Truth or Dare (21 page)

L
etisha Watson had dug out her very best clothes. Or the very best that she could find at short notice and that were clean. She had hoped they would make her feel good, like the kind of woman who had spent a beautiful night of love-making with such a wonderful man. But they didn’t. They just reminded her of how far she had slipped from the girl everyone envied. How much confidence she had lost. And the visit from that bastard fed hadn’t helped.

But it had increased her need to see Moses. Her desperation to see Moses.

She moved quickly past the reception – some of the old attitude still there – and found her way around the building. The studio. That’s where he would be. That’s where he always was. His office, he called it. Where he met people, did business, worked and chilled. She envied him that. And loved him for it at the same time.

She walked down the corridors, acting like she belonged there, was meant to be there. Eventually she came to the room she was looking for. The one with the light on above the doorway. Red meant busy, green meant enter. It was red. She put her back to the wall, waited.

Letisha sighed. Heavily. What was she doing? Why was she here? She was making herself look stupid, that was it. Like the kind of girl who’s always trailing after a man. Stupid and obsessed. But that wasn’t it. Wasn’t the whole story. That fed’s arrival, twice in two days, had confirmed that to her. She had to see him. Not just for herself, not just for what she wanted to say to him. But for other reasons.

Bigger reasons.

She stood there, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. She wanted a cigarette but knew she would be thrown out if she was found lighting up. So she held that craving inside, joining all the other longings she wanted to act on.

The light went off. Red to green.

Letisha took a deep breath. Another. And walked inside.

The smell of the weed hit her first. And the low lighting. The mixing desk was lit up with a couple of desk lamps but the rest of the room was in shadow. In front of a glass screen was a boy she recognised from the estate. He was just taking off a pair of headphones, looking pleased with himself. The boy behind the mixing desk didn’t look much older than the rapper but he clearly knew what he was doing, head down, focused on the switches. Neither had noticed her enter.

She stood by the door, waited while her eyes acclimatised to the gloom. Looked around, tried to pick out the man she was here to see. Couldn’t find him. In the furthest section of the room she could see low shadows, figures lying around on bean bags or sofas. The occasional inflamed red dots told her that was where the smell of weed was coming from. Moses must be in one of those.

She didn’t know what to do. She had come this far but her courage was beginning to fail her. She could just walk over to the young men, look for Moses. Or she could ask the boy behind the mixing desk.

‘’Scuse me,’ she said, trying to sound confident but fearing her voice would get lost in the room’s soundproofing, ‘’Scuse me. I’m here to see Moses Heap.’

The boy barely glanced at her. He nodded towards the shadowed corner, went back to his work.

Letisha felt her legs tremble as she walked over there. She tried to rationalise it. Why? This was the man she had spent the night with, who had been in her bed, making love to her. Why was she so scared about seeing him again?

She reached the group, stood over them. She recognised Moses straight away.

‘Moses?’ she said, her voice hushed, almost reverential, like she was in her mother’s church, or something.

He turned, smiling. The smile disappeared when he saw who it was. He stood up.

‘What you doing here?’ he said, grabbing her shoulders.

‘I… I… need to see you…’

He looked around quickly, back at the others. Her eyes followed his and she saw a face she recognised. Tiny Wilson, the leader of the Chicken Shack Crew. Julian’s little brother. Not so little any more. And he was looking at her. He made her straight away.

Moses pulled her out of the room, past the mixing desk and into the hall. While the door slowly closed, he stared at her. Once it was in place he spoke. His voice was low but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

‘What you doing? Why you here?’

‘I need to see you. It’s… that fed was round again today. Askin’ me stuff. Stuff about you. We… we need —’

‘What? We need what?’

‘We need to do somethin’.’

‘Like what? What would you suggest?’

‘I… I dunno…’

He shook his head.

‘Moses, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I had to come and find you. Had to…’

The door opened. Tiny Wilson stood there. Unsmiling. ‘You okay?’ he said to Moses.

‘Yeah, man, everything’s cool. Be back in a minute.’

Tiny looked Letisha up and down, shook his head slightly and, still unsmiling, went back inside. Any doubt she might have held that he did not recognise her was now completely gone.

Moses turned back to her. She looked up imploringly at him.

‘What are we gonna do?’

‘You’ve done it now,’ he said, ‘haven’t you? Coming here, you’ve done it.’

‘I’m sorry, I —’

‘Sorry? Great. You’re sorry. Everything’s fucked.’

He dropped his hands from her arms, turned and went back inside. The door hissed slowly closed behind him.

Letisha slammed her back against the wall.

He was gone. She had never felt so alone.

