Tell No Tales (26 page)

‘The general was down,’ Ferreira said. ‘But you know how much I love to tussle.’

Alex leaned back again, retreating from the moment.

‘What’s he like, your boss?’

‘Why?’

He smiled but this time it looked forced. ‘I’m just wondering what kind of man could keep you under control.’

‘What makes you think he’s got me under control?’ she asked and her own smile felt just as fake. ‘He’s decent. Doesn’t throw his rank around, which is rare. But I think he’s too nice for the job sometimes. He won’t push people hard enough. It’s almost like he’s uncomfortable wielding the power he’s got.’

‘So why’s he a DI?’

She swirled her rum around, looking into the dark liquid. She was already regretting what she’d said, felt like she’d betrayed Zigic and the faith he’d shown in her. Five minutes with Alex and she was sharing confidences he didn’t deserve to have, falling back into the old dynamic, wanting him to validate her opinions.

She was past that now.

‘Zigic is smart,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t need that macho bullshit the others get by on. I’ve learned a lot from him.’ She held Alex’s gaze, watching him just as closely as he was watching her. ‘Like spotting when people are trying to sidetrack me.’

Alex looked away, toyed with his glass some more, letting his wedding ring chime against the bowl. Once, twice, the sound almost lost in the background chatter and the music pumping from the speaker nearby.

‘Is that subconscious?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Or do you want me to ask about it? How you met, what she’s like, show me some pictures of your kids.’

He lifted his hand away, settled it on his thigh. ‘Normal people catch up when they haven’t seen each other for five years.’

‘Normal people don’t call out of the blue dangling a promise of information about a serious crime which they don’t actually have.’ She brought her voice back down, aware of the women on the next table who had fallen suddenly silent. ‘Let’s cut the bullshit, Alex. You’ve either got something or you want something, so which is it?’

He shook his head. ‘You never change, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. Now you answer my question.’

‘I wanted to see you again.’

She thought of all the empty rooms piled above them, the big beds and the fresh sheets and if the man fucked different to the boy.

‘But we need to talk about your case.’ He drew his chair up closer, hunched forward to the edge of it. ‘You’re looking into the ENL, right?’

‘I can’t discuss this with you, Alex. It’s an ongoing investigation.’ She pushed her hair away from her face. ‘Why are you interested anyway? Christ, don’t tell me you’re a journalist now.’

‘Give me some credit,’ he said, trying to sound light, but there was tension around his eyes and a hesitancy in his manner which was beginning to make her uncomfortable. ‘I’m, uh, I got headhunted, I guess you could say, after my PhD. They were very impressed with the material I’d uncovered, said they were developing an operation in a sympathetic sector and they thought I’d be an asset.’

Ferreira saw where he was going but couldn’t quite believe it. The bashfulness, the embarrassment, his PhD on the growth of far-right groups in young offenders’ institutions.

‘You’re a copper?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then what? Exactly.’

‘I’m with the Domestic Terrorism Unit.’

A laugh broke out of her, dark and malicious, and she enjoyed how uncomfortable it made him. ‘You massive fucking hypocrite. All that shit you gave me about joining up. You made me feel like I was betraying my people and my politics.’

‘But you were right,’ he said. ‘It isn’t enough to just talk about changing things. We need to take action. They need people like us, outsiders, to raise the problems nobody else is interested in tackling.’

Now he looked like the boy again, animated and optimistic, his body swelling with a convert’s fervour. She tried to picture him in some anonymous office in that big, ugly building on the side of the Thames, surrounded by Oxbridge grads and grey old veterans twisted by knowing too many secrets, everybody very white. She couldn’t see it.

‘So what are you doing?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Domestic terrorism, that’s like, radical Islamists and animal rights protesters?’

‘And anti-capitalists,’ Alex said. ‘They’re very big on that right now. But no, I’ve got a small team, very small, and we’ve been tasked with monitoring the neo-Nazi movement. The ENL and their brethren, scanning for new cells, observing how the alliances are working out, liaising with our European counterparts.’

Ferreira picked up her glass, found it empty and put it down again. ‘Should you even be telling me any of this?’

‘It’s OK, I’m going to get you so drunk you won’t remember any of it in the morning.’

