Franny spoke evenly. ‘Then why ask?’
Realising she wasn’t going to get anything from Franny, Officer Brown crouched down to give Jessie an icy glare. ‘So who did this to you? Come on, Jessie, look at the state of you. Even when they fix you up, your face is going to look like a game of criss-cross. You need to tell me the name of whoever it was so I can deal with them … Come on, Jess, you can’t go around protecting the scum that did this.’
Jessie’s eyes glanced up to Franny who gave a quick, small shake of her head, warning Jessie not to say a word. If Christine got one sniff that Jessie had said anything – which she would, especially as some of the prison officers liked to wind up and cause trouble amongst the women – it was doubtful Jess would make it back home alive.
Frustrated by both Franny and Jess, Officer Brown pushed slightly harder. ‘You better tell me, Jess, because I don’t like the fact that someone around here thinks they can do this and get away with it. Is that what you want? You want someone to slice you up and not answer for it? Just say the name for God’s sake and we can get you transferred out of here, or at least to another wing.’
Without saying anything, Jessie put her head down and stared at the floor as Officer Brown gave a rueful smile. She stood back up, brushing down her prison uniform and absentmindedly playing with the chain fixed to her security belt. She glared at Franny. ‘You bitches don’t do yourself any favours do you? You’re a bunch of animals and deserve …’
Suddenly, Officer Brown stopped what she was saying as her gaze came to rest on Franny’s washbag. Thrown by the side of it was her homemade shank.
Franny’s heart sank as she listened to Brown say, ‘Well, well, well, is that yours, Doyle?’
Feeling the dried blood on her nose and cheeks, Franny shook her head. She spoke ruefully. ‘If I say no, will you believe me?’
‘Not a chance and if you or Jessie won’t give me a name, whether you did this to Jessie or not – which just between you and I – I don’t think you did, I’m going to hold you responsible.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ said Franny, laughing bitterly.
The officer shrugged. ‘It’s your call, Doyle. Are you going to tell me who did this?’
Franny leant towards Officer Brown. ‘Go to hell.’
‘Fine, have it your way, Doyle … So here’s how it’s going to work: I’m going to tell the governor that I’ve got the culprit and that we found the weapon. Easy really. Job done. I can get off home early. I mean, if you lot don’t want to help yourselves, why should I care what happens to you?’
Full of hostility, Franny stared back. Knowing what was coming she listened as Officer Brown spoke to the other members of staff. ‘Take Jessie down to the medical wing and I’ll take Doyle to seg, give her some time to think about the error of her ways.’
And as Franny was dragged off to segregation by Officer Brown, the only feeling she had was of revenge, but it wasn’t Christine Lucas she was out for. She had two other people on her mind: Vaughn Sadler and Detective Balantyne.
13
On the other side of London, Detective Balantyne gazed in the mirror of his office bathroom. He felt terrible and looked even worse. After the argument with Emma, he’d wanted to get out of the house – away from her and away from her drinking – so he’d pulled up in a lay-by near work on the north side of Woolwich and made his car his bed for the night.
It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, and he knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He wanted out so badly; he wanted to get as far away from Emma as it was physically possible. But how the hell could he get out when the guilt over what had happened always ate him up, and the memory of that day was literally burnt on her face?
On the odd occasions he’d packed his bags to go, when the situation had become too intolerable to take any more, she’d screamed and cried, threatening to take her own life if he left. And every part of him had wanted to keep on walking and not turn around, but the problem was he knew that it wasn’t an empty promise. Emma would be prepared to die just so she could punish him – and God, how he fucking despised her for it.
He despised every part of her but especially her drinking, which had been a problem even before the day in question. From the beginning of their marriage she’d been drinking but she’d hidden it well. And then as time went by he’d either turned a blind eye to it or he’d been too busy with work to notice or to care. Then by the time he had realised, it was too late.
