Liz delayed telling Shapiro until there was confirmation. It would be bad enough when they knew it was true; the uncertainty was a burden a sick man could do without.
Hilton was dealing with Siddiq. He offered her the chance to be involved, but though she appreciated the gesture she doubted she could do it justice. Besides, if it was anybody’s triumph it was James Colwyn’s. She was happy for him to take the second seat while she sat by the phone in her office, thinking of all the times Donovan had driven her to distraction and wondering how on earth she’d replace him.
When the call came saying she wouldn’t have to, that DS Donovan had been found unconscious on a garage forecourt and was currently on a drip in Peterborough District Hospital, she was hit by a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Donovan was safe: he’d lost a lot of blood, but he’d be back on his feet in a day or two. He’d returned from the dead, Liz thought with relief, more times than Dracula.
But there would be no resurrection for Maddie Cotterick. Even when he was able to talk Donovan
wasn’t able to give a clear picture of where Dodgson had finally caught up with them, and Peterborough police were still searching for the body. But he had no doubt that she was dead; and what Dodgson told Siddiq on the phone confirmed it. Liz had thought he’d killed them both. A fresh cause for guilt was the way her heart lifted when she knew that, though the girl was dead, Donovan was safe. It was only natural - she told herself anyone would have felt the same - but it was no cause for celebration that the disaster had been a little less than total.
Maddie had known she was in danger. She’d turned to Queen’s Street for help, and they’d failed her. Liz couldn’t see what she should have done differently, and clearly Donovan had done his level best, but the unavoidable fact was that a witness in a murder case had been eliminated after she’d put herself into the hands of the investigating officers. An inquiry was inevitable. Even that didn’t bother Liz as much as wondering if they should, or even could, have done better.
Shapiro. Time to tell him how things stood. Like her, his first reaction would be relief; and his second, like hers, a pang of remorse that he was more concerned about his sergeant than the woman he’d been sent to protect.
There was more good news than bad. Donovan safe; Ibn al Siddiq in custody; Philip Kendall in custody. But the bad news weighed heavier. A second girl had died. Even knowing all they did by then, they hadn’t been able to prevent another murder.
Perhaps because he’d been on the periphery during later events, Shapiro managed to be philosophical. ‘We can’t change the world, Liz. We do our best. We all did our best: me, you, and Donovan who if he’d tried any harder would have ended up on a slab. Sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes the odds are just too great. We were up against a man with a bottomless pocket and no conscience, and I can’t imagine a more lethal cocktail. You got to the bottom of it. It has to be enough.’
It didn’t feel enough. Maybe if they’d got the mechanic as well, but although every airport and ferry terminal was being watched, Liz wasn’t optimistic. If he could be picked out of a crowd he’d never have stayed in business long enough to reach the top. The man who called himself Dodgson had disappeared back through the looking-glass.
She tried to look on the bright side. ‘We’ve evidence enough for the first murder charge to stick. What about conspiracy to murder Maddie - will the CPS have any trouble with that?’ She meant, would their nerve fail them. The Crown Prosecution Service was notorious for backing off any case that didn’t more or less make itself, as if the cost of losing one would be deducted from the Directors’ pension fund.
Shapiro didn’t answer right away, and when Liz looked at him, puzzled, his face was screwed up as if he was wondering how to break bad news. ‘Frank? What is it?’
He was doing the thing with his toes again,
watching them so he didn’t have to look at her. ‘Liz, don’t set your heart on seeing this man in court.’
She stared at him, a blaze kindling in her eyes. ‘What do you mean? We know what he did. We have forensics connecting him to the girl in the hotel. We have Kendall’s testimony. We even have his own actions - if it’s all a case of mistaken identity, how the hell did he know how to contact the mechanic? Of course we’ve got him!’
