Tell No Lies Read online

  ‘The operation Nicky was assigned to before she disappeared? We need someone back there.’

  ‘And you want to send me?’

  Beckett blinked. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We want both you and Nicky on it.’

  Caelan was already shaking her head. ‘No way. I can’t work with her now. You think it wouldn’t be obvious we have a history?’

  ‘You’re both too professional for that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  ‘Then I’ll have one or both of you transferred out of the department.’ Beckett narrowed her eyes. ‘Time to grow up, Caelan. Toe the line, or leave. Your decision.’

  ‘Mine?’ Caelan snorted. ‘You’ve ordered me to do as I’m told or I’ll be out of a job.’

  ‘No, I said if you walk away now, it would be your final decision. No second chances, no comeback, no financial compensation. You’d be free to pursue other career paths, of course.’ Beckett’s expression made it clear what she thought of Caelan’s chances of succeeding elsewhere.

  ‘You think I haven’t thought about it? Working regular hours, living life as the person named on your own birth certificate? Not having to constantly look over your shoulder, worry about every word you say?’ Caelan made Beckett meet her eyes. ‘Lying to everyone you meet? You think I wouldn’t welcome a change?’

  Beckett gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘I think you’d be bored before your resignation was processed. You think you could stroll into an office job and be content? Think about it. Think about the criminals you’ve been close to, the lies you’ve told them. The money they’ve lost, the sentences they’re serving. There are a few who’d love to know who you really are, I’m sure.’

  Caelan laughed. ‘You’re threatening me. Perfect.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know we would never compromise your safety. All I’m saying is, we can’t protect someone who’s no longer part of our operation.’

  ‘Which is still a threat, you’ve just worded it differently.’

  ‘Caelan, let me spell this out. You accept this opportunity, working with whoever I deem appropriate, or you’ll find yourself transferred. Frankly, I don’t have the time to argue.’

  There was no choice. Caelan sighed. ‘Fine. Give me the details.’

  ‘Go to Enfield police station. This is a joint operation; there’s a meeting at noon to discuss the details. You’ll need to be ready to go immediately.’

  ‘Come on, ma’am, you know I need more than that. Street clothes, business suit, what?’

  ‘Casual. Scruffy, if you like.’ Beckett’s eyebrows danced. ‘The clothes you’re wearing now are perfect.’

  Caelan glanced down at her comfortable old jeans, her creased hoody. ‘This is all I have. I need to go shopping.’

  ‘All you have? How do you mean?’

  ‘Everything’s back at the flat – Nicky’s flat.’

  ‘Then go and get what you need.’ Beckett pushed back her chair. The conversation was over.

  * * *

  Caelan didn’t make the call until she had left the train at Canada Water and was approaching the apartment building she had, until the previous evening, called home. Nicky answered immediately and Caelan began to talk, not giving her any opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘Listen, I’m five minutes away, can you let me in so I can grab some of my gear? I’ll be in and out, don’t want to disturb you. See you soon.’

  She ended the call and shoved the handset into her jeans pocket, cutting off Nicky’s voice and ignoring the sting of guilt. Beckett had demanded professionalism, and that was what she would get.

  She marched towards the building, six storeys of pale-yellow bricks and immaculate royal-blue paintwork. She smiled up at the CCTV camera on the corner of the building as she walked beneath it, knowing Peter would be manning the reception desk at this hour. The glass door already stood open and she stepped inside. When she had left the previous evening, she had had no intention of ever returning. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, she was back.

  ‘Caelan.’ Peter was on his feet, clearly confused. ‘Ms Sturgess is here, she’s upstairs.’

  Caelan forced a smile. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you knew…’ His voice trailed away and he ran a hand over his mouth, embarrassed.

  ‘I saw her last night. She’s moved back in.’

  ‘But…’

  Caelan kept walking. ‘I’ll keep in touch, Peter. Say hi to your wife for me.’

  He nodded, sensing she didn’t want to talk.

  Nicky’s apartment was on the sixth floor. Despite her aching, bruised body, Caelan made herself walk up the stairs. She usually took the lift, but the stairs would take longer, and today, giving herself extra time mattered.

