Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (32 page)

Lauren Halshaw paced up and down the meeting room. You are
so stupid, she told herself. It wasn’t as if you didn’t know Chase had been
dealing with Anna and Amy Birkdale. So why the hell did you have to interfere?
Stupid! Stupid!

“Want me to do anything, Lauren?”

She looked round, and to her delight saw PC
Blackaby’s
cheerful face in the doorway. “Hello Brian!” she
said. “What are you doing back here?”

He grinned. “Your guvnor told me to come straight back, so I
did.”

“By yourself?”

“’Fraid so.”

Halshaw thought for a moment. “Have Scene of Crime turned
up?” she asked.

“Not yet, no.”

“OK. It’s a bit late, I know, but can you keep an eye on Di
Rodway’s
desk until they get here, please?”

“No problem. Where is it?”

“Just out there.” She glanced through the plate glass wall
of the cubicle. “Ms Birkdale’s back at her desk. She’ll show you.”

“Right,” said Blackaby, and went on his way. She watched him
march up to Amy Birkdale’s desk and ask for directions.

There was a knock at the door, and Frank Usher’s face
appeared.

“Got a mo?” he boomed.

Before she could reply, he had settled himself in the chair
facing her. “Bet you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” he
smiled. “Cases closed, arrests made, and so on. Does that mean they give you a
promotion or something?”

“Not a chance,” she replied, stonily.

“What’s wrong, love?” Usher persisted. “You’ve found the
culprits, they’re under lock and key. What could be better?”

“They’re not all under lock and key,” she retorted.

Usher rocked back in his chair. “I don’t believe it,” he
laughed. “Surely you don’t think there’s some kind of conspiracy, do you? More shadowy
figures out there for you to track down.”

“I know exactly who they are.”

He leant forward. “So who are they, officer?” he asked
confidentially. “Come on, you can trust me.”

Trust you to spread it around the entire building, you mean,
she said to herself. “I saw one of your former employees the other day,” she
said instead.

“Oh yes?”

“A Mr Robert Wilcox.”

Usher shook his head. “Can’t say I remember him.”

“He used to be a shift supervisor at your datacentre at
Stockley Park. He was made redundant a couple of years ago. Now he’s got his
own business. Doing quite well, it seems.”

He shook his head again and smiled. “Sorry. Can’t place the
name, I’m afraid. But we lost close on a hundred resources in that
restructuring. So come on, love. Tell me. Who are the other conspirators?”

She said nothing.

“Bryn Lewis, I bet,” Usher continued. “I always knew he was
up to something. And Lorna Hilton. Those two are thick as thieves. Amy too,
maybe…”

“There’s no conspiracy,” she snapped. “There’s only one
culprit still free. And I know exactly who it is.”

“Go on,” he replied, his eyes gleaming.

Halshaw counted to five, very slowly. Then, “You, Mr Usher.”

He roared with laughter. “You can’t be serious, officer.
What on earth am I supposed to have done?”

“Messed with Les Salter’s head,” she continued, coldly. “For
a number of years, from what I can gather.”

“Oh, come on, officer. For God’s sake, it was just a bit of
fun.”

“Fun?”

“Of course. Poor old Les couldn’t take a joke, it’s true.
But that’s not my problem, surely?”

“It should be your problem, sir. Your bullying drove him to
commit a murder. You persuaded him that his wife was unfaithful. You convinced
him that Amy was in love with him. Is it any wonder his marriage disintegrated?
And look at him now.”

“Poor sap. But I don’t really see…”

“And that’s not all. Paul McKinley was another of your
victims.”

“What?”

“Yes. You convinced him that Amy was having an affair with
Bryn Lewis. Why do you think their relationship broke up?”

“Oh, Amy deserves far better than that pathetic Scottish
berk, don’t you think?” He smiled complacently. “Or that fat Welsh arsehole,
come to that?”

“That’s as maybe, Mr Usher. But don’t you think that’s for
her to decide?”

He looked shocked, but quickly recovered his poise. “So
that’s what this is all about, is it?” he chuckled. “Feminist solidarity, eh?
Sisters doing it for themselves? All that bollocks?”

“No sir, it’s not. It’s far more serious than that. For you,
anyway.”

For the first time, she noticed a hint of alarm in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Surely I haven’t committed a crime?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Halshaw replied, savouring the moment.
“But do you realise what the consequence of all this will be for you
personally?”

“No. What?”

“You’ll be called as a witness for the defence. You’ll have
to take the stand and confess under oath to the way you tormented poor Mr
Salter. The defence brief will tear you apart. And the media will have a field
day.”

