The Informant (33 page)

But in the meantime there was no harm in him having a bit of fun along the way.

Kaz spent the best part of a couple of days on her new sofa. She became intimate with its soft creamy undulations and the sharp smell of the leather. Making the bed up felt
like too much of an effort. Helen had offered to do it for her, but Kaz had declined.

After Bradley had made his exit Helen used the new kettle and mugs to make tea. Then she paced the room. Her phone trilled a couple of times, she checked it and avoided Kaz’s eye.

Kaz watched her from the sofa; tense and awkward she was obviously looking for an excuse to escape. Kaz decided to put her out of her misery.

‘I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay.’

‘I can’t leave you like this.’

‘Yeah you can. You’re my lawyer, this is family stuff. It ain’t your problem.’

‘I still want to help you.’

‘Go home Helen. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight.’

‘You sure?’

Kaz scanned her face, she wanted to say no, stay. She wanted Helen to insist, to put her to bed, to lie down gently beside her and protect her. But maybe it always was a fantasy. Helen
hadn’t told her about Julia because she wanted to keep her options open. A walk on the wild side, that was her buzz. Kaz felt stupid, duped. Power and control – she’d met plenty
of blokes who mainlined on that particular aphrodisiac. But Helen?

Kaz struggled to her feet and, swinging along on her crutches, escorted Helen to the door. She shut it and locked it firmly behind her. Then she returned to the couch.

She was dozing when a text pinged on her phone. Joey. His plane had been delayed, but he’d be with her soon as and he’d get everything sorted. Kaz thought about what that meant.
Bradley’s accusation rankled. Did she really want her brother to go out and murder Sean on her behalf? She certainly hated him enough, but to have Sean’s death on her conscience . . .
how would that make her feel?

She’d grown up in the world of Terry and Sean Phelps, where killing was just part of the way things were done. It wasn’t spoken of that much, but it was the ultimate threat. You
stayed in line or you paid the price. Violence and fear were the currency of family life. Lies and denial were what held it all together. Except underneath it didn’t, you felt like shit
inside. Had she spent six years in jail, struggled to get clean and sober, to find some measure of dignity, simply to go back to all that?

She fell asleep cocooned by the sofa and when she woke early morning sunlight was flooding into the room casting a warm glow over her new home. She got up and discovered that the swelling in her
ankle had gone down considerably. She could just about hobble if she didn’t put too much weight on it. Realizing she hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day – most of which
she’d barfed into Sean’s boot – she made herself a large bowl of cereal and fruit. She had consumed most of it when the entryphone system buzzed, she hobbled and hopped across the
room, pressed the button and her heart soared as the tiny screen displayed Joey’s grinning face.

He breezed into the flat but his smile dissolved into an angry frown at the sight of her.

‘Fucking hell!’

‘Do I look that bad?’

He drew her into his arms, cradled her. Her head sank on to his shoulder and the tears came.

Ashley closed the door behind them, stood watching, waiting, like an obedient hound.

Joey glanced at him. ‘Got a tissue or something?’

Ashley rummaged in his jeans, came up with a pocket pack, handed it over. Joey swept Kaz up in his arms and carried her, without apparent effort, over to the sofa. He opened the pack of tissues
and handed her one. His jaw was tense, his expression fierce. ‘Bastard’s gonna pay for this.’

Kaz dabbed her nose, blowing was still too painful. ‘Yeah well, we need to talk about that. Bottom line is Sean’s not worth going to jail for.’

‘You seen yourself babe? You need to take a good long look in the mirror before you start going soft on him.’

‘I don’t need to look in the mirror. And I’m not going soft.’

Joey took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. Just . . . gets me in the gut seeing you this way. Looks like you been in a cage-fight.’

She laughed drily. ‘Feels a bit like that too.’

Joey shook his head wearily. ‘Well, Ash has got something for you.’

At Joey’s nod, Ashley reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. He opened it to reveal a medium-sized pistol.

Joey took it from him and turned it over in his palm. ‘SIG P220, semi-automatic, eight-round mag – one of the most reliable handguns you can get.’

Kaz stared at him. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with that?’

Joey held out the gun. ‘Get any more unannounced visits from Sean you shoot the fucker, that’s what.’

‘Don’t be daft! I don’t know how to use a gun.’

Joey gave her a reassuring smile, patted her hand. ‘Don’t be frightened of it. You put the clip in here.’

Ashley handed him a cartridge magazine, he slotted it into the base of the handle, clicked it home with the heel of his hand.