Emma was difficult at the best of times, but her drinking – which seemed to start almost from the moment she woke up – made her completely impossible to deal with. And it made an already difficult situation a whole lot worse, a whole lot nastier.
And as much as he hated to admit it, over the last few months he’d found himself putting his hands on her more and more. Slapping her around a bit … Only a bit … Not hard, not like some of the men he used to arrest when he was a bobby on the beat, the ones who would knock their wives so senseless they’d look like they’d been in a road traffic accident … No, he wasn’t like that. Okay, he’d left a few marks, a few bruises, a few cuts … But Jesus, what did she expect if she was always pushing him, always pouncing on him the minute he walked through the door, always accusing him of sleeping with anything that moved? Testing him, pushing him to the limits – and the fact was the drinking, the accusations and her obsession with having a baby had turned his life into a living nightmare.
So no, he didn’t want to be the kind of man who knocked his wife about, but she didn’t give him any choice.
‘Sir, the Chief’s waiting for you.’ A young officer – who for the life of him, Balantyne couldn’t remember the name of – popped his head around the men’s bathroom door. ‘She’s not very happy by the way … But when is she?’
He nodded and answered half-heartedly as he continued to adjust his tie in the mirror.
‘Thanks, I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
‘I think she wants you now, sir. She was very adamant about that.’
Balantyne swivelled around to stare at the young officer. His tone was as hard as his steely gaze. ‘I said, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Now if that isn’t fucking good enough for the Chief or you, then there’s nothing much I can do.’
‘It’s just that—’
Before the officer could finish, Balantyne jumped at him, dragging and pulling him up against the wall. He pushed his forearm into the man’s neck, his eyes bulging. ‘What is it that you didn’t understand about what I just said? Didn’t I say I was coming? Didn’t I say that I’d be with her in a few minutes?’
Spluttering and in shock, the officer nodded, unable to get his words out. Then suddenly, Balantyne dropped his hold, realising what he was doing. He shook his head at himself as he mumbled a half apology whilst attempting to straighten the startled officer’s uniform. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I … I … Look, I’m just a bit tired. It’s no excuse I know, but … but … listen, can we just keep this between ourselves. No harm done, hey?’
Flustered, the young officer nodded. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and strained. ‘No harm done, sir.’ And without saying anything else he disappeared quickly out of the bathroom, leaving Balantyne to stare at himself once again in the mirror. He thought about Franny Doyle and he thought about Emma. Two bitches that he could do without.
As he continued to stare, rage surged through him and he smashed his fist against the glass. He watched the broken mirror fall into the sink before he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and felt the pricking of tears at the back of his throat. And not for the first time he realised how much he hated his life; it seemed he was going to be stuck with Emma forever if he didn’t think of a way out …
14
Half an hour later, Balantyne sat slumped, brooding and summoned, trying to keep his composure as he fought the temptation to give the Chief a piece of his mind. He wondered quite how it had come to this, and why it wasn’t him whose name was on the door of the office after he’d given his life to the service.
So now he had to sit opposite the newly promoted Chief Inspector Claire Martin, being admonished like he was a school kid.
He sighed as he gazed past her and out through the window, which looked over the River Thames.
‘Why am I getting the feeling I’m the only one in the room?’ Claire Martin’s voice cut through the air, jolting Balantyne out of the daze he found himself in.
Irritated, Tony stared at the Chief. She was young for the position she held and apart from the tiniest of crow’s feet beginning to show around her blue eyes – no doubt from the strain of the job – her petite features, smooth pale skin and blonde pixie bob gave her a youthful, and attractive, appearance. Balantyne suspected that, dressed in civilian clothes, no one would guess she held the position she did.
Suddenly needing a cigarette, Balantyne’s face looked like thunder. ‘I don’t know, ma’am, because I’m doing exactly what you want me to do. I’m sitting here listening. Anything else, I can’t help you with.’
Chief Inspector Martin came around from behind her desk to perch herself on the edge of the table. She stared at Balantyne as she sat opposite him, tapping her pen against her leg. ‘I don’t like your attitude, Detective, and I know I’m not the only one around here who doesn’t.’