The colour began to drain from his face.

“Your career will be ruined, Mr Usher,” she continued,
remorselessly. “Logistical Group will probably fire you on the spot, for
inappropriate conduct, gross misconduct, or something like that. And after all
the negative publicity, no reputable employer will touch you ever again.”

He looked back at her, lost for words.

“Do you understand, sir?” she demanded.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “How long have I got?” he
croaked.

“A few months. Maybe a year. Plenty of time to prepare your
story.”

Usher attempted to smile. “I suppose I should thank you for
the warning, officer,” he said, as he stood and stalked out of the room.

Ultimately, blind
faith is the only kind

Mason Cooley

Chase parked his Mondeo in Sutton Mews and looked across
apprehensively at the third house of the small modern terrace. The fresh
paintwork glistened in the afternoon sun, but there were no signs of life, no
open windows, no lights inside. This is it, he thought, taking a deep breath.
He clambered out of the car, marched up to the navy blue front door and rapped
briskly on the gleaming brass knocker.

No reply.

He knocked again.

No reply.

He pressed the white plastic bell push tentatively. The
faint sound of the bell reached him. But there was no reply. He tried again,
harder this time. Again, no reply.

He flipped open his phone and called her mobile. He strained
his ears, hoping to make out the ringtone, but heard nothing. When her
voicemail service kicked in, he ended the call and dialled her landline
instead. He heard a phone ringing, but no-one answered.

“Can I help you?” asked a querulous voice from behind.

Chase spun round. There stood an ancient gentleman,
immaculate in peaked cap, tweed jacket, and cavalry twill trousers, leaning
heavily on a stick. “Can I help you?” he repeated.

Chase produced his warrant card. “DI Chase, Metropolitan
Police,” he declared. “I’m looking for Mrs Anna Birkdale.”

“Is it to do with that murder?”

“What murder?”

“That young woman. Smashed in the face with a brick, I hear.
You’re not safe in your own home these days, are you?”

“I don’t know about that, sir. I’m investigating a burglary
and I need to speak to Anna urgently. Mrs Birkdale, I mean.”

“She’s not in. If she was in she’d answer the door. A fine
woman, she is. A damn fine woman...”

“Yes, I know,” replied Chase impatiently.

“Not safe in your own home,” repeated the ancient, as he
bumbled slowly away.

Chase sighed, and rang the doorbell once more. When no-one
answered, he took a business card from his jacket pocket and jotted a note on
the back.

Anna – I’m so, so sorry. Please call me. Al x

He pushed the card through the letterbox quickly, before he
could change his mind. He left voicemail messages on her landline and mobile.
Then he walked slowly back to the car, deep in thought.

I can’t let it end like this, he told himself, as he
unlocked the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. Not after all the drama
of the last few days, the highs and the lows. I just can’t.

And how must Anna be feeling? Disappointed? Distraught? Or
vindicated, that a man she trusted had let her down yet again. He felt an
overwhelming desire for her, to see her smile, to hear her voice, to hold her
in his arms. But how could that ever be, now?

He waited, staring at the front door, for what seemed like
hours. Every so often he would try her mobile or land line again, but always
with the same result.

Eventually he sat up straight and shook himself. You can’t
just sit here awaiting your fate, he told himself. You need to do something, to
try and take control of the situation. You have to find her, talk to her now.
If she’s not at home, where would she be? Auntie Edna’s, perhaps. Or Lily’s
flower shop. Or Amy’s flat, or Totally Toned!, or... Where to start?

He started the engine and turned the car around laboriously in
the narrow road, still undecided. He was waiting to turn out of Sutton Mews,
for what he desperately hoped would not be the last time, when he remembered
Halshaw. She was still waiting for him at River Road. How would she be?
Aggressive, ready to blame him for what had happened? Defensive, preparing her
arguments carefully? Or philosophical, accepting her fate?

At least I should be able to sort that problem out, he
thought, squirting the Mondeo into a small gap in the traffic. Hopefully Anna
will be at home later. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll give me a sympathetic
hearing before she throws me out.

Lauren Halshaw let herself into Chase’s office and flopped
into the chair behind the desk. What a total bloody disaster, she thought. This
should feel so good: both cases solved, suspects under arrest. I survived the
fight unscathed. Well, more or less. I even managed to get through to Frank
bastard Usher, at long last. But all I can think about is poor DI Chase, and
what I’ve done to him. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Unable to settle, she began to pace up and down, as best she
could between the discarded file boxes.

