ Lou said, getting up.

‘Ah, Lou. Come in. Would you like a coffee? Sharon, can you get…’

‘I’m fine, sir, thanks.’
Sharon.
Of course.

Lou stood in front of the desk, waiting to be offered a seat. She always did this, and he always seemed surprised. Maybe nobody else waited any more.

‘Do sit. How are you feeling? I’m hearing you’ve had a good result with Op Vanguard today.’

‘Yes, I think you could call it that.’

‘And your sergeant? Sam Hollands, isn’t it?’

‘She’s – not doing too badly. She has some hours on her card; I’ve insisted that she take some time off.’

‘She did an excellent job, truly excellent. What about the girl?’

Woman
, Lou thought, gritting her teeth. She’s twenty-five and she’s lived a whole bloody lifetime, she deserves to be considered an adult.

‘Scarlett Rainsford and her sister have both been arrested, sir. Interviews are ongoing, but we have enough for a charge.’

Buchanan leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his small, neat belly. ‘I had a chat with Rob Jefferson this afternoon. He reports there is forensic evidence linking Stark to items found in Rainsford’s car, and the shoe mark from the trainers they recovered was a match for that other murder – what’s his name?’

‘McVey, sir.’

‘McVey, that’s it, as well as the double murder.’

Double murder. That made it a better result, didn’t it?
Annie had died a few hours ago, quietly, without ever regaining consciousness, without ever knowing that her daughter had paid for her to be killed next to her husband – paid for their deaths with the meagre profit obtained from burgling their own house.

‘And Stark has confessed?’

‘Yes, sir. Seems quite keen to go inside, in the end. He’s clearly terrified of Cunningham. He seems to believe that Cunningham blames him for failing to recover the drugs that were stolen from Palmer the night he was attacked.’

‘You think the McDonnells have the drugs?’

‘We’ve got a warrant for tomorrow morning for all the properties we know are controlled by Lewis McDonnell. We have some good intelligence that McDonnell has taken delivery of a shipment of cocaine and is planning to move it next week. We think it’s probably the same batch that Cunningham was supposed to receive in September. I think it’s safer to do a warrant rather than rely on intelligence to tell us when and where it’s going to be transferred.’

‘Good to hear. I remember you telling me that we were going to be able to dismantle some of the networks. Do you still think that’s a realistic prospect?’

Complete dismantling of a criminal network was something that happened only very rarely, and Lou often thought of it as rather like trying to get rid of an infestation of troublesome vermin. If you attacked one part of the group, then very rapidly leaks would be plugged, resources moved, people silenced, strategies changed. Within hours everything you knew about the network would be out of date and useless. The only tactic that ever worked was patience, biding your time until you could take out the whole thing in one go. But she knew what Buchanan wanted to hear.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I really hope so.’

‘And the trafficking?’

‘I’ll leave that to Special Branch, sir.’

‘Good, good. Are you around next week? We should have a lunch, or something. Proper catch-up.’

A bloody lunch!
No, thanks.
 

‘Actually, sir, I was thinking I might take a couple of days’ annual leave.’

‘Ah! Well, you deserve it. A good result, Lou, a really good result.’

A few minutes later, heading out into the cold corridor again, ‘Thanks, Sharon,’ Lou said.

‘Have a nice evening.’

‘You too.’

A good result
, Lou thought. It didn’t feel like one. Ten years ago, Lou had been there when a fifteen-year-old was taken away to a life of abuse and violence, and her younger sister was left behind with two abusive parents. Ten years of hell, for both of them. And Lou hadn’t done anything to stop it.

She stayed late to make sure everything was finished. All reports filed, all taskings and abstractions authorised, everyone told what they were doing for the next couple of days. While she was busy, she didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to give in to the tidal wave of crap that was hurtling towards her, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

Les Finnegan, and whatever was going on there. Something definitely was, and, while it might not be that bad – might be a little lapse in judgement, a lucky guess, Jane’s misunderstanding – it would need further consideration. She would have to watch him. She would have to be careful.

And those who were suffering, had suffered, most of all: Scarlett and her sister, Juliette. The law was the law. What they’d gone through might, to some degree, be taken into account. In the meantime they had to be charged, detained on remand and tried, just like everyone else who was responsible for committing a violent offence.

Was it fair?

And Buchanan and his attitude had just about finished her off. Where was the compassion? The sensitivity?

Outside in the car park the damp air was misty and smelling of fireworks and effort, a hundred wet leafy bonfires around south Briarstone failing to light. Despite the smell and the intermittent bangs and crackles, her mind was bouncing between misery and fury and exhaustion, and she had to drive with both front windows down, the wind blasting her hair around her face, just to make sure she got to Queens Road awake and in one piece.

He probably wasn’t expecting her. She hadn’t called, or sent a text, and it was possible he was out. She was making a big assumption that he even wanted to see her, still, despite what he’d said last night, despite his invitation. She had not only been pissing him off without fully knowing why or how, she had also hurt him by default, by not making him a priority. By assuming he didn’t mind.

On the doorstep she hesitated because for some reason she had started crying. The tears were pouring down her cheeks and she didn’t even know why. Standing there in the darkness, not wanting to ring the bell until she had things under control again, until she could trust herself to smile and speak…

I thought I was stronger than this
…
 

And then the door opened without warning, and Jason stood in the light of the hallway, wearing his sweats and a T-shirt, and he was the most beautiful thing Lou had ever seen. So strong, so perfect, so real.

‘Hey,’ he said, and with bare feet he walked straight out on to the rain-soaked driveway and put his arms around her and held her so tightly against his chest that she couldn’t even hear her own sobs.

