Chapter 48
The door to Lauren’s office is shut, the sign flipped to In a -meeting – do not disturb. She’s aware of constant movement in the corridor on the other side of the opaque glass, and the hum of conversation as more officers arrive to swell the investigation team.
Lauren stays where she is. She doesn’t often feel as though there’s no hope, but right now she’s struggling to see how they can pull things together in time to stop whatever New Dawn are planning.
Counter-terrorism say they’re making progress on identifying the target for the explosives attack, but DI Stratman’s set jaw had suggested the word ‘progress’ was an optimistic choice.
In the meantime, all-ports warnings have been issued for Bishop, Ellis and Morley, and warrants obtained to search their abruptly abandoned properties.
Lauren goes back over the investigation from the beginning.
She thinks about her first meeting with Nadeeka, and the investigation plan drafted at the kitchen table that evening.
What has she missed? She takes out a sheet of blank paper and draws a timeline, starting long before the murder.
When had Jamie first encountered New Dawn?
In the first week of November, he’d gone to Beech Street police station to report the racially aggravated assault, so it must have been before then. Lauren makes a mark on her timeline.
Bus was cancelled, so having a quick drink with someone from work xx
Lauren looks at it intently, as though another layer might reveal itself if she just stares hard enough.
Had Jamie really gone for a drink that night, or had he already been embroiled in New Dawn’s activities by then?
None of Jamie’s colleagues has admitted to meeting him outside of work, so either it was a cover story, or one of them is lying.
She brings up Google Maps and finds ATP Construction.
Nadeeka said Jamie used to get the 806 bus home from work, and it’s a matter of minutes before Lauren finds the most likely bus stop, a few hundred metres from ATP.
On the opposite side of the road, the map shows an orange tankard topped with frothy beer.
She clicks on the icon to see the name, then she closes her laptop and puts on her coat.
Lauren is disappointed to discover there’s no function room at the Two Princes.
‘We don’t even do bar snacks,’ the landlord says, ‘unless you count pork scratchings. We’re just your basic pub.’
Lauren is just thinking that she’s had a wasted trip – with no private room available, New Dawn won’t have held meetings here – when she spots the CCTV above the bar. That settles it: New Dawn definitely won’t have met here. She indicates the camera. ‘Does that work?’
‘Too bloody right it does. Not that it stops the bar staff from sticking their fingers in the till. They must think I’m stupid.’
‘How long do you keep the footage for?’
‘It records over itself every ninety days.’
Lauren smiles. ‘I’d like to see October 29th, please.’
The camera is focused on the till, the small row of optics, and the section of bar where customers order drinks.
It doesn’t take long for Lauren to spot Jamie, ordering a solitary pint and taking a sip before carrying it away.
It’s frustrating that there are no cameras away from the bar, and Lauren asks the landlord to fast-forward, wondering if Jamie stayed for a second drink.
‘Stop!’ Her hand shoots out, even though it’s the landlord who has the controls. ‘Back up a bit. There!’
He pauses the footage. On the screen, a woman is tapping her card to pay for a round of drinks. ‘I’m no detective, love, but that’s not the bloke you were just looking at.’
Lauren knows this woman. But from where?
‘Can you play it in slow motion?’ She thinks perhaps it’s the receptionist from Foxleigh Manor – she has the same style, at least – or is she just one of those girl-next-door women who always seem familiar?
The landlord moves the footage forward frame by frame, and the woman gathers three pints in her hands with a practised air.
Her blonde hair is styled in loose curls that fall either side of her navy blazer.
She’s too old to be the receptionist, Lauren realizes, but she’s certain she knows—
And then the woman laughs, showing a surprising number of teeth, and Lauren recalls her instantly. Carrie Finder.
The boss appreciates you working out of hours . . . You’ve proved yourself to be a real team player.
Carrie had told them she hadn’t socialized with Jamie; that Jamie, in fact, had been positively anti-social. Seems rather a coincidence, then, Lauren thinks, that they should find themselves in the same pub at the same time . . .
Lauren heads back to the nick, where she asks for intelligence checks on Carrie Finder. Fraser’s a good judge of character, but Lauren’s certain Carrie hasn’t given them the full story. Had she had a crush on Golding? Or was there something more sinister at play?
There’s nothing on the system – no convictions, no stop-checks or cautions – and no obvious open-source intel that might hint at her political affiliations.
‘She did briefly add an anti-vax banner to her Facebook page,’ says the intel officer, clicking through Carrie’s profile pictures.
‘So did my cousin,’ Lauren says. ‘I don’t think that’s necessarily an indicator of far-right extremism. Does she have a car?’ She waits while the intel officer runs a DVLA check.
‘Yep, a red Fiat 500.’
‘Can you run the index number through ANPR and see if—’ Lauren stops short. The woman who bought the burner phone at Sainsbury’s got into a red Fiat 500. Lauren needs to see that CCTV image.
Matt airdrops the still to Lauren’s phone and watches as she scrutinizes it.
It’s a terrible image – no wonder the shoplifting figures at Sainsbury’s are through the roof – but Lauren knows within seconds who she’s looking at.
If she’d seen this first – before her memory was jogged by the footage at the Two Princes – she might not have recognized the wavy-haired woman behind the wheel of the Fiat, but now she’s in no doubt.
Carrie Finder bought a burner phone with the same cloned card used to secure the village hall for a meeting of New Dawn.
‘Who’s the woman?’ Fraser says, just as Lauren’s swiping the image from her phone.