He walked off towards the bar and she turned over what he’d said, the shock settling quickly. He was the perfect person for the job really, astute and highly analytical, endlessly patient. She thought of how carefully he had pursued sources for his PhD, tracking down ex-offenders who’d been radicalised inside, the kind of half-feral thugs who shouldn’t have been willing to talk to an educated black guy who hated everything they stood for. But somehow he had got close to them, brought out their stories.

Alex returned a couple of minutes later with a fresh glass of wine and tumbler packed with ice, what looked like a treble rum.

‘I saw that you’ve made an arrest,’ he said.

Ferreira filled him in on the details, keeping it brief. ‘The problem we’ve got now is the accomplice. We’re thinking he’s ENL but nobody’s talking.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘But if you want to throw a name into the ring I’m listening.’

‘What about Joe Selby?’

‘He’s been mentioned. We haven’t spoken to him yet though.’ She sipped her rum, the burn flattened out by all that ice. ‘Is he on a watch list?’

‘That’s not how we work,’ Alex said. ‘But Selby’s come to our attention recently.’

‘Why?’

‘About six months ago Selby was hired by Richard Shotton.’

‘What does Shotton want with someone like Selby?’

Alex shrugged. ‘Officially he’s a driver.’

‘And unofficially?’

‘We’re not sure yet.’

Ferreira took another sip of rum. She wondered why Shotton would undermine his carefully constructed image by involving himself with Selby though. He wasn’t exactly the worst ENL offender on file but any link to the group was bad PR.

‘How do you know about this?’ she asked.

‘We’ve got a man inside Shotton’s operation.’

She straightened in her chair. ‘I knew it. I knew he was involved in this shit.’

‘He isn’t involved,’ Alex said firmly. ‘If he was, we’d know about it. Believe me, we’re watching him very carefully. Something of this magnitude wouldn’t have gone undetected. And how would it serve him anyway? This is a PR nightmare for Shotton – think about it, he’s working his balls off to try and rehabilitate the image of the ultra-right movement and then you have three murders in quick succession, plus a riot, not to mention that hit-and-run.’

‘The hit-and-run’s a separate case,’ Ferreira said.

‘But it’s created a sympathetic mood towards migrant workers, his potential voters are looking on them as innocent victims. Instead of greedy foreigners over here poaching the jobs their kids want.’

‘I’m not seeing a hell of a lot of sympathy on the street.’

‘Shotton isn’t involved, Mel. If I thought he was, I’d tell you.’

‘Would you?’ she asked. ‘You’re in there for some reason and I bet it’s a hell of a lot more important than some dead immigrants.’

‘I told you, it’s a watch brief.’

‘Watching for what?’

‘I can’t tell you that. Obviously. But –’ Alex stopped as a man walked past their table, heading for the complimentary newspapers, waited for him to pick one and return to his seat, eyeing the man like he didn’t trust his motives. ‘Look, there’s a feeling that Shotton will emerge as a major political force in this country over the next few years.’

Ferreira rolled her eyes.

‘Yes, I thought it was unlikely too, but the numbers are moving that way and he’s attracted some very influential backers. The next election will likely result in a hung Parliament and a Conservative/English Patriot Party alliance is a very real possibility.’

Ferreira reached for her glass, thought better of it. ‘Your bosses won’t have a problem with that, will they? He’s only saying what a lot of them think.’

‘Governments come and go,’ Alex said. ‘But the service never changes.’

‘And they want to know who they’re dealing with?’ she asked. ‘Where the bodies are buried?’

Alex gave the barest nod.

‘And what are they going to do when you find those bodies?’

‘That all depends on whose they are.’

‘I can’t believe you, Alex. Are you seriously prepared to cover for this piece of shit? He’d have me and you and everyone like us deported in a heartbeat.’ She snatched her handbag from the floor and took out her tobacco. ‘You know what kind of arseholes are in that party? Ex-BNP, ex-Combat 18. That’s who you’re helping get into power.’

‘I am fully aware of who Shotton’s in bed with,’ he said.

Ferreira started to roll a cigarette, badly, angrily, scattering strands of tobacco across the table. ‘I actually thought you had principles.’

‘It isn’t that simple.’