‘Come inside,’ he said after a moment.

In the hallway he started asking what was wrong, what had happened, but the crying thing was happening again, only this time she managed to stop it by kissing him. When she paused for breath she took him by the hand and led him upstairs. By then he had got the idea, but he let her lead him. Lou pushed him firmly back on to the bed, pulled his sweatpants down, pulled her skirt up and her knickers to one side. Fully dressed, she fucked him because it had suddenly become desperate, urgent, like a reminder that she was alive and he was alive and all the people she cared about most in the world were, for this moment at least,
alive
and safe.

He was too surprised to do anything but lie there, mouth slightly open in awe at her, while the anger in her silenced the small voice of shame that told her she was being selfish, she was using him for the purposes of relief, and how was that supposed to make him feel? But she didn’t want to stop.

When it was over she fell off him awkwardly, lay beside him on the bed, breathing hard.

Say something, you silly bitch
, she thought.
He must hate you right now.

‘I just – ’ she began. ‘I just… needed you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

No, that isn’t right.
 

She turned on to her side, so she could see his face. His eyes were closed.

‘I never saw you cry before,’ he said.

‘I don’t let anyone see me cry.’

He turned his head towards her and opened his eyes. The tears had started falling again, this time at her own stupidity, her own failings, the sudden inability to say the right thing, to say what he needed to hear.

‘Hey, no, don’t…’ He cupped her cheek, wiped at the tears, covered her face with kisses. Whispered, ‘Don’t, Louisa. It’s okay, it’s okay. Shhh.’

He held her a long time before she could speak, and even then the words sounded ridiculous. All the things she could think of to try to make him understand – Scarlett’s life and how it had nearly ended, the injustice of it; not being able to help all the other Scarletts and Juliettes who were still being abused, in Briarstone, in the county, in the country, in the world. How she couldn’t stop any of it, not really. It was like standing in front of the rising tide.

‘I don’t know if I can do this any more,’ Lou said, at last.

‘What?’ Jason asked.

‘The Job,’ Lou said, and admitting it turned into a sob again. ‘I’m so tired. I just… I’m so tired of it all. Of not being able to help.’

He pulled her tight against his chest, rocked her. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re the best detective I’ve ever worked with. You care, Louisa. Of course it’s going to hurt sometimes when you can’t fix things. But you have to let it out, not keep it all knotted up inside.’

‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she said at last.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘But you hate this,’ she said. ‘You hate me being so wrapped up with work all the time. And you’re right; it’s just… this is the only way I know how to do it. I’ve never had someone else there waiting for me to come home. I don’t know how to make it better.’

‘Don’t tell me what I hate,’ he said gently. ‘And I know what it is you need to do to make it better.’

‘What?’ she said.

He stroked his index finger down her cheek, looking intently into her eyes. ‘You need to let me in.’

Clive Rainsford’s body had finally been removed and taken to the mortuary at Briarstone General, pending a post-mortem. The Forensics Team was still working, though – probably would be here for another couple of days. It was dark and raining, a persistent drizzle that soaked through clothing quickly. Sam felt for them, spending all day out in this. Against the hedge, a few bunches of flowers had been left as a mark of respect for Clive and Annie. Two tealight candles were sitting, extinguished, in a puddle.

Sam spoke to the PCSO who was standing at the cordon and asked to speak to one of the CSIs. A few moments later a woman appeared, dressed in full protective gear. At least it gave her some level of protection against the rain. When she pulled down her mask, Sam recognised her; she’d met her on many occasions.

‘Astrid, hi! I was wondering if I could take a look in the back garden.’ Sam squinted against the rain.

‘Anything in particular you’re after? We’ve covered it already. You can look, but you’d need to get suited up.’

They stood together in the shelter of the hedge at the front of the Rainsfords’ house, looking at the scene tent that had protected much of the front lawn from the elements for the past two days. From where she stood, Sam could see the low, dark clouds being illuminated with reds and greens, the noise of small explosions amplified by the buildings all around them.

‘Bloody fireworks,’ Astrid said miserably. ‘I hate them, I do. My poor dog will be shivering under the bed.’

‘I won’t keep you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s just, when I was here on Sunday morning I noticed that someone had removed some shrubbery at the back. Looked like it had been put through a wood-chipper, or something.’

‘Yes,’ Astrid said. ‘And the rest.’

‘Something else?’

‘Bits of plastic in among all the wood chips.’

Sam groaned. ‘I thought it was weird. I wish I’d had a look. They’d been away on holiday, and the first thing he does when he gets back is some heavy-duty landscaping? They hadn’t even unpacked. What was it, can you tell?’

‘We found a chip, little bits of circuit board. My guess is a laptop. No sign of the shredder – probably hired or borrowed, or tossed into someone’s skip. It’s going in the report, anyway.’

‘Thanks.’

Sam headed back to the car and sat in the driver’s seat while she waited for the fan to clear the windscreen. There was nothing she could do now, of course. The laptop, with whatever it contained, was gone. What a panic Clive Rainsford must have been in, with Scarlett’s unexpected return. He must have thought she had come back to tell the police all about what he’d done to her and her sister. The worst of it was, if destroying his laptop was so urgent that he’d had to do it before he’d even unpacked, it must have contained something bad.

By now Scarlett would probably be in an interview room, maybe with Caro, maybe not, talking about all the things she’d been through, all the times she’d trusted people and been let down, hurt, abused.

All the missed opportunities, Sam thought. So many chances they’d had to help them, all gone.