Paul Cornell - London Falling

She took his hand and managed to haul him to his feet. ‘Your meaning is right here,’ she said, and Quill got the feeling she was probably angry. At any rate, between them they managed to get him into bed.

Sefton stayed at the safe house in Wanstead for a week. He slept a lot. He watched daytime telly. He had some terrible dreams. Stupid stuff, easy to forget in the daylight. He was back on his school bus, being tormented by those little shits. Batty boy, that was their favourite. As if they knew. Posh boy . In that accent of theirs that he himself did offhandedly now, and still hated. The white kids called him black, and the black kids called him everything else.

‘That,’ he explained to a bloke called Tom, from Norfolk, in the right sort of pub, ‘is how I realized I had a talent for my line of work.’

‘What’s that?’ Tom hadn’t really been listening to Sefton’s tales of woe, just looking at the other man’s chest.

Which was great. But maybe not for tonight, ’cos he was in a safe house, and out for an innocent pint. ‘Underwear model,’ he said, and at least the bloke laughed.

So, loads of time alone in his room, lots of time to let the tension flood out, but that only seemed to let the memories flood in. Fucking Costain! He wished he could put it all in the past, but Costain blowing him that kiss had connected. Even now. Even here. No racism or homophobia in the Met. Not these days, sir, no, I’ve never seen any. I’m one of the good ones.

He had found a gym with a boxing ring, sparred a bit. His partner, a cocky bloke, thinking he saw something vulnerable in Sefton’s passive expression, said, ‘No, come on, two rounds proper like.’ Sefton dropped his guard twenty seconds in, stepped past the haymaker, and hit him — body, jaw, body — and the kid staggered back, waving his gloves in the air, laughing awkwardly. ‘Okay, okay!’

Sefton had inclined his head to him. ‘Yeah. I get that a lot.’

That night he had thought about going on Grindr and setting up a random encounter with some bloke who wouldn’t give a fuck about all his angst. Yeah, but no.

Then a phone call had come, saying Toshack had died in custody. Sefton had just nodded, because he felt so numb. Then he wanted to hit something. But he kept it all in.

After that he went out for more runs, got himself ready for the debriefing, ready to become his public self again. He wanted to tell them about Costain, about that moment, about the fucking months of bullying, both in and out of character. But he wouldn’t. That wasn’t who he was. He didn’t want to be an adult who was bullied, so he rose above it by not talking. Or that’s what you tell yourself.

Debriefing took him to anonymous meeting rooms in anonymous hotels. He found some relief in being led through the last few weeks of the operation, giving the required details, establishing a narrative. He’d expected Quill to be there, but he wasn’t. His DS led the meetings and, when asked, said Quill was on leave. That didn’t bloody bode well.

Sefton wanted, he realized after the first session, to at least be asked about Costain. He wanted to be asked so he could. . well, maybe mention the drugs. Yeah, that.

But he wasn’t asked. And was left frustrated. But perhaps that was for the best. It wasn’t as if he’d seen him take anything, damn it.

That night, in a different right sort of pub, he declared, again without having given the context: ‘It’s as if I haven’t got a voice.’

‘Talk a lot, don’t you?’ said the other bloke this time.

Sefton gave him a long look that made him take a step back. Then he broke into a cheerful smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘long day.’ And he went back to the safe house alone.

And then it was over. He was told he should expect a meeting with SCD 10 for reassignment, considered damaged goods along with the rest of Goodfellow. But then he got another call: this time Lofthouse’s office, which was on his approved list but not a number he’d ever used. A new meeting to be held at a Radisson hotel out near Heathrow. This must be a post-mortem, something on the way to holding an inquiry. Dirt was going to be dished and Sefton resolved that, just for once, he’d do the dishing. Against all his experience of the copper lifestyle, he was hoping for some sort of closure.

He stepped out of the lift, walked into the anonymous meeting room without knocking, closed the door behind him and found himself facing someone he didn’t know. A young woman in her twenties, who had the strangest eyes he’d ever seen. She looked out of place in a suit, didn’t stand like police did — she wasn’t balanced squarely on both feet so as to be braced against whatever was about to happen, the way he’d had to train himself not to stand. She thus looked vulnerable, and vulnerable was worrying. Lofthouse, Quill and Costain were there, too. Apart from the detective superintendent, they all looked equally uncomfortable. ‘Ma’am,’ he nodded, ‘Sir.’ Just a nod to Costain. ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is our intelligence analyst, Lisa Ross,’ began Lofthouse. ‘Lisa, this is DC-’

What the fuck? ‘Ma’am, I’m not comfortable with-!’

‘You were told at the start of Goodfellow that Lisa was indoctrinated in the operation, but cut out from it for security reasons. And you’re now reacting like any UC would, but Goodfellow is over, Detective Constable. And I’ve put together a juicy little spin-off.’

Sefton felt like walking straight out again. This was the last thing he’d expected. And it was not bloody closure. A spin-off with Costain? But. . he wasn’t being sent home either. He controlled himself. He kept it all in. He nodded to Ross. ‘DC Kevin Sefton, second UC.’

She looked back at him, apparently as fearful of hearing his name as he was of giving it. Then she looked over to Costain. ‘ You’re “Blakey”, then?’ she said.

‘Guilty as charged.’ At least he hadn’t smiled.

Ross actually snorted, which made Sefton hide a smile. Oh, he liked her.

Quill had meanwhile been lost in paperwork and waiting. Waiting far too long for those bloody test results to come in. He’d also been anticipating a post-mortem in which they’d doubtless try to establish exactly what Costain had been guilty of. His own reports to Lofthouse had leaned heavily in that direction. But it seemed he’d been ignored.

‘A spin-off?’ he enquired.

‘Just you four, reporting directly to me.’

Quill looked round at the others, and saw they were as boggled as he was. ‘Two UCs, an analyst and a DI?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, apart from anything else, I’ll need my DS, Harry Dobson-’

‘I’m sorry, no.’

Quill felt himself getting angry. ‘Is the possibility of corruption in Gipsy Hill so widespread,’ he said, ‘that we are the only four definitely exempt?’ And he couldn’t help but look straight at Costain as he said it.

Lofthouse just raised a warning eyebrow.

Costain had only narrowly persuaded himself to come here. His memory darted back now to the night when Lofthouse herself, incredibly, had arrived outside his cell. She’d taken away the Nagra tape. But then she’d come back, the key to the cell in her hand. ‘Only take phone calls from me,’ she’d instructed, walking him out to a waiting car. ‘I’ll take care of you. All right?’

He’d felt ridiculously glad to hear that. He remembered the night when she’d called him about the death that occurred in custody. He’d heard about Rob breaking, of him being about to tell it all, against everything he stood for, and then he heard that Quill had been the only officer in the room. Costain had hung up and gone to a door in his safe house and started slamming it. As if that would bring down punishment.