  On each landing was a huge window offering a view of the Thames. Caelan paused, looked down at the green-grey water. Peter would have rung to tell Nicky she had arrived. The temptation to turn and run was almost overwhelming. She took a breath, steadied herself. She had done nothing wrong. She had mourned someone she believed to be lost to her, someone she had begun to love. There was no shame in that. She looked up to the floors above, began to move again.

  As she approached, the door to number 135 opened. Nicky stood there, dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt Caelan recognised, because it was one of her own. Nicky said nothing, but stepped back, allowing her to enter. Caelan nodded.

  ‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’ Her chest was tight, her throat feeling choked. She didn’t trust herself to say any more. She still couldn’t quite believe Nicky was here, alive and well though clearly exhausted, her eyes shadowed and watchful. She hesitated, wanting to speak but with no clear idea of what to say.

  ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’ Nicky’s face was closed, her arms folded. She turned and walked away. Caelan watched her go, her jaw clenched. She wouldn’t break down again. She was a professional, and she was working. There was no room for emotion.

  In the bedroom, she pulled her rucksack out of the wardrobe, filling it with tops and jeans, a couple of hoodies. Underwear, socks. Enough for a few days. She pushed her feet into a pair of gaudy pink and purple Air Max trainers, pulled on a padded jacket. In the bathroom, she grabbed shower gel, toothpaste and her toothbrush. She’d go back to the hotel to shower. The apartment seemed smaller somehow, the atmosphere suffocating. She had enjoyed living here, though it had never felt like her own. Now she knew why. It wasn’t, and never would be. Whatever legal processes had resulted in the property being signed over to her would have to be reversed now that Nicky had reappeared. It didn’t matter.

  She heaved the rucksack onto her shoulder and forced herself to approach the kitchen. Nicky sat at the table, shoulders hunched, drinking a glass of orange juice. Orange juice Caelan had bought. She frowned, realising she was being petty, and pushed the thought away.

  ‘I’m going now,’ she said.

  Nicky set down her glass. ‘Caelan, listen. I want you to stay here. This is your home, not mine. I’m going to rent somewhere else.’

  Caelan stared. ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘I’ve never felt comfortable here anyway.’ Nicky glanced around, her eyebrows drawn together. ‘I don’t want to live here. I’ve spoken to my solicitor. It’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’ Caelan hitched the rucksack higher on her shoulder as she turned away. Nicky stood abruptly, the chair legs screeching on the floor, but Caelan didn’t look back as she pulled the door closed behind her.

  2

  The sleeping bag was thin and threadbare, offering little warmth and less comfort. Ryan drew his knees towards his chest, wondering how long he’d been asleep. He raised his head, slid his arm out from beneath it. Tried to remember when he’d last slept in a proper bed with pillows and a duvet. Reaching down to his jeans pocket, he pulled out his phone, the smell of his unwashed body drifting up from inside the sleeping bag and making his nose wrinkle. Ten thirty. He’d had ab
out three hours’ sleep. Not bad.

  He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face, and leant back against the wall. He’d fallen asleep in a corner, out of the way at least. Who knew how many people had tramped through the room while he lay there, completely out of it. He had few belongings, but he always made sure they were pushed down inside the sleeping bag when he slept, with his body on top of them, not left out where anyone could see them. They wouldn’t be there when he woke otherwise.

  There was a battered sofa on the other side of the room. A young man and woman, probably still in their teens, lay on it, their limbs entwined. Ryan recognised the dazed, unfocused eyes; saw the pipe, made from a whisky miniature bottle, in the girl’s hand. He felt the familiar tug of need and pushed himself to his feet.

  In the kitchen, standing over the cooker and preparing the next batch, was Mulligan. The room was stuffy, hot, and Ryan licked his lips, sweat beginning to dampen his palms. Mulligan turned, threw him a smile. Ryan stuffed his hands in his pockets. What was he grinning about? The rumour was he’d killed his own cousin over a drug debt, and Ryan could believe it.

  ‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Mulligan. ‘Full English, or Continental?’

  Ryan coughed, his chest rattling, pain thudding through it. ‘Not hungry.’

  Mulligan smirked. ‘You want to lay off the smoking.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Would if you could, I know.’

  ‘How would you pay your rent if I did?’ Was he slurring his words? Ryan couldn’t tell.

  His stomach churned as he gazed at the frying pans on the cooker top. Crack. He hated it.

  He loved it.

  ‘Looks like we’re boiling.’ Mulligan pointed to the nearest pan. ‘Looking good, boyo.’

  ‘Haven’t you got some that’s ready?’ Ryan heard the desperation in his own voice, and flinched.

  Mulligan tilted his head. ‘Ah, pal. Is it bad? Need a helping hand this morning, is that it? You know, for a change?’

  ‘Come on, man…’

  Laughing, Mulligan turned back to his pans. ‘I’ve only got a few rocks left, reserved for a special customer. Can’t let you have them, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who? Whatever they’re giving you, I’ll pay double.’ The words fell out of Ryan’s mouth before he knew what he was going to say. Did he even have the money? He was pathetic, he knew it, and he didn’t care. Mulligan held him and many others in the palm of his hand. They all danced to his tune, would get on their knees and beg if he asked them to. And while they were down there… Anything.

  And Mulligan knew it. Played on it, as often as possible, for as long as he could.

  ‘Mulligan? I’ll give you double.’

  ‘What?’ Mulligan’s lip curled. ‘Twice fuck-all is still fuck-all. No can do. It’s business. You’ll have to wait until this lot’s ready.’ He nodded at his pans. ‘I’m starting to cool it now, it’ll only be a wee while.’

  Ryan clenched his fists, knowing as he did so he was making a mistake. Sure enough, Mulligan turned, saw the movement. Cleared his throat. In a second, two heavyset men stood either side of Ryan. They didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him, but there was no mistaking their message. Shut the fuck up.

  ‘Not going to have any unpleasantness, now are we?’ Mulligan was totally unconcerned, humming as he worked. ‘You’re one of my best customers, Ryan. In fact, I’m thinking of giving you a loyalty card. You wouldn’t want to spoil this perfect working relationship, would you?’

  His chest heaving, Ryan forced himself to remain calm, knowing he had to bide his time. Mulligan was a sadistic fucker, and he liked to make people wait, purely for his own amusement. He was a businessman, and knew his customers well enough to take liberties, especially with those he allowed to doss down in his flat. Those were fair game, usually homeless and hopeless, their thoughts never wandering further than their next fix. Mulligan knew their desperation, and revelled in it. He needed them as much as they needed him, but he would never admit it.

  Ryan held up his hands, and the two minders moved away. Mulligan grinned.

  ‘That’s better. I prefer to keep things friendly, you know that. We’re pals, you and me.’

  They weren’t, but Ryan managed a nod. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Mulligan jerked his head towards the cupboards. Ryan nodded his thanks, filled a mug, gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. He should think about going out to get some food, but… not yet. Not until… Not yet.

  ‘So, who’s this special customer?’ he asked.

  Mulligan lifted his shoulders. ‘Someone who could put some extra business my way. Buy an extra cooker, splash out on some new pans.’ He laughed, clearly at himself. ‘Billy Big Time, that’ll be me.’

  ‘They coming for a sample, then? Testing the product?’

  Mulligan rounded on him, all traces of laughter gone. ‘Mind your mouth, you scrawny little shit. What’s it to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing, I… Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Fucking think so. You’re a junkie waster, Ryan. You don’t ask me questions about my business.’

  ‘All right. I said I’m sorry.’

  Ryan turned away, wandered back to the living room. The young couple had gone.

  So had his belongings and his sleeping bag.