So this is how it ends, is it? One mistake, just one, and my
career’s over before it started. A big mistake, true, but still only one. And
then there’s the humiliation. Back in uniform, back to dealing with drunks,
drug addicts, and doing the donkey work for people like Chase. I don’t think I
can stand that. Not now. Not now I’ve proved I can do this. To myself, anyway.
Worst of all, I’ll have to face Mum and Dad, Toby, my sister, my friends. They
were all so proud of me. And I’ve let them down. All of them.

She sat down at the desk, logged on to the PC and began to
type up her notes, but soon gave up the unequal struggle of trying to
concentrate.

I’m not going to beg, she decided. When he comes back, I’ll
apologise, of course. It was a mistake, yes. A very big, very stupid mistake.
I’ll take whatever abuse he hurls at me. God knows I deserve it. But if I’m
going down, I’m going to go down with my head held high.

She sat back in the chair. Where the hell has he got to? Is
he trying to patch things up with Anna Birkdale? Or is he just letting me stew?

Sergeant Baker popped her head around the door. “Want some
tea?” she asked, brusquely. Then she noticed Halshaw’s crestfallen expression.
“What’s wrong, love?” she continued, more gently. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

Baker perched on the edge of the desk. “It doesn’t look like
nothing.”

“OK. If you must know, I’ve made a really stupid mistake. DI
Chase is trying to sort it out now. And when he comes back he’s going to give
me a major bollocking, right before he sends me back home.” And back to
uniform, she managed not to add.

“What kind of mistake, love? Has anyone died?”

“No.”

“Injured?”

“No. Well, not physically.”

“Have you jeopardised a prosecution? Lost a vital piece of
evidence? Released a psychopathic killer into the community or something?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“It can’t be too bad, then. What have you done?”

She hesitated. “You know DI Chase has a new girlfriend?”

Baker’s jaw dropped open, before a slow smile spread across
her face. “About bloody time,” she said. “He’s not had a proper girlfriend
since his wife left him, two, no, three years ago it was. Who’s the lucky
lady?”

“You know Amy Birkdale?”

“Yes. No! Not her, surely?”

“No, not her. Her Mum. Anna.”

“What’s she like?”

“I’ve never actually met her, I’m afraid.”

Baker looked disappointed. “So what have you done that’s so
terrible, then?”

“I accused her daughter of murdering Lucy Faith.”

“You must have had your reasons, surely.”

“Yes, I did. But it’s worse than that, Bridget. I told her
that DI Chase suspected her too. Which was true, at one point.”

“I’m starting to see where this is going...”

“Yes. I was flying a kite, trying to make something happen.
But I didn’t realise just how close DI Chase was to Anna Birkdale. Amy’s told
her mum all about it, and, well, I’m pretty sure I’ve screwed up their
relationship.”

“Christ!” sighed Baker. “When Miriam walked out, Al was a
total mess. He was signed off work with depression for several months. Did he
tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well, neither did I,” she replied quickly. “So where is he
now?”

“No idea. He went haring off from Skyline Place. To see her,
I guess. He told me not to go home until he got back here. We need to talk, he
said.”

“And that was?”

“About four hours ago. It took longer to wind things up at
Skyline Place than it probably should have done.”

“The guys said you did a good job there.”

“Thanks,” said Halshaw, with a tight smile. “I could have
been good at this job. I know it. It’s just that I’ve totally buggered it up.”

“Not necessarily,” soothed Baker. “Wait and see what DI
Chase has to say. He might surprise you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Wait and see,” she repeated. “Has he phoned at all?”

“No.”

“Have you phoned him?”

“No.”

“Well, don’t you think you should?”

Halshaw nodded.

“You do that, love. I’ll get you some tea, and then we’ll
see what happens, shall we?”

Once Sergeant Baker had closed the door behind her, Halshaw
took out her mobile, and with trembling hands dialled Chase’s number.

She heard ringing, and then his voicemail service kicked in.

Cursing, she tried again. And again. And again. Eventually
she plucked up the courage to leave a message.

“Sir? It’s me. Lauren. DC Halshaw, that is. Just wondered if
you’re planning to come back to River Road today. You said you wanted to talk
to me, and, er, I guess I’d like to get it over with. If you want to meet somewhere
else, just let me know... er, thanks.”

“Any luck?” asked Sergeant Baker, backing through the door
with a steaming mug of tea in each hand.

Halshaw shook her head. “No. Just voicemail.”

“Never mind. Have one of these.”

“Thanks,” said Halshaw, taking a mug.

