City of Dreadful Night Read online

  Most of the policemen were crowded in the doorway of the front bedroom, looking in, guns dangling. She could hear a television blaring somewhere in the room.

  She was tall enough to see over the shoulders of the two who were blocking her way. She saw the double bed, saw the man sitting up in it. He was bare-chested, tilted to one side. There was a spray of blood and other material on the wall behind him and a red jagged hole in the centre of his forehead. Someone hadn’t been aiming at body mass.

  The naked woman sitting dead beside him had no face left to speak of.

  Gilchrist seemed to have a heightened sense of smell. The man and woman had been having sex, she could tell. But there was also the smell of cordite, sweat, blood and shit.

  She could hear the heavy breathing of the policemen all around her. Ragged, snorting. Animal.

  ‘I was told I was needed upstairs,’ she said to the first policeman to notice her presence. He looked at her coldly. Slowly, they all turned to her. She shivered.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Foster?’ she said.

  The first man she’d addressed tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. He frowned.

  ‘Outside.’

  She went back down the stairs. She glanced down the corridor to the kitchen as if she could picture tomorrow’s headline there, printed in large letters on the fridge. Neatly alliterative: Massacre in Milldean.

  Finch and the other two policemen had gone. The body of the skinny man was still there. The pool of blood had spread wider across the floor, thick and syrupy, though other footprints had now joined her own. Finch and the others she assumed.

  She walked to the door of the kitchen and, crouching, peered under the cupboards. She was thinking about what had fallen from the man’s hand. But she could see nothing.

  TWO

  I was at an official dinner in the banqueting room of the Royal Pavilion when the roof fell in on my career. My beeper vibrated in my belt just as Bernard Rafferty was beginning to grate.

  Rafferty was the director of the Pavilion, a pompous little man who also wrote political biographies. I saw him all the time in Brighton – for though it might be a city, it is still a small town – but I also regularly encountered him in national radio and TV studios. We were both used as pundits, although his favourite topic of conversation was himself. Tonight he was launching a fund-raising initiative to turn a rundown part of the city near the station into a cultural quarter.

  I was sitting at one of a number of round tables in the ornately decorated room. They were ordered around the long central table set for a Victorian banquet. A huge dragon chandelier hung over it from the canopied ceiling decorated with fantastic animals. Around the perimeter of the room were Spode blue lampstands and rosewood sideboards and the walls were hung with large canvases of Chinese domestic scenes. The room was an incredible confection. As was this gathering.

  The top table was filled with local politicians and wealthy businessmen. Both the city’s MPs were there with the Leader of the Council, Rupert Colley, sandwiched between them. All three looked to be texting on their phones. Winston Hart, the head of the Southern Police Authority, was gazing up at the ceiling.

  I was hoping the Prince Regent had more fun when he stayed here than I’d ever had at these dinners. A young woman from the council’s tourism department had been mildly flirting. She’d pressed her business card into my hand and insisted I call her if I ever wanted a private tour of the Pavilion. I’d enjoyed the attention but had not taken it seriously. I loved my wife, Molly, who was at home in the grip of another migraine.

  Events like this were enough to induce migraine in anyone. Molly, however, was particularly unsuited to her role as company wife. She suffered from depression. It had come on after the birth of our second child, Tom, and had never really gone away.

  Medication lifted her moods but, in common with many depressives, when her mood was lifted she chose not to take the medication, thus prompting a new bout of despair.

  I whispered an excuse to the tourism officer and left the banqueting room unobtrusively, looking at the number on the beeper only when I was in the corridor.

  My deputy, Philip Macklin. I frowned. I’m an obsessive by nature. I’ve always found it difficult to delegate. Once I made Chief Constable – the youngest in the country – I recognized that was neither practicable nor good management practice. I resolved that my management style would be as liberal as my policing policies – well, all but one of my policing policies.

  Delegation was key, I knew, and because I was reluctant I overcompensated. I delegated too much. The difficulty I had with delegation was compounded in my deputy’s case by the fact that I wasn’t sure he was up to the job.

  I speed-dialled him.

  ‘Philip, it’s Bob.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we have a major situation.’ Macklin sounded panicked. No change there, then. ‘A dynamic entry by the tactical firearms unit. Home arrest. The information was sound . . . Seemed sound.’

  ‘Terrorists?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You were the gold commander?’

  My force operated the standard gold/silver/bronze system of command and control for firearms operations and incidents. Gold commanders, who were at least chief inspectors or superintendents, could take responsibility for authorizing firearms issue for specific operations. They took strategic command with the help of a tactical adviser.

  One of the things I intended to address was that we had far too many officers qualified to be gold commanders. There were around seventy, which meant that none of them got an opportunity to gain much experience of this most sensitive of duties.

  For dynamic entry, the gold commander needed to be one of my four assistant chief constables. Macklin, as my deputy, was the most senior, though not the best.

  ‘I’m gold commander, yes, sir.’

  ‘Pre-planned or spontaneous?’

  We divided firearms operations into those two categories.

