Off the Rails (6 page)

‘I thought you weren’t going to come today,’ said Longbright, displeased to see them.

‘We knew him for years,’ May reminded her. ‘We couldn’t just stay away.’

‘And I thought there was a chance
you know who
might turn up to gloat,’ Bryant added, ‘so I made John come with me.’

‘All right, but please don’t say anything to the family.’ She knew only too well how Bryant’s condolences had a habit of turning out.

Bryant thrust his hands deep into his pockets and watched as DuCaine’s relatives moved slowly between the wreaths, reading the cards, rearranging flowers, conferring in low tones. ‘You
know as well as I do that every arrest contains an element of risk,’ he told his partner.

‘We should have covered all eventualities,’ said May.

‘We couldn’t, John. The lock on that door should have been strong enough to hold him.’

‘But it wasn’t. And that’s an oversight on our part.’

Mr Fox’s weapon of choice was a slender sharpened rod that left virtually no trace of use. Using a skewer to pick the lock of the holding room and attack DuCaine seemed bizarre at first, but the more Bryant thought about it, the more expedient the method became. Their killer had been raised on the streets of King’s Cross, where for many carrying a knife was still considered a necessity of teenage life. But knives were carried to provide a display of defence, not for efficiency of attack. Mr Fox had streamlined the concept, making his weapon easy to hide. The effect of punching it through the neck into the brain was swift and lethal, like causing a stroke. In this case it had worked despite the fact that their young officer’s sharp reflexes made him a difficult target.

May watched as DuCaine’s mother leaned heavily on her husband’s shoulder, staring down at a wreath from the PCU. ‘They’ll come over if we stay any longer,’ he whispered to his partner, leading him away. ‘We have to go, Arthur. The rest of the family’s coming out.’

Emerging from the chapel were Liberty DuCaine’s grandparents; several aunts and uncles; his brother, Fraternity, and his attractive young sister, named, with a certain amount of grim inevitability, Equality.

‘Presumably she doesn’t actually call herself that,’ Bryant mused.

‘They call her Betty—apparently it was her grandmother’s
name.’ The pair could replicate Holmes and Watson’s old trick of picking up each other’s unspoken thoughts. After so many decades together, it was second nature.

‘Look out, the family’s finished, let’s get out of here,’ said Bryant, heading for the crematorium car park. ‘One tough old Caribbean bird in my life is more than enough, thank you.’

‘You’d be lost without Alma and you know it,’ said May. Bryant’s former landlady Alma was currently spending her days at the town hall, where she was defending the pair’s right to stay in their Chalk Farm home. The building had been scheduled for demolition. Bryant was meant to have gone with her, but he’d had his hands full for the last few days. The Unit’s investigations rarely proved finite; many had unforeseen loose ends that dragged on long after the cases had been officially closed. As a consequence, Bryant had been staying late through his weekends. There were times, May knew, when his partner used work to avoid his other responsibilities.

As they stepped back onto the rainswept tarmac, DuCaine’s mother appeared around the corner. She waved an enormous rainbow-striped umbrella at them. Bryant tugged his trilby down over his eyes in an attempt to render himself invisible.

‘Mr Bryant,’ she called. ‘Do you have a minute?’

‘Oh Lord, she’s going to beat me with that umbrella,’ he warned, forcing a smile. ‘Ah, Mrs DuCaine.’

She planted herself squarely in front of him, blocking the route to May’s car. ‘I need the answer to a question, and no-one has been able to give me a satisfactory explanation. Can you tell me why my son was left alone to guard a dangerous criminal?’

‘The criminal was locked in a holding room,’ Bryant replied. ‘We’ve already been through this.’

‘A holding room—not a proper cell.’

‘We’d been forced out of our old offices, Mrs DuCaine, and were short-staffed. We were having to make do. We’d taken every precaution—’

‘No, you had not. If you had, my boy would still be alive.’ Her tone was firm and fair, but there was no simple answer to her complaint. ‘I could take this much further, you know that. But Liberty thought the world of you two. He never stopped talking about you and the Unit. And all the complaining and compensation in the world isn’t going to bring back my boy.’ She peered out at them from under the enormous umbrella, seeking a kind of closure the detectives were not equipped to provide. ‘I lost my best boy,’ she said simply. Bryant saw a tremble in her features, a brief ripple that, if it was allowed to stay, would shatter into public grief.