  3

  Enfield police station reminded Caelan of a model a child had made by sticking cardboard boxes together. One shoebox on the bottom with two more piled on top. The small car park in front of the building was almost full, and she had to make several attempts at manoeuvring into a space. As she slammed her door, another vehicle entered the car park, reversing neatly into the last available parking spot. Caelan paused as she recognised the vehicle.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she called as the driver emerged. Tim Achebe was a few years older than Caelan – she guessed mid-thirties. There weren’t many black police officers in the country who held a rank above that of inspector, but Achebe had risen to DCI in record time, and was widely tipped as a future Commissioner. She had first met him a few days ago, though with all that had happened, it felt longer.

  Achebe grinned at her. ‘Morning. We meet again.’ He pointed to her battered face, wincing. ‘Looks nasty. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  ‘No point sitting around feeling sorry for myself.’ She didn’t add that she had nowhere to go except a hotel, even if she had wanted to take some time off to recuperate.

  ‘No one could blame you, not after Nasenby, and…’ He paused. ‘You know.’

  After she had discovered that Nicky, her colleague and former lover, whom she’d believed she’d seen killed, was still alive and had been hiding in a safe house. Caelan didn’t trust herself to reply, and was thankful when Achebe didn’t push for a response.

  As they crossed the car park together, Caelan said, ‘I wasn’t sure who would be here.’

  ‘One of my DIs has been involved, but she’s off sick – had a car accident on her way home last night.’

  ‘Shit. Is she okay?’

  He held the door of the station open for her. ‘Yes, thankfully. I spoke to her husband. Cuts and bruises.’

  Caelan nodded, hesitating just inside the door. ‘Who are we here to see?’

  Achebe glanced around, lowered his voice. ‘This is an Organised Crime Partnership operation.’

  ‘We’re working with the NCA?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve been sniffing around in Edmonton for a while, but haven’t got very far.’

  ‘Edmonton?’ Caelan ran through the possibilities, didn’t like any of them. Though she wasn’t an expert, she knew of several gangs in the area, and anything linked to their activities could be dangerous. What was she walking into here?

  ‘We’re meeting with a couple of NCA officers, and… I understand you’ve been told about Nicky Sturgess?’ Achebe glanced at her, then averted his gaze.

  Caelan stepped closer to
him. ‘Did you know?’

  Achebe raised his head. ‘That she was alive, in hiding? No. I had no idea.’

  She nodded, believing him. ‘Who’s questioning Michael?’

  ‘Nasenby? I don’t know. Still can’t believe he was behind it all, to be honest.’

  Caelan managed a short laugh, but it was an effort. ‘You can’t have been as surprised as I was. I thought I knew him.’

  ‘Did he do that to your face?’ Achebe touched his own cheek with a fingertip.

  ‘Yeah. He didn’t take kindly to being accused of murder. Several murders.’

  ‘Including that of a ten-year-old child.’ Achebe’s face was blank, his voice little more than a whisper. Caelan touched his arm.

  ‘We couldn’t have known, Tim.’

  Achebe rubbed his eyes. ‘Just makes me sick to think of him sitting there, watching us run around trying to figure out what had happened, all the time knowing he’d done it. Enjoying watching us struggle.’

  ‘You think that’s what he was doing?’

  ‘Fuck, I don’t know. He was so… smooth, you know? Self-assured. But he had to know the truth would come out eventually.’

  ‘I don’t think he did. I think he believed he’d get away with it, even while I was listing all the evidence we had.’

  ‘Arrogant prick.’

  Caelan laughed. ‘I think that’s what he thought of you.’

  Achebe’s eyes opened wide. ‘Bloody cheek.’

  ‘Detective Small, DCI Achebe?’

  The voice came from behind them. Caelan turned, looked at the man who had spoken. Stepping forward, he held out his hand, smiling at her. ‘I’m Spencer Reid, NCA. It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard… Well, I’ve heard about you.’

  Caelan shook his hand, stepped away as he turned to greet Achebe. She hadn’t worked with the National Crime Agency before, though she had been involved in a couple of joint operations with the organisation it had replaced. The NCA existed to bring to justice serious and organised criminals, including those involved in drug trafficking, the sexual abuse and exploitation of children, and money laundering. Its representatives worked in partnership with other organisations in the UK and internationally. Caelan wondered what they wanted with her.