  ‘It falls somewhere between the two. We had about two hours’ notice.’

  I could hear muffled applause in the banqueting room. Rafferty had finally stopped preening.

  ‘Any of our people hurt?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Good. What happened?’

  ‘Information was received from an impeccable source. A violent criminal, wanted for two shootings and suspicion of involvement in three others, was holed up in a house in Milldean before crossing to France tomorrow. He was known to be armed and dangerous.’ Macklin cleared his throat. ‘I approved an operation to enter the premises forcibly and arrest him.’

  ‘And did we arrest him?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He resisted arrest?’

  Macklin hesitated. I could hear his strained breathing on the other end of the phone. I felt my stomach knot.

  ‘Philip, just tell me what happened.’

  Macklin reverted to formality.

  ‘Four people have been killed in a house in Milldean.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. What was this – the Gunfight at the OK Corral?’ I looked around to see if anyone could overhear but the nearest security guard was a good thirty yards down the long corridor. ‘I take it he wasn’t alone, then.’

  Macklin was silent. My mind racing, I continued:

  ‘Kratos?’

  There were regular rules for firearm incidents – officers should shoot to incapacitate suspects and aim at the upper body because it provided the largest target and offered the best chance of knocking out the central nervous system. Then there were Operation Kratos tactics.

  These allowed police to shoot dead suspected suicide bombers without the need to issue a warning. Under Operation Kratos, a senior officer was on standby twenty-four hours a day to authorize the deployment of special armed squads to track and maybe shoot dead suspected suicide bombers. Shoot dead in any damned way they could.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But none of our people were injure
d, you say. Were they fired upon?’

  Another hesitation.

  ‘That’s not entirely clear at this stage, sir.’

  ‘But these dead people were armed? Tell me that at least.’

  ‘That’s not entirely clear either. Sir.’

  It does me no credit to say that I immediately went into containment mode. I was sorry these people were dead but I wanted to protect my force, minimize the fallout. And, if I’m honest, I wanted to protect myself.

  ‘Get hold of Jack.’

  Jack Lawrence was my chief press officer. He was experienced at dealing with high-profile cases after a long stint with the Met.

  ‘Jack’s on the scene already.’

  ‘With journalists?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘They were bloody quick.’

  ‘With respect, sir, you have been encouraging a more open relationship with the press. Jack thought the raid would be a good story for journalists to be in on.’

  ‘OK. They were in the house?’

  ‘Not in the house, no, sir.’

  I found myself staring at a small porcelain figure of a Chinese man on a plinth directly in front of me. His head was slowly nodding.

  ‘Get Jack to call a press conference for noon tomorrow. I want a full report on my desk by nine in the morning.’

  ‘Sir, you might want to wait a little—’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to accuse us of closing ranks—’ I caught Macklin’s tone. ‘Why might I want to wait a little?’

  Macklin cleared his throat again. He was driving me nuts.

  ‘Yes?’ I said sharply. ‘Tell me there isn’t a way this could get any worse.’

  I waited out the silence.

  Finally:

  ‘It seems we might have raided the wrong house.’

  When I had taken over the Southern Police Force three months earlier I had walked into an organization in need of a major shake-up. Macklin, who had gone for my job after years as Assistant Chief Constable, was on my list of people to sack. And overhauling the ramshackle way the force’s tactical firearms unit operated was one of my priorities.

  However, although I hit the ground running, I’d been sidetracked by the fallout from a mishandled child murder and a load of other stuff that needed sorting. I’d also been hindered by Macklin and others on my Force Command team, as well as lower down the hierarchy.

  I guess I’d hoped that we could muddle on as we had been doing until I could really get to grips with the situation. After all, Gatwick Airport Division was part of my command so I had the elite Gatwick tactical firearms unit to fall back on. Plus firearm incidents in our area were relatively rare, even with the increased threat of terrorist outrages.

  Clearly I’d been unduly optimistic.

  ‘When did this happen?’ I said to Macklin.

  ‘Thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Give me the address.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir. There’s a situation developing.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’

  ‘The pubs are emptying, there are a lot of people on the streets. Some stones have been thrown.’

  I laughed harshly.

  ‘Oh, great. So now we have a riot.’

  ‘It’s not got to that stage yet. But you know Milldean at the best of times. And with the drink . . .’

  ‘Get police in riot gear down there. I want this containing before it does get out of hand.’

  I was obliged to go now, although I didn’t relish being doorstepped by journalists asking questions about an operation I had no fucking clue about.

  Macklin seemed to read my thoughts.

  ‘There was no need to bother you with it, sir. I have the authority and from the briefing notes I received it all seemed pretty clear cut.’

  ‘I’m sure it did, Philip. I’m sure it did.’

  My driver already had the address. En route I tried to get hold of William Simpson, the government adviser who had been my friend since childhood. He had been a spin doctor until the government had banned the term (though not the spinning). I left messages for him at home, at work and on his mobile.