There were times, he thought wryly, when it seemed Liz Graham had managed to claw her way up to the exalted rank - for a woman - of detective inspector without ever learning what a corrupt place the world was. Not the criminal substrata, you expected them to behave like that, but the place where the so-called decent people lived. As soon as people had a bit of money they began to think they could behave as they liked; as if middle-class values only applied when you couldn’t afford to pay for your vices. Coming as he did from a great bastion of middle-class values, Frank Shapiro didn’t have a lot of time for the seriously rich. He could understand people who stole because they were too stupid to earn what they wanted - not excuse, but understand. He honestly couldn’t understand people who had all the advantages and still couldn’t conduct themselves decently.
‘I know it shouldn’t matter who he is, but we may find that it does. He’s a high-ranking foreign national - he’s the second cousin of an absolute monarch, for God’s sake! This whole business is going to be a massive embarrassment for both governments. If the
Saudis say they want him back, they’ll deal with him at home, I think the Home Office may go along with that.’
When they were as wide as this Liz’s eyes were more green than hazel. ‘They can’t! What the hell kind of a message does that send to the world? - Come to Britain, see the Palace and Shakespeare’s birthplace, commit a murder or two and if you’re important enough we’ll brush it under the carpet in the interests of the next trade agreement! Frank, are you serious?’
Shapiro shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m wrong. We all know I have a nasty suspicious mind, maybe it’s working overtime. I just - wanted to warn you, I suppose. There are things that officially don’t happen but in fact do happen and are just kept quiet. This maybe one of them.’
She still didn’t believe. Until she got back to Queen’s Street and found her parking space occupied by a black limousine with a uniformed chauffeur.
Inside the police station she found a lot of people carefully not looking at her.
‘What’s going on? Whose is the hearse?’
Sergeant Bolsover was on the desk. ‘Home Office,’ he said morosely. Of course, he could sound morose ordering a chocolate digestive for his elevenses, it was just his way, but he didn’t usually look like he wanted to spit and then wipe his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Detective Superintendent Hilton said—’
‘I know,’ she said shortly. ‘To see him when I got
in. I’m on my way.’ She started resolutely up the stairs.
You can tell a genuine Fenlander not only by his glum expression but by the slow deliberation of his speech. Liz had disappeared round the angle of the stairs before Bolsover rumbled, ‘No. He said to keep out of the way.’
So Shapiro was right. They were going to Reach an Understanding. To protect Siddiq’s family and the British government from public embarrassment, they were going to circumvent the process of law and send the transgressor home for a slap on the wrist. As if the lives of Maddie Cotterick and her friend were of no consequence. As if three murders mattered less than the risk of offending a major export customer. Mounting outrage and a savage determination to get justice for the dead girls, and for the homeless man called Wicksy, powered her up the stairs two at a time.
Hilton either heard or anticipated her arrival. He met her in the corridor. More than ever his expression was internalized, tight and wary. He was expecting fireworks. He thought he’d slammed the blast-proof door just in time, was alarmed to hear a fizzing sound on this side of it.
‘Inspector Graham. Didn’t you get my message?’
Her eyes were hot on his face. ‘No, I don’t think I did. You’ve got the Home Office in there.’ She jerked her head at his door.
‘Yes. And the Assistant Chief Constable, and a gentleman from the Saudi embassy. It’s not a big
office,’ he added pointedly, ‘when I go back in there it’ll be full.’
‘You’re going to let him go.’
Hilton elevated one thin eyebrow. ‘Really? You’ve got a crystal ball, have you? - you know what the outcome of this meeting’s going to be? Excellent; you can save us all a lot of time.’
But she was too angry to wilt under his sarcasm. ‘God damn it, sir! He killed two women and a man: one with his hands, the others with his chequebook. He had Frank Shapiro shot in the back to stop him investigating, and Donovan almost bled to death. And you’re going to let him go. Because he has friends in high places, and after all, we do some valuable business with his cousin! And they were only a couple of working girls; oh, and your colleagues.’