Balantyne gave her a cutting stare and his voice dripped with bitterness. ‘I thought this conversation was about Franny Doyle, not about who does or doesn’t like me.’
It was Claire’s turn to feel irritated. She pursed her lips before she spoke, keeping her tone even. ‘I’ll make this conversation about what the hell I like, do you understand that? In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my name on the door and you need to get over that fact, otherwise I suggest you put in for a transfer to another division.’
Balantyne leant forward. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I haven’t forgotten. I can’t forget your name’s on the door especially as you seem to remind me at every opportunity you can.’
The room fell silent and tension sat in the air before Claire said, ‘Anyway, tell me what’s happening with the Doyle case. Are you any further forward? The CPS have been on my back because they’ve been reviewing the evidence and they need more. If we’re going to get a conviction – which as you know everyone’s desperate for – you need to bring more to the table … But no shortcuts. Play by the book. That’s the only way we’ll be able to nail her, by you playing it straight. The last thing we want is the case collapsing before it’s begun.’
‘You need to trust me on this. I’ll get Doyle, but I have to be able to do it my way.’
Chief Martin shook her head. Her voice verged on hostility. ‘No, and it’s not up for negotiation either. Play it by the book, Detective, or I’ll take you off the case.’
Furiously, Balantyne pointed his finger, emphasising each word he uttered with a jab in the air.
‘Doyle’s mine. I’ve spent years trying to pin the likes of her and Alfie Jennings down, and you have no right to threaten to take me off this case.’
‘Then don’t give me a reason to.’
Balantyne glared at Martin. He couldn’t understand her. She knew as well as anyone that to get Doyle, he had to play by their rules, which meant bending them. How the hell could she say that she wanted a conviction if he wasn’t allowed to do what was needed? But then again, what did he expect? She was a woman after all, and he’d never been able to understand women at the best of times, let alone in the male-dominated world of the police force – though even that balance was being challenged.
He thought about the influx of women who were coming through the doors, full of hormones and shouting out about having equal rights. But when you did treat them as an equal, Tony thought, with locker-room jokes and the traditional light-hearted initiations and innuendos, before you knew it they’d start making official complaints.
Over the years he’d been told he was a chauvinist, a bigot and even a sexist, but he just liked to think of himself as a real man – and real men had real women around them, who knew their place. And their place certainly wasn’t in charge of a few hundred men, making their decisions based on what time of the month it was.
Tony sighed. He knew it wasn’t the politically correct way to think but he also knew the truth; women’s decisions were first and foremost emotionally driven and he would be damned if he was going to listen and take orders from a woman whose idea of detective work was to find her lipstick in her oversized handbag.
Not that he’d always thought that way about Detective Martin … At one point he’d respected her, but things happen. Shit happened; it felt like there was more shit raining down on him than he’d like – and in his opinion, it all started and ended with the women he had around him.
‘Detective, I haven’t had your answer … Do I have your word or not? Am I going to have to take you off now or …’ She paused and her voice dropped to a softer tone as she rubbed her temples, feeling the first signs of a headache coming on. ‘Why do you have to make this so damn difficult? I’m not the enemy here. I want to see Doyle put away as much as you do but I need you to do it the right way. And I don’t want anyone knowing about Vaughn Sadler giving a statement. If they did, it would put the cat amongst the pigeons; someone could get hurt. There’d be a lot of trouble.’
‘Well, they won’t hear it from me.’
‘I’m not saying they would … Please, Tony, I’m not having a go at you.’
Detective Balantyne stood up. He straightened up his jacket and spoke coolly. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’
Chief Martin stepped towards Balantyne; she put her hand lightly on his arm. ‘Tony … wait. Are you okay? You don’t look so good … Is everything all right at home?’