  The Home Secretary and PM would need to be informed. I had the ear of the current government over my sincere belief that British policemen should be armed. Indeed, the government secretly favoured this policy, keen as it was to be seen as tough on crime – the tough-on-the-causes-of-crime part of the rubric of the previous government was long forgotten.

  I had consistently argued for the increased safety of the community if the police were routinely armed, even after the debacle on the London tube. I had become the government’s poster boy on the issue. I knew the fact I was a liberal on all other police matters made my view on this issue all the more powerful.

  It was a sultry evening so, although the car was air-conditioned, I lowered my window as we drove up the London Road and out towards Milldean.

  My phone rang as we passed under the high railway viaduct, which I always regarded as the boundary between the city proper and its outskirts. I recognized the number. Rupert Colley, Leader of the Council, a man who prided himself on his grass-roots politics. However near his ear was to the ground, I didn’t believe he could have heard so quickly, although he would have seen me leave the dinner. Not that it would have made any difference. I would still have ignored the call.

  Traffic was light so we sped past Preston Park then swung right on to the estate. We followed the labyrinth of pitted streets until I saw a large crowd of people. Milldean was a typical fifties council estate: low-rise but with many of the problems a decade later associated with high-rise.

  Wide avenues, cheap houses but a lot of them. In one part of the estate there were a couple of hundred prefabs still in use. When they’d been put up at the end of the Second World War they were only meant to be a short-term solution to the housing shortage.

  The mood was unpredictable. We edged by the crowd and pulled up in front of a set of steel barricades.

  The divisional commander for the area came over to the car as half a dozen uniformed officers cleared a way for us. He slid into the car beside me.

  ‘We’ve got to disperse these people,’ I said as we passed through the barricade. I could see more people milling at the far end of the street.

  ‘I’ve got two dozen officers in riot gear on their way,’ he said. His name was Lewis. He was a by-the-book officer, competent enough but lacking in originality. And he was rattled. He spoke in staccato sentences. ‘There are a few troublemakers among this crowd. People heard the shots, of course. Mostly when that happens round here people know to stay indoors. There are wild rumours. The police have shot a pregnant woman. A ten-year-old girl.’

  ‘And did we?’ I hissed.

  ‘No ten-year-old girl,’ he said quietly. I looked at his pinched face. He looked back at me with sad eyes.

  ‘We don’t know at this stage if the woman is pregnant.’

  I clenched my fists and tried to control my breathing. I have a tendency to rage. It’s not something I’m proud of, although it has served me well when I’ve been in physical jeopardy, as I often was during my army service.

  Jack approached the car, neat as ever in a lightweight blue suit. He held the door as I got out.

  ‘Sorry about the hacks,’ he said, nodding towards a middle-aged man and an attractive young woman standing in the street some twenty yards away. The man was looking nervously at the crowds gathered behind the barricades then scribbling in a notebook. The woman – bespectacled, hair twisted into a knot, vaguely familiar – was talking intently into a microphone.

  ‘Not your fault. Bad timing. Who are they?’

  ‘Just locals so we shouldn’t have a problem. The guy from the Argus – Vince Proctor – is solid.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  Jack lowered his voice. ‘She’s fluff from the local radio station. A trainee.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do they know how many dead at t
his point?’

  Jack shook his head. I touched his sleeve.

  ‘Openness is our policy, but we have to play this carefully. Organize a press conference for noon tomorrow. That should give us enough time to sort out what has happened. Everyone will expect us to close ranks, as the police always do. But we won’t.’ I looked around. ‘Where’s Danny?’

  Jack looked at me oddly.

  ‘Danny Moynihan? He’s not here.’

  ‘So who was the silver commander?’

  The gold commander took strategic command of an armed response incident. The silver commander decided on the tactical response and was in charge of the actual operation. I had the same problem with the silver commanders as with the gold – there were too many of them. Given how rarely such officers fulfilled this role, how could we expect them to do it with confidence? However, I had absolute faith in Moynihan.

  ‘Charlie Foster was silver, sir.’

  ‘He’s in the IR van with the guys?’

  ‘And the girls, sir. It was a mixed team.’

  ‘I was using guys in the American way,’ I said absently. ‘Do we know who the victims are? The woman?’

  ‘We have no clear identification yet. It was a rented house. You may have heard a rumour about the woman –’ I nodded – ‘I don’t know whether or not that’s true.’

  ‘Bad enough that we shot her in the first place,’ I said quietly.

  I thanked him and went into the house. A couple of people in white bunny suits were kneeling beside a man lying on his back in the kitchen. Blood had congealed around his body. I could smell its thick iron tang. A third man straightened and pointed me towards several more sets of overalls.

  I suited up and climbed the stairs. At the top another man in white coveralls barred my way.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Can’t risk you contaminating the crime scene. You can see from here well enough.’

  I nodded and looked past him through the bars of the landing guard. I saw a man slumped on the toilet, as if in the middle of a particularly difficult bowel movement. By pulling myself up and leaning over the top of the banister I could just see the dead couple in the front bedroom.