She’s about to tell him what she’s uncovered when she sees Matt waiting too, and she can’t shake the prickle of uncertainty that’s followed her since Fraser cast doubts over his integrity.
Could it have been Matt who tipped off Bishop and the others?
Lauren can’t take the risk of losing Carrie Finder too.
‘No idea,’ she says shortly.
Instead, she takes the information to the CTU, where, with a detachment that belies her churning insides, tells DI Stratman she no longer trusts her team enough to let them in on all aspects of the investigation.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised; I assumed you ran a tight ship there.’
‘I do.’ Lauren battles to keep the indignation from her voice. ‘But briefings are attended by representatives from several specialisms, and we have numerous officers on loan from other departments.’
‘You don’t suspect any one individual, then?’
There’s a beat.
‘No.’
Stratman’s eyes narrow briefly, then he nods.
‘Well, I appreciate you coming to us. I’ll run it by the boss, of course, but I think it’s best if we take control of the investigation in its entirety now.
’ He pauses. ‘I seem to remember that was our recommendation after New Dawn’s involvement had been confirmed. ’
Lauren doesn’t rise to the bait. ‘Has anything been found at Bishop’s house?’
‘The searches are still ongoing,’ Stratman says. ‘The Home Secretary has authorized an intercept on calls coming into his contracted phone, so we’ll see what that turns up.’
‘And the planned attack? Craig Whitfield’s source says it’s happening this weekend – has there been any more intelligence on what the target is?’
Stratman doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he gives her a polite smile. ‘We’re making progress. I’ll let DC Whitfield know he can pass any updates directly to me from now on. Ma’am,’ he adds, only just the right side of respectful.
Slowly, Lauren stands up. He’s dismissing her. And although she knew this was the most likely outcome, it still smarts.
‘How come they’re taking over now?’ Fraser asks, when they’re on their way home. ‘I thought you’d had the dick-swinging contest on that one already.’
‘I don’t know.’ Lauren looks out of the window so he can’t see her face.
She doesn’t like keeping things from him, but that had been part of the deal when she’d taken the DCI job; sometimes she would be privy to information she couldn’t share with him.
‘I guess whatever intel they’ve got has raised the threat level. ’
‘Stratman probably went crying to the boss.’
‘Maybe.’ She circles her neck, trying to ease the stiffness.
‘Why don’t you have a bath when we get home?’ Fraser glances at her. ‘And don’t say you haven’t got time.’
Sometimes Lauren thinks Fraser knows her better than she knows herself.
‘Glass of wine, Love Island repeats, some of that pink glittery shit your mum gave you for your birthday . . .’
‘Pink glittery shit?’ She laughs. ‘I’m sold.’
‘I’ll even run it for you. I know just how you like it.’ He leaves a beat. ‘Hot and deep, just like your men.’
‘Fraser Hogan!’ Lauren laughs so hard she can’t stop for the rest of the way home.
True to his word, Fraser runs the hot water until the room fills with steam, and pink-tinged foam kisses the top of the tub.
He puts a glass of wine and her iPad on the bamboo bath tray, and a fresh towel on the heated radiator.
He even lights the Diptyque candle Lauren had decided was too expensive to ever use.
‘Enjoy.’ He kisses her. ‘I’m going for a run.’
Lauren closes the door to trap in the steam, then steps into her gaudy bubbles. The water’s so hot she has to hop from foot to foot until the temperature is bearable, before lowering herself slowly beneath the surface. She lets out a long, satisfied groan. Perfect.
At first she thinks she’ll lie in silence, but her head is too full of Mike Bishop and counter-terrorism and Nadeeka’s mistrust, and Lauren knows she won’t relax without something to drown out the noise.
She logs on to Netflix and half-watches Emily in Paris.
She’s midway through the second episode when she feels a vibration in the pipes beneath the bath.
Lauren pauses the show. The vibration comes again – a tiny tremor travelling through the bottom of the bathtub – and she swears under her breath.
She knows exactly what this is. The plumbing in their house is old and should really be replaced; last year the pipes in the separate ensuite shower room made a similar noise just before one of them burst, flooding downstairs and causing a stain on the kitchen ceiling she can still see despite several coats of paint.
Lauren hauls herself out of the bath and wraps herself in her towel.
Still dripping wet, she kneels on the tiles and prises off the bath panel.
She braces herself for the sight of water, but the tiles beneath the tub are dry and she’s just about to put the panel back when she sees something tucked in the corner. She reaches for it.
It’s a small black phone.
Lauren sits back on her heels and stares at it.
It isn’t hers, which means it must be Fraser’s, and there’s only one reason why a man in a committed relationship would want to hide a mobile phone.
Lauren feels suddenly light-headed. They’re getting married in less than a fortnight. Is Fraser having an affair?
Just as her head starts to reel with unanswered questions, the phone vibrates again, the screen lighting up with a message.
All ready for Christmas?
Christmas? Her mind spirals – a mistress? A second family? – but then Lauren sees the sender’s name and suddenly she can’t breathe. She drops the phone as if she’s been scalded, and it skitters across the tiles.
Mike Bishop.
Lauren presses her palm to her heart, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm her. Just then, there’s a knock at the bathroom door and she claps a hand to her mouth, suppressing a yelp.
‘Is there any hot water left?’ Fraser calls through the door. ‘I just bossed that canal segment we did a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Sh-should be,’ Lauren manages, her voice unnaturally high.
‘Cool, I’ll hop in the shower, then make a start on dinner.’
She hears his footsteps move away from the bathroom, and she draws her knees up to her chest, her eyes still fixed on the phone on the floor.
What the hell is she going to do?