‘If you need any help coping,’ he offered, ‘we have a system in place that can—’

‘We can provide for ourselves; we don’t need your money or your sympathy,’ Mrs DuCaine snapped. ‘Every policeman knows about the dangers involved, isn’t that right?’ Her tone softened a touch. ‘We were just so proud of him. And the move made him happy. But I want the pair of you to promise me something.’

‘We’ll do whatever we can,’ May promised.

‘You have to find this man and bring him to justice. None of us can rest easy until we’re sure that everything possible has been done to catch him. You know you owe it to Liberty.’

‘I’m very aware of that,’ Bryant replied. ‘I won’t be able to rest until he’s been made to pay for his crimes.’

‘That’s all I ask.’ She turned to go, then stopped. ‘There is one other thing you could do.’

‘Name it, Mrs DuCaine.’

‘His brother, Fraternity, wants to follow in Liberty’s footsteps. I said no, but he won’t be talked out of it. He did his officer
training at Henley last year and got good grades, but they still failed him. We don’t know what happened. He won’t tell me, and nobody ever explained anything to us. I want you to find out what went on up there. If he wasn’t good enough, that’s fine—but my boy is convinced he should have passed, and was still turned down. I don’t want this to have been about the colour of his skin.’

Bryant scratched at his neck, thinking. ‘I’ll have a poke around in his files and see what I can find out, but I can’t guarantee it will make any difference.’

May cut across his partner. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs DuCaine, we’ll get to the root of the matter.’

They watched Liberty’s mother as she rejoined the family, leading them to the limousines. ‘A good woman,’ Bryant said with a sigh. ‘No-one should lose a child.’

‘If we’re going to honour her wishes, we need a plan of attack.’

‘I don’t think anyone at the Met or the Home Office will be able to give us any help,’ replied Bryant, tugging at his hat. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before the brother comes over. Head down, don’t look back. He’s a big bugger.’

S
he was wearing a poppy red dress. You didn’t see too many women on the tube wearing bright red dresses. Even better, it had white polka dots on it. If the dots had been black she’d have looked like a flamenco dancer, but they matched her white patent leather heels and her jacket, which were also covered in polka dots. She was glossy-haired and pretty, and maybe she’d been ballroom dancing, except it was the middle of the afternoon and she was reading a copy of
The Evening Standard,
or at least trying to, for she was jammed between two arguing Italian teenagers with ridiculous amounts of luggage.

Time to bump into her lightly, nudging a spot between her shoulder blades.

Make sure you’re quick to apologise.

She did not bother to look up.

Check your watch. 1540.

A flooding feeling of elation. Of rising triumph.

Is it possible to dare think that this could be the end of the problem? The best chance to get rid of the ever-present fear, the terrible nagging terror that keeps you awake all night, that’s been haunting your every waking hour?

Push it out of your mind, it’s making you sweaty and creepy. You know you can’t allow that. Concentrate on something. Study her carefully.

From the tips of her shiny white shoes to the white plastic barrette in her neatly combed hair, nothing was out of place. It took a minute or two to figure out her job, but suddenly it was obvious. The scent was the first clue; they always smelled like candy. The yellow plastic bag at her feet confirmed it.

If you lean forward on the tips of your sneakers, you can take a peek inside and see the free sample tubes.

She worked on a cosmetics counter at Selfridges department store.

It was all too perfect. Everything fit. Time to move a little closer without arousing suspicion. At Warren Street the Italians got off, dragging their huge suitcases with them, and suddenly there was space. But danger, too, because now she could get a clear view.

Move to one side, but be careful not to catch her eye.

She was skimming the pages, not really reading, just immersing herself in an activity that kept her from having to look at other passengers. As the train slowed on its way into Euston, she folded the paper shut and looked for somewhere to put it.