T
he Law Society Dinner was about as opulent as gatherings of solicitors got. The main function room of the Radisson Blu Hotel, the huge blue-glass monolith on the Queensway roundabout in the city centre, was a fairly recent addition to Birmingham’s skyline but had found favour as an upscale destination for weddings and corporate functions. The function room was huge, leading to two bars, one on the same floor, another on the floor below. The décor veered on the comfortable side of severity, offering corporate hospitality with a self-conscious hipster edge. It gave the intended impression: it was impressive. Being there, guests should feel impressive too.

Phil stood at the back double doors, surveyed the room. He had donned his weddings, funerals and press conferences suit once more and if he wasn’t standing out as being neither staff nor guest, he wore it with sufficient unease to avoid being singled out as police either. Everyone else was wearing black tie or evening dress, including Cotter who was already in attendance as a guest along with her partner, a solicitor.

Phil had spread his team all over the room. All in constant communication through in-earpieces, worn as inconspicuously as possible. He had tried to place them in positions of good vantage where there was also little chance of them being seen. It was difficult. Cotter had suggested that they dress as serving staff as a way of blending in but since none of them had any training in that area or any inclination to join in, it had been quickly vetoed. They would just get in the way, stop the staff from doing their jobs, hinder and compromise their ability to do their own. Besides, most of them were known to a lot of the diners. They might find it strange, not to mention worrying, if the Major Incident Squad were to be seen serving their starters.

The diners had finished their meal and were sitting patiently in their seats, drinking post-prandial coffees and liqueurs, listening politely – and laughing politely in all the right places – to the speeches.

Phil, his back to the doors, spoke into his earpiece.

‘Imani, where are you?’

‘Here, boss,’ came the voice in his ear. ‘Over by the pillar. Just behind. Moving out now.’

She walked slowly out from behind the pillar. Phil caught sight of her.

‘Got you. Can you see him?’

‘At his table. Acting like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Letching after the woman next to him.’

‘Lucky her. Keep on him.’

‘I will, boss.’

She moved slowly back again. None of the diners noticed.

‘Nadish?’

‘At the bar, boss.’

Phil gave a grim smile. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Just ready for the rush. I —’

‘Nadish? Nadish?’ Fear began to rise in Phil.

‘Here, boss.’

‘What happened?’

Nadish laughed. ‘Sorry. The barmaid spoke to me. Got distracted. For a second, like.’

‘Well, don’t. Keep focused. When you get locked on to Looker, don’t let him out of your sight.’

‘Right, boss. Sorry, boss.’ He sounded suitably chastised.

‘The speeches’ll be wrapping up soon. I’m guessing most of them will hit the bars. Be ready.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘Good. Ian?’

‘At the other bar, chief. Just waiting.’

‘You helping yourself, sir?’ asked Nadish to Sperring, through Phil’s earpiece.

‘Far too poncy by half. Give me a decent pint of M and B any day of the week.’

If that’s not a contradiction in terms, thought Phil. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Stay focused.’

‘Will do. Very quiet in here at the moment, though.’

Applause came from the diners. It was loud, fuelled by alcohol and relief at the speeches being over. Phil turned.

‘Get ready…’

The last of the speakers stood down, the host gave a final address and that was the end of the formal part of the evening. Now the rest of the night would be all mingling, gossiping, networking.

The guests began getting to their feet, picking up bags, making their way to the bars and other tables.

‘Where’s Looker?’ said Phil.

‘Still on him,’ said Imani. ‘Chatting to the woman next to him. Hasn’t stood up yet. Hold on…’

Silence on the line. Phil craned his neck, tried to see what was going on. ‘Imani?’

‘He’s just leaned across to her, put his hand on her arm and whispered something to her.’ He heard laughter in his ear. ‘Don’t know what he’s said but she didn’t like it. She’s got up and left.’

‘Sure she ain’t gone to get a room?’ asked Nadish.

‘From the look on her face I doubt it very much.’ Another pause. ‘No, she’s off. Picked up her purse and walked.’

‘What’s he doing now?’ asked Phil.

‘Watching her go. Looks like he can’t believe his chat-up line didn’t work. Bet he’s the only one.’

Phil tracked the woman he had been talking to as she walked past him, made her way to the bar. The expression on her face said that she had been deeply insulted. Poor Glen, he thought, without feeling much sympathy.

‘He’s trying to put a brave face on it to the other diners,’ said Imani, ‘but they’ve worked out what’s happened. He’s pointing at the bar now, like he’s going to join her. No one’s fooled. Not even himself.’

‘Get ready, Nadish,’ said Phil. ‘He’s coming your way.’

‘On him,’ said Nadish.

Phil saw Looker walk towards the bar. Looker saw him, stopped walking. Changed direction and came over to him.