She sealed her cigarette and slipped past him, strode through the rest of the bar where the music was hammering now, too loud for the space, voices raised, laughter crackling. She lit up as she pushed out of the main doors into the car park, took a deep, furious drag and held the smoke in her lungs for as long as she could, needing every molecule of nicotine to calm her down.

She knew what was coming next. There was only one logical explanation for Alex bringing her here and she wanted to run away from it, get in her car and leave, pretend their conversation had never happened. She could fob Zigic off if he asked, say it was just sex, he wouldn’t push her after that.

There was a surge of music and warm, food-scented air as the door opened again and Alex came over to the wall where she was sheltering from the wind, stood towering over her.

‘I’m not covering for Shotton,’ he said. ‘If we find something which can take him down we’ll use it.’

‘How stupid do you think I am? If you find something it’ll get kicked straight up to your boss, then his boss, and however many pay grades there are until it reaches somebody with real power, who’ll slip it away in a drawer for when they need a favour from Shotton.’ She took another long drag on her cigarette. ‘That’s what all this is about, right? You don’t want us stirring up shit around him.’

‘I want you to be careful, that’s all. I understand that you’ve got to pursue Selby if he’s a legitimate suspect, but I would appreciate a low-key approach until you know for sure.’

‘I didn’t even know he was with Shotton until you told me.’

‘You’d have got there.’ Alex plucked the cigarette from between her fingers and took a shallow hit. ‘I need Shotton to feel secure. I can’t afford for him to start doubting his people and if you barrel in there after Selby he’ll get jumpy. He’s paranoid, Mel, and I need to protect my source.’

She leaned against the wall, feeling the brickwork grazing her skin through her jumper. ‘Is Selby yours?’

‘No.’ He passed the cigarette back. ‘He’s a problem actually, too much of an unknown quantity. We’re not even sure how Shotton found him yet.’

‘ENL contacts,’ Ferreira said.

‘That’s the current thinking, but we don’t know who. Shotton has been cutting deals all over the place, meeting with the heads of dozens of splinter groups. He’s paid out tens of thousands in cash – protection money basically – to stop them doing anything which would lead to adverse press for him.’

Ferreira straightened. ‘What about Ken Poulter?’

Alex nodded. ‘The ENL have had their bonus.’

‘We’ve still got three murdered men though,’ she said. ‘Shotton’s bribe didn’t stop that happening. Or the riot.’

‘And he’s about as furious as you’d expect.’ Alex nodded towards the doors. ‘Come on, let’s go inside and talk about this. Have you eaten?’

Ferreira flicked her cigarette away and followed him back through the bar, to the table where their drinks were still waiting. The ice had melted into her rum, making it weak and watery, and she threw it down while he went to fetch a menu, feeling the heat settle in her chest, beginning to soften the ugly edges of the place.

DAY FOUR

33

IS THERE ANYWHERE
bleaker on a Sunday morning than a hospital cafeteria? Zigic wondered. He was the only customer in there, on his second cup of coffee already, a newspaper read and discarded at his elbow. The riot had made page 5 of the
Observer
, a mention of the murder tacked on almost as an afterthought. He glanced at his watch and called Ferreira again.

She answered quickly, the sound of wind rushing through a cracked window and the stereo blaring when she spoke. ‘I’m five minutes away.’

‘You said that fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I’m just pulling off the A1. I’m almost there.’

He picked up the arts section and scanned the articles; an interview with a singer he’d never heard of, reviews of books he wouldn’t get a chance to read and films he never had time to watch. Anna had bought him a Jean-Pierre Melville box set for his birthday last month but it was still in the cellophane thanks to a series of long days and stolen weekends and the boys’ current addiction to wrestling, which had to be watched on the big TV.

The automatic doors opened and Ferreira strode over to him, dropping her sunglasses into her bag. She looked shattered, eyes small and bloodshot under traces of last night’s make-up, but he noticed her hair was damp in its ponytail and she smelled of some sweet, floral soap.

‘How did it go with your friend?’ he asked.

‘Not as expected.’ She smoothed her hand back over her hair. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

They went up to Ward 7, everything washed in bright morning sun, the aroma of burnt toast and scrambled eggs lingering in the air. A nurse in baggy blue scrubs was pushing a trolley between the bays, handing out medication in an unnaturally cheery voice which carried from one end of the ward to the other.