‘Pull back the slide, make sure your decocker’s off.’ He indicated a small button on the side. ‘Point. Hold your arm out straight, two hands.’ He aimed the gun at
the opposite wall. ‘Shoot. Bit of kick, but provided you got it firmly with both hands, you’ll be fine.’

Kaz took a deep breath and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Remember what happened last time I had a gun? No way.’

‘That was a long time ago. We was stupid kids. This is just a sensible precaution.’

‘I don’t want it.’

Joey flicked the decocker back on, turned it over admiringly in his hand. ‘Swiss design, German made.’

Ashley took what looked like a short metal gun barrel out of his other pocket and smiled at Kaz. ‘We got a suppressor too, so if it does go off no one’ll hear it.’

‘Fuck off Ash. I don’t want it.’

Joey took the suppressor and screwed it onto the barrel of the gun. Once he’d assured himself it was firmly attached he handed the whole thing back to Ashley.

‘Put it in one of them kitchen drawers, case she changes her mind.’

Ashley wrapped the gun in the bag and glanced at Kaz. ‘I made you up a couple of extra clips so that’s twenty-four cartridges in all.’

Joey laughed. ‘That should be enough, even for a dinosaur like Sean.’

Ashley put the gun in a kitchen drawer.

Kaz huffed. ‘Am I talking to myself or what?’

Joey put his arm round her, pulled her into a hug. ‘Only want you to be safe babe. Now what else d’you need?’

She grasped his large paw in her own hand. ‘I need us both to be safe. I don’t want you going after Sean, getting hurt, getting arrested. Remember what we talked about, making the
business totally legit? That’s what I need – to be free of the old life. For us both to be free. You’re smart enough Joey. Sean’s a two-bit drug dealer. It’s all
he’ll ever be. The law’ll get him, or he’ll piss someone else off. The bottom line is he hurt me but I don’t want his death on my conscience. Got that?’

Joey pondered this. He gazed out of the window, banks of fluffy white clouds were racing across the sky. Finally he turned, gave her a lop-sided smile.

‘Okay, we’ll try it your way. See what happens.’

For a moment she got the full force of his dark, unnerving stare. Did she believe him? She was getting used to his mercurial changes of direction. Much as she hated Sean, she wasn’t about
to let him mess up her life any more than he already had.

Joey was looking out of the window again, he seemed very far away, but then his gaze flicked back to her and he smiled.

‘Just remember the gun’s in the drawer if you need it. Okay?’

Kaz sighed and nodded. It was pointless arguing, her body was weary and sore. ‘Whatever.’

It was still dark, a good half-hour before dawn, when Nicci Armstrong pulled into Thurrock services at the junction of the A13 and the M25. Traffic was already building up,
taillights forming a red flickering arc across the Dartford Bridge. In a quiet corner of the lorry park there were a couple of patrol cars parked up plus an armed response team getting togged up
and ready to go. DCI Cheryl Stoneham was chatting to detectives beside one of the vehicles, hands cupped round a hot coffee. As soon as she saw Nicci draw up she walked over. Nicci got out of her
car. Stoneham looked remarkably cheerful considering she’d got out of bed at four.

‘Morning Nic, glad you could join us.’

Nicci smiled. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. We appreciate it.’

‘Anything to do with the Phelps clan, we thought you’d be interested. Sussex have asked for our help, they’re obviously the lead on this because the murder happened in
Eastbourne. You want a coffee? We got a flask somewhere.’ She swivelled her head to locate one of her uniformed officers. ‘Jimmy, can you get DS Armstrong a drink?’

The PC acknowledged the request with a nod. Nicci smiled.

‘Cheers. So who’s the victim?’

‘A bookie, name of Dave Harper. Turns out Sean Phelps’s missus had been shacked up with him for years. Neighbours all knew her, assumed they were a couple.’

Nicci nodded. ‘Sean gets out of jail and he’s not happy about it?’

‘That’s the theory we’re working on. Confirmed by the fact that it looks like Dave and Mrs Phelps had planned to do a runner. Two plane tickets to Ibiza found in the
flat.’

Jimmy the PC trotted over, handed Nicci a styrofoam cup of coffee. She thanked him, sighed. ‘Sean’s likely to be expecting us then?’

‘Hard to say. We got a surveillance unit tucked up near the house and according to them everyone’s in bed.’

Nicci inclined her head in the direction of the armed response team.

‘Still treating it as an armed digout though?’