If she’d been a man it’s just possible he might have decked her for that. Detective Superintendent Edwin Hilton was not blessed with unlimited personal charm, but he was an honourable man with twenty-five years’ service under his belt and he found both her tone and her words deeply offensive. The more so because, though they hadn’t worked together very long, it had been enough for each to gain an appreciation of the other’s worth. He had come to respect Liz Graham’s opinion, was hurt by her judgement of him.
Another man might have tried to explain, to justify himself. But Hilton had a pride as brittle and impervious as porcelain, fired long and hot for maximum lustre and minimum flexibility. His lips
just tightened and his eyes grew hard and cold. ‘What you think of me, Mrs Graham, is of very little moment; but if you imagine I don’t care what happened to Mr Shapiro, and indeed to Sergeant Donovan, you’re mistaken. I also care about the murder victims. But I’m a police officer: I have superiors, I have orders, and ultimately I have to defer to them. I may not like it any more than you do, but I don’t actually have a choice.
‘When we’re done here I shall go back into my office and try to persuade my visitors that they’ve got it wrong, that upholding the rule of law is worth putting some pressure on even a profitable friendship. But if I don’t succeed, and I’ll tell you frankly that I don’t expect to - if they start talking about the public interest and diplomatic immunity - then I shall do what I’m told by those with the authority to tell me. And so, Mrs Graham, will you.’
With that he turned on his heel, crisply as a storm trooper, and returned to his office, shutting the door with an audible snap behind him.
Liz remained where she was in the corridor, frozen like Mrs Lot, for perhaps a minute. She could hear the murmur of voices through the door without being able to pick out the words. After a few exchanges the voices began to rise, becoming querulous.
Liz was already growing aware, even through her fury, that she’d been unfair. Hilton was only a link in the chain, like herself - a bit further up the chain maybe, but a long way from where decisions like this one were made. He was wasting his time even
pressing for a rethink. The decision had already been made, not by the people in that room, and was not open to negotiation. They were here to inform him, not to engage him in discussion.
As soon as Ibn al Siddiq had telephoned his embassy, which as a foreign national in police custody he was entitled to do, the great wheels and little wheels stirred into motion and soon the machines of state were clanking along at maximum revs. If Hilton or any of them got in the way they’d be mown down, and the machines wouldn’t even notice. They were concerned with world events, not the ant-like activities of a few people in a town whose existence history would hardly acknowledge. There was nothing more he could do. There was nothing she could have done, had it been her call, or Shapiro had it been his. Ultimately, as Hilton said, they were public servants. They did as they were told.
It crossed her mind, during that minute, that she could make it a resigning matter. There were issues she would resign over, and for a moment she wondered if this was one. It would free her to make public what had happened. But what, really, would it achieve? A brief satisfaction for her, and then twenty years doing some job that was less important, less relevant, than the one she was doing now. The outcry - as outcry there would be - would not bring Ibn al Siddiq to justice. Its faintest echoes would hardly reach him, safe in his palace near Dhahran. She would suffer; and - not to be too modest - Castlemere would suffer; and public confidence in the
British system of justice would suffer; and that would be all.
It wouldn’t bring the girls back. It wouldn’t bring their killer before the courts. It might embarrass the government, but it had survived worse and would survive this. Nothing would change. It would cite ‘wholly exceptional circumstances’ and ‘the public interest’; and express confidence that the Saudi authorities would deal appropriately with Siddiq back home; and add parenthetically the annual value of British trade with Saudi Arabia and the number of jobs dependent on it; and that would be the end of the matter. There was nothing she could do to affect the outcome, which was that Ibn al Siddiq was going to get away with murder.
But she didn’t have to stay in the same building while he did it. She gritted her teeth, and turned with a stamp that she hoped they might hear inside Shapiro’s office, and plunged down the stairs again. ‘If anybody wants me,’ she flung at Sergeant Bolsover in passing, ‘I’ll be in Peterborough. Trying to explain to Sergeant Donovan that he damn near died for nothing.’