Luke Delaney - Redemption of the Dead

‘Now’s not the time, son. Now’s not the time.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s politics, son. Right now we need to tuck you away somewhere out of sight. No one can touch me, but it’s best you’re not tainted by association. People in this job have long memories and a few egos are soon to be bruised, even if the Fordham case remains closed.’

‘But I can help with the investigation. I can help you find the man you’re looking for.’

‘You already have, son. You already have.’

Two Days Later

Sean had just finished booking in his latest prisoner, a local dealer he’d caught with twenty neatly folded paper-packets of heroin concealed in the lining of his leather jacket — each containing five grams of the class ‘A’ drug. Sean planned to have him back out on the street within a few hours, working as an informant, but now he needed some lunch and headed for the canteen. As he strolled along the dreary corridors of Plumstead Police Station he heard a gruff voice he immediately recognized and stopped in his tracks.

‘Alright, son?’ He spun around to see Bannan leaning on a door-frame. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Bannan told him. ‘Got a minute?’

Sean walked back to Bannan before replying. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ Bannan answered. ‘Please, step inside my new temporary office. I got thrown out of my last one — they needed it for the Crime Prevention Officer.’ Sean stepped past him into an office that was so small it was more like a cupboard. ‘Take a seat for a second.’ Sean did as he was told. ‘You need to know something. You were right — about the killer leaving a fingerprint at the Harter scene. I had Forensics go over the scene again — looking for prints they might have missed — gave them a subtle steer to the door-handle of the daughter’s bedroom and there it was, on the underside — a full print. If he’s got previous, and we both know he has, we should be able to identify him within a couple of weeks. The Yard’s gonna give us priority and put every spare hand on searching the archives. It’s as good as over, Sean, and you played your part.’

‘You said it could take a couple of weeks to identify the killer from the print?’

‘At least,’ Bannan explained. ‘It’s not a computerized system yet, son. It’s not like searching for a car registration on the PNC. They have to manually search through the microfiche — like looking for a needle in a haystack. But they’ll identify him.’

‘He could have killed again by then,’ Sean warned. ‘It’s too slow. We need to go back to the Fordham team again — make them hand over their evidence. The answer will be in there, I’m sure. We could have him in days, not weeks.’

‘Forget it, son. We tried. They didn’t want to play and there’s nothing we can do about it. Hooper was our last chance. If she’d been as critical to the investigation as we’d thought we could have made some headway, but she wasn’t and we won’t. It’ll all come out in the wash eventually. It always does.’

‘But what if he kills again — before we find him?’

‘Then we’ll feel shit, son, but nowhere near as shit as the Fordham investigation team will.’

‘And Hooper?’ Sean asked.

‘Hooper? Let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be entering our world again anytime soon.’

‘But there must be something we can do,’ Sean argued.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Bannan told him. ‘It’s politics, son. Always fucking politics.’

Three Weeks Later

Late Thursday afternoon and Sean sat in the noisy, busy Crime Squad Office at Plumstead, trying to block out the sounds of laughter and ringing telephones — the shouts across the room from cop to cop and the occasional profanity as someone opened up their emails containing the latest unrealistic, irrelevant CPS memos. Against the backdrop of havoc Sean was preparing his questions for the residential burglar he’d caught after two weeks of tracking until he’d been ready to make a calculated guess where the thief would strike next. As the burglar had made his way along a rat-run carrying the hi-fi system he’d just stolen, Sean had been ready for him — stepping out from behind an oversized industrial wheelie bin to bring the thief’s reign of domestic pillage to a premature end. ‘ How the fuck did you know ?’ was all the unfortunate thief had said so far. He suddenly heard his voice being shouted across the office and looked up from his interview notes. ‘Sean. Phone for you.’

‘Transfer it to four-four-nine-two-four,’ Sean shouted back and waited for the brown plastic phone on his shared desk to trill. When it did he answered it without delay. ‘Sean Corrigan speaking.’

‘Hello, son,’ the unmistakable voice of Charlie Bannan greeted him. ‘How’s life back on the Crime Squad?’

‘Alright,’ he answered without enthusiasm, keeping his voice low as he looked around the chaotic office, ‘but I’d rather be back on the Harter Enquiry.’

‘There’s no need,’ Bannan told him. ‘We have our man.’ Sean found himself involuntarily rising, as if his legs were controlled by Bannan’s words. ‘Fingerprints finally identified him from the print we found in the flat — some lunatic called Christopher Richards.’ Sean said nothing. ‘We arrested him this morning — he’s definitely our man — mad as a March hare. We’ll have him charged with the murders by tomorrow night.’

‘And the Rebecca Fordham murder?’

‘We don’t have any evidence to charge him with that and the Enquiry Team over at Wandsworth still don’t want to play — even now we have the man.’

‘But they must want to check him out — they must?’

‘Too many reputations pinned to Ian McCaig being guilty. Sorry, son.’

‘Then there’s nothing we can do?’

‘My advice — go and get drunk and try not to think about it. Besides, whether he’s ever convicted of killing Rebecca or not, he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.’

‘And McCaig?’ Sean asked. ‘What do we do about McCaig?’

‘Let’s just say you might want to watch this space on that one. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘It means leave it with me.’

‘Understood.’

‘Good. You have an interesting gift, son. If you use it right it’ll help you — with your career. But it can be a curse too — if it controls you instead of you it. Know what I mean?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean assured him. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Good,’ Bannan told him. ‘Now go and have that drink. And Sean.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks.’

November 2004

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan sat in the centre of the large office in Peckham Police Station scribbling out endless actions he’d soon be doling out to the detectives working alongside him on the latest case: a female TV presenter who appeared to have been murdered by an obsessed stranger — although Sean was already beginning to have his doubts. His mobile phone chirping and vibrating on his desk broke his concentration and made him curse. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He checked the caller id — withheld — meaning it was probably police. ‘DS Corrigan.’

‘Sean Corrigan?’ the voice asked seriously, warning him this wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill call.

‘That’s me,’ he answered. ‘Problem?’

‘Not exactly,’ the voice told him. ‘I’m Assistant Commissioner John Yates from The Murder Review Group, in charge of overhauling the Rebecca Fordham Murder Enquiry in the light of Ian McCaig’s conviction being quashed a couple of years ago.’

‘Yes,’ Sean encouraged him.