Stoneham laughed. ‘Victim had his head blown apart by some kind of serious Russian handgun. They pulled the bullet out of next-door’s wall.’

The police convoy headed eastwards on the A13 then turned off north into Langdon Hills. Cheryl Stoneham coordinated their approach until they reached a suburban cul-de-sac. The
target, a detached chalet bungalow sitting on a corner plot, looked a bit run down, garden full of weeds. A Mondeo was parked on the drive. Stoneham handed over to the skipper of the armed response
team, and as the first hints of a grey dawn started to break in the eastern sky, they went in. Nicci sat in the back of Stoneham’s car and watched.

Two swings with the Enforcer brought the front door off its hinges and four officers armed with MP5s piled into the house. In less than five minutes a dazed-looking Sean Phelps was brought out
in handcuffs and pyjamas. He was put in the back of a patrol car.

The skipper of the armed response team came towards Stoneham’s car. She lowered the window.

He squatted down to her level. ‘All clear. First we thought it was just him and the wife. But then we found another woman locked in a back bedroom.’

Stoneham frowned. ‘Interesting. Thanks John. You can stand your lads down.’

He patted the side of the car. ‘Watch out for the wife, she’s got a gob on her.’

As Sean Phelps was driven off to the local station to be interviewed by the officers who’d come up from Sussex, Nicci followed Stoneham into the house. Even before they crossed the
threshold their ears were assailed.

‘You fuckers! Bust in with your fucking guns! I ain’t done nothing! Let me out of here! Let me out of here!’

They stepped into the sitting room where two of the armed officers had the screaming woman boxed in a corner. She was in her twenties, clad only in a thong and she was picking up ornaments from
the mantelpiece and hurling them at the armed officers.

Stoneham paused in the doorway, sighed, glanced over her shoulder. ‘Will someone get her something to wear?’

She nodded to the armed officers. ‘Thanks lads, we’ll take it from here.’

The two armed officers beat a hasty retreat. The woman was sobbing and cursing, she had a gold plated carriage clock in her right hand ready to fling.

Stoneham took a deep breath. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Stoneham. You going to chuck that at me or what?’

The woman met Stoneham’s gaze, hesitated, then dumped the clock on the floor. One of the officers in the hall handed Nicci a jacket, she offered it to the woman.

Stoneham looked her up and down. ‘I take it you’re not Glynis Phelps.’

The woman snivelled as she slipped the jacket on. ‘Who the fuck’s she?’

Stoneham turned to Nicci, raised her eyebrows. Nicci nodded. ‘Back bedroom.’

Nicci found Glynis Phelps curled in a foetal heap on the bed. She was wearing a silky pink dressing gown with a torn sleeve. One side of her face was a great livid purple bruise, oozing blood
close to the eye. Nicci stepped through the doorway, turned on a lamp.

‘Glynis, I’m DS Armstrong. You all right?’

Glynis didn’t look up. She was staring into space, her eyes red-rimmed and vacant.

Nicci squatted down beside the bed. ‘Did he beat you up?’

There was no reply. Nicci gently stroked her hand. ‘You’re safe now, you’re going to be okay.’

As Glynis tried to move she winced in pain, she clutched the lower part of her left arm and cradled it.

Nicci felt her gut muscles tightening as the anger rose. What kind of man beat his wife like this, locked her up and then went to bed with another woman? Unfortunately she’d seen enough
domestics to know the answer. There were plenty of blokes out there capable of it; they came in all shapes and sizes, most of them wouldn’t even be classed as villains.

Using one finger, Nicci gently pushed back the strands of hair from Glynis’s forehead. ‘I’m going to go and call an ambulance, then I’ll be straight back.’

Finally Glynis met her gaze. A voice emerged that was barely a whisper.

‘He’s dead, ’n’t he? That’s why you’re here. Dave’s dead.’

Bradley woke late with a toxic hangover. His phone was dancing manically on the bedside table. He groped for it, discovered he had three missed calls and instructions to phone
Turnbull’s office urgently. It took him a couple of minutes to put together the events of the previous evening. He’d been in a foul mood after his visit to Karen, but he’d gone
out with some old mates from uni. They’d had a few beers and then one of them, Tom, had regaled them with tales of his City job and six-figure bonuses. Bradley knew he was smarter than Tom,
he got the better degree, went on to take a master’s. But afterwards he’d returned home, looked at his shabby one-bedroom flat with mildew in the bathroom, thought about his shitty
career and felt incredibly stupid. So he’d ended up in front of the telly doing vodka shots.