Shaking her hand off him, Balantyne nodded. ‘I’m fine, everything’s fine. And now if you don’t mind …’
As Balantyne went to leave, she grabbed him. Her voice was gentle and quiet. ‘Don’t shut me out, Tony. Just tell me what’s happening. Talk to me. Please.’
It wasn’t Claire’s imagination that she could hear the pain and bitterness in his voice. ‘I can’t talk to you. Strictly work, remember? We agreed … or rather you did.’
‘What was I supposed to do, Tony? Emma needed you.’
Balantyne grabbed hold of Chief Martin’s arm. ‘Well, I needed you … I needed you.’
‘I know, but we couldn’t have carried on … Look, Emma was a mess.’
‘She’s always been a mess and … what happened, she did that to herself,’ growled Balantyne, shaking his head.
Chief Martin’s blue eyes filled with tears. ‘You don’t believe that. If you did, then why are you always blaming yourself and … and why did you end up in my bed again?’
Balantyne’s gaze darted over Claire Martin’s face. ‘Because I made a mistake … It happens … Now if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ve got work to do.’
‘Fine, but don’t forget what I said. By the book, Tony – or you’re off the case.’
Claire Martin took a deep breath and pushed her personal feelings aside, watching out of her window as Balantyne marched over to his car. She’d known him for the past ten years and instead of mellowing over time, the man had become more unpredictable, though she suspected it might have less to do with the job and more to do with Emma and what had happened the night of the accident.
The thought of the accident made Claire feel the same familiar rising sense of guilt that had plagued her over the last two years. At the time, she’d seriously thought about quitting the force. But she hadn’t; instead she’d quit the relationship with Balantyne. Though it hadn’t brought closure – far from it: she’d been miserable and Emma’s drinking had got worse and Balantyne had hated her for it.
They’d hardly spoken since, working on different cases and generally avoiding each other. Until about three months ago, that was, when they’d found themselves working on the night shift together. Then unsurprisingly, one thing had led to another …
At the time she hadn’t regretted it. She’d missed him. He was a different person when he was with her: funny, warm, caring – a world away from his behaviour most of the time. And looking back, she didn’t think he’d regretted it either. But then, a couple of weeks after it’d happened, before they’d even had a chance to talk about where they were going to go from there, she’d got promoted to the job he’d been overlooked for, and he’d hated her all over again.
She sighed loudly as she continued to watch Balantyne’s car drive out of the station car park. The problem was, he was a stubborn man, always had been, and from what she could see, he always would be. A man who didn’t want to bend an inch to the inevitable changes that were filtering their way through the force and who resented where he was in life. Though she couldn’t blame him – his life had taken a turn that he couldn’t have possibly predicted.
As much as he was infuriating to work with, and not many of the other officers liked him, she had to admit that he was a bloody good detective. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the accident, it might’ve been his name on the door and not hers … Crap. There she went again, thinking about something she didn’t want to.
She was angry with herself now; every time she’d anything to do with him, the same old thoughts and feelings would shoot back around. But she’d be damned if she’d let her emotions rule her head when it came to her job. Detective Balantyne would abide by her orders over the Doyle case, or he would face the consequences.
A couple of hours later, Franny – who still had Balantyne and Vaughn firmly on her mind – lay on the hard mattress in the segregation wing. The cell was sparser than her own; it didn’t even have a window, only a flickering fluorescent light, which gave the whole place a sinister glow. The walls were a faded cream, and although they’d been scrubbed, Franny could see the remains of where a prisoner had smeared her name in blood.
She sighed as she stared at the ceiling, but suddenly a thought came to her. She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed before going into her pocket and pulling out the piece of paper that had been stuffed in Jessie’s mouth.
Looking up to make sure that none of the screws were peering in through the safety flap, Franny flattened out the crumpled-up paper. On it was written a set of numbers. It read like a sort code and what seemed to be a bank account number. She frowned, wondering quite why Christine and her cronies would stuff this into Jessie’s mouth. But then, there was only one way to find out …
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