You can’t get off now,
a voice screamed.
If you leave now, everything will be ruined.

The platform appeared. The train came to a halt and the doors opened. She moved a little nearer and looked out. A silent plea rose:

No, don’t do it.

Was there such a thing as telepathy? Because moments later
she changed her mind and reclaimed her spot in the middle of the carriage.

As the doors slid shut and the train lurched away, it was time for the next phase.

Remove the mobile phone from the pocket of your jeans and slip it into the palm of your hand, deftly operating the buttons without needing to look.

One shot, two, three. A manoeuvre practised in the bedroom mirror for hours. No need for a flash in the bright compartment. Together the pictures scanned her entire body. Perfect.

My hands are so sweaty I almost dropped the phone putting it away. For Christ’s sake, be more careful.

Her eyes flickered over, attracted by the suddenness of the movement, but there was no thought behind her glance. A very faint smile appeared and faded.

Jesus, is that really sweat dripping from my forehead? Stay calm, you’re nearly there. One more stop. She is so artificial, the makeup’s so perfect, and yet she’s beautiful. How long does it take to get her eyebrows like that? And her figure, every girl on this train in drab jeans and a shapeless sweatshirt should be trembling with envy. Does she understand how her perfection shines through? Does she have any idea of the power she holds? She radiates so brightly that she’s lighting the entire carriage, giving it purpose.

She is saving my life.

With each passing second, as we draw closer to King’s Cross St Pancras, she restores me more and more. Maybe I’ll talk to her afterwards, tell her how she came to be so important. She’d be like a sister, full of private confidences.

The announcement brought passengers to their feet. Bags were gathered, newspapers dumped. The casual orderliness had a strange grace; each movement seemed choreographed for efficiency without connection. No two strangers ever touched.
Accidentally brushing someone’s sleeve required an immediate apology. The doors opened, the carriage disgorged itself. The crowd’s speed was paced by its slowest component.

It was important to follow tightly behind her, right along the platform to the tiled hall and its bank of escalators. And to stand immediately behind, because it was time to take another photograph.

She never looked back, never noticed anything, her head somewhere else. She stepped lightly onto the moving stairs and was borne aloft like an ascending angel. She stood to the right with the middle two fingers of her hand brushing the black rubber rail, just enough to stabilise herself. Everything about her had a lightness of touch.

The banks of illuminated ad panels showed a bouncing cartoon orange. It might have been advertising a fruit drink, insurance or phones. Who knew anymore? Who cared?

Fire off two more discreet shots and palm the thing back in your pocket. Remember to keep the flash off this time—you nearly wrecked everything the other day. One more mistake and it’s all over.

They reached the top of the escalator and she stepped off. It was a walk of less than twenty metres to the exit barriers. Her patent leather heels were surprisingly high, and gave her carriage an overemphatic sashay, as if she was seeking to impress the men behind her. Women in heels like those learned to glide with one foot carefully placed in front of the other, if they wanted to avoid walking like farmers.

Her purse was already in her right hand, flipped open to her Oyster card. She was ready to release herself through the barrier and climb the first bank of steps. Beyond was the semicircle of the station foyer, a great snaking queue of tourists buying exorbitantly priced tickets. She deftly avoided oncoming fleets of commuters as she got ready to swipe her card across the yellow
panel. After that there would be twenty steps to the first sign of daylight, and the concourse of the main-line station. As she stepped into the light, she would unconsciously trigger the pathway to salvation. The urge to stop her and thank her for saving a pitiful human life was strong, but that would have spoiled everything.

But she didn’t step into the light. Suddenly, right in front of the ticket barrier, no more than a few metres from the outside world, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Look out—you nearly crashed right into her, step around! Stop beside the electronic gate and look back.

Behind, commuters were stacking up, impatiently trying to get through the barrier. What the hell was she doing?

You can’t stop now,
the voice silently screamed.
Everything’s fine, keep going.

She seemed to be thinking about something. She pulled open her bag and stared into it, not seeing the contents. Then, with a smart turn, she headed back toward the escalators.