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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.”

∨ Off the Rails ∧

7

Falling Angel

She 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. 15.40.

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.