The office door opened again. Constable Neville’s face
appeared, followed by a volley of shouts.

“Can you come to the front desk, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.
“There’s a bit of a to-do going on.”

“Coming,” replied Baker, abandoning her mug on the table. At
the door she turned. “Don’t worry, love,” she said, with a kindly smile, before
her stony professional demeanour reasserted itself. “What kind of a to-do,
Nev?” she asked. But the door closed before Halshaw could hear his reply.

Alone again, she stared at the Metropolitan Police
screensaver on the monitor. Smiling faces, young and old, of every race and
creed, shared the screen with a similarly diverse collection of uniformed
officers. Why have this on the screensaver, she wondered? What does it achieve?

She buried her head in her hands, wanting to cry like a
baby, but the tears wouldn’t flow from her dry, gritty eyes. In exasperation,
she leapt to her feet and marched up and down, before staring out of the window
at nothing in particular.

“One of these for me?” asked a familiar voice.

She spun round.

There stood Chase, his eyes red-rimmed, but a half-smile on
his face as he reached for a mug of tea.

“Help yourself, Sir,” Halshaw said. “Sergeant Baker just
brought them.”

“Thanks,” said Chase, taking the milkier of the two and
sipping it cautiously. “Ugh! No sugar!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to have to
have words with Bridget Baker, I think.”

I can’t leave it any longer, she decided. “I just want to
say how sorry I am,” she blurted.

“Sorry? What on earth for?”

“Accusing Amy. Dropping you in it with her mother. How did
it go, by the way?”

He settled into the chair and sighed wearily. “It didn’t,”
he replied. “She didn’t answer the door. Or her phone, come to that. Or even
her mobile.”

“That doesn’t sound too good.”

Chase smiled wryly. “Thanks for your encouragement.
Halshaw,” he said. Then he sighed again. “No, you’re right. It doesn’t sound
good at all. But anyway, how are you?”

“I don’t know, Sir. It depends on how the next ten minutes
goes, I guess.”

“You’re expecting a bollocking, are you?”

She nodded grimly. “At least.”

“Well, you’ll be disappointed.” The weary smile returned to
his face. “If I know you half as well as I think I do, you’ll have lambasted yourself
far more than I ever would. No. You’ve done well today, Halshaw. And not just
today, either. Your insight with the Chiltern Park burglaries was brilliant,
for instance.”

“Thanks!” she beamed. “But... what about Amy? Her mother?
You...?”

“Having a go at Amy wasn’t a particularly bright idea, as it
turned out, was it? But it was worth a try, and I’ve done far worse. No, this
is my fault. Anna told me about her relationship with Les Salter yesterday
evening, but in all the excitement I forgot to tell you. That’s my fault, not
yours. Or hers, come to that.”

“So what about you and her?”

“Who knows? I’ll just have to keep trying to talk to her. If
she’ll let me, I’ll explain the situation, and we’ll see what we can salvage.
I’m not optimistic, though.”

“Poor you!”

“Oh, I’ll be OK. It’s not as though I haven’t had time to
get used to the idea.” And if I say that enough times I might start to believe
it, he added silently.

Halshaw perched on a pile of file boxes, the last of the
adrenalin draining from her body to be replaced with bone-deep fatigue. “So
what’s next?” she asked.

“For me, same old same old, you know. Statements, paperwork,
preparing for the trial. Or trials, rather. And for you, at some point soon, a
triumphant return to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think you’ve got much
choice in the matter. But if you ever want a transfer to the Met, I’ll be more
than happy to support your application. In the meantime, though...”

“Yes?”

“Go home to your sister’s. Have a soak in the bath, have a
glass of wine, whatever you like. Phone your boyfriend and tell him your boss
thinks you’re a star.”

“Thanks.” She stood and scooped up her handbag. At the door
she turned. “But what about you? Will you be all right?”

“Of course I will. Off you go. See you tomorrow. And
Lauren?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“My pleasure, Al,” she replied, with a broad smile, before
closing the door behind her.

Chase sat back in his chair, took a swig of unsweetened tea,
and rubbed his tired eyes. Then his phone buzzed.

You have one new voicemail message
, the message said.

He stared at the phone, as if trying to intuit some deeper
meaning in the message, before shrugging his shoulders and calling his voicemail
service.

“Sir? It’s me. Lauren. DC Halshaw, that is. Just wondered
if...”

He pressed #3 to delete the message, then tossed the phone
back on to the desk and rubbed his face again. Please phone, Anna, he begged.
Please call me. Please!