‘Having fun, Detective Inspector Brennan?’ The smile was back on Looker’s face, but Phil noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘Having a great time, thank you, Mr Looker. Yourself?’

‘Never better. Never better.’ He looked around, back to Phil. ‘Rumours of my demise seem to have been somewhat exaggerated, don’t you think?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind.’

Looker placed his hand on Phil’s arm. ‘Come and have a drink.’

‘Sorry, Mr Looker, I’m working.’

‘Oh, come on. One’s not going to hurt you. We can call a truce for tonight, eh? What d’you say? Like those soldiers in World War One who got out of the trenches to play football. Come on over to the bar. You and me. Get out of the trenches for one night.’

Phil noticed he was quite drunk. ‘Sorry, Mr Looker, I’m working. Another time, maybe.’

‘Look, please, I…’ Looker shook his head, sighed, and reluctantly let go of Phil’s arm. Resumed his trek to the bar.

There had been something in his eyes, thought Phil. Fear? Was it that? Perhaps he wasn’t so laid back as he had appeared to be, he thought.

Phil kept watching.

‘M
ickey,’ Fiona Welch said. ‘Your first name. Detective Sergeant Phillips. Michael Phillips. Mickey Phillips. Mickey. Mickey. Stupid police. Mickey the thicky.’ She giggled. ‘Oh, that’s good.’

Mickey sighed, stretched out his hand, turned on the radio. Classic FM filled the car. He turned it up, tried to drown her out.

He was driving down the A12 back to Colchester. The sky darkening, the day finished. It had been eventful, one way or another, and he was looking forward to dropping off his charge, wrapping up the paperwork as quickly as possible then getting off home for a long relaxing soak with a couple of bottles of beer and waiting for Anni to return, spending what was left of the evening with her. Really looking forward to it. And the more that Fiona Welch prattled on, the more he concentrated on that bath, those bottles of beer.

‘Classical music,’ she said above the radio, ‘well, I am surprised. Yes, Mickey, you’ve surprised me. Who’d have thought you’d like classical music?’

He didn’t, he preferred something much more modern and abrasive, louder and more fun, but he didn’t want to tell her that. Anni had been driving and she had put it on to make for a calming journey north that morning. He had just left it.

‘Oh,’ said Fiona Welch, ‘unless it isn’t your choice. I’m guessing you drove up with DC Hepburn this morning, am I right? She might have had it on. Yes, that’s it. I’m right. I know I am. As you were, Mickey the thicky.’

He could punch her, he thought. Pull up in to some lay-by off the main road and just lay in to her, stop her mouth with his fists. He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts. That was wrong. The wrong way to think, to want to behave, on so many levels. That was a glimpse of the old Mickey coming through. The one he wanted never to see again. But she did that to him, brought it out in him. Made him emotional, wrong-footed him. He knew, on one level, his professional level, that it was a ploy, something she was doing to get him to open up, drop his guard, respond and become engaged with her. Because if he did that she had him. A way into him. The custody clock would have started to tick and the time at the station would have been limited. If that was the case and she continued those tactics in the interview room then there might even be a way for time to question her to run out and her not to be charged. He couldn’t let that happen.

So he said nothing. Soaked it up, let her go on.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

He opened his mouth, ready to respond with a question: Why? But stopped himself in time. Nearly.

Fiona Welch waited for him to reply and when he didn’t, she continued. ‘Yes, I should thank you, really. I was getting tired in there. Bored. I know I was only there to continue my studies – in situ, you might say – but even so. There’s a limit. And most of them had reached it.’ She sighed. ‘God, but they’re so boring. I mean, I had plenty of material, several books’ worth, if I’m honest, but really. Drooling idiots, most of them. Just taking up valuable breathing space. Not to mention a drain on the taxpayer.’ She sat back, made herself as comfortable as she could with her hands cuffed tightly behind her back. ‘But I dare say you know all this. I dare say you agree.’

Mickey’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. His only response.

‘Most police do. And I can’t blame you, really. When I think about what you must confront on a daily basis, the kind of people you have to deal with, lock up, well… it’s a thankless task. The dregs. Aren’t they?’

The violins, thought Mickey, were fascinating. Nice tune.

‘Yes, they are. It would be a kindness to sterilise them, wouldn’t it? I mean, you let them out again they’re just going to breed. Then you’ll have more of them to deal with. And then they in turn will breed and then you’ll have even more. A self-perpetuating cycle. No. Sterilisation. That’s the only way. The kindest way, really. Like they do with dogs and cats when they take them into Battersea. The strays, the unwanted. First thing they do is stop them breeding. Makes them a lot happier.’ She paused again, waiting for a response. ‘You know I’m right.’ She leaned forward. ‘Don’t you?’

Mickey sighed, turned up the volume.

It was going to be a long drive.