Paul Cornell - London Falling

But she was kept out of the heart of it, even though she tried to get closer. Her mum was kept out too. A lot of people were. Now, more than ever, even more than under her dad, there was the firm and there was whatever made it work, and between those things there were locked doors and Rob taking himself off, away from any of the lieutenants Lisa knew.

Three months before her birthday, she made contact with the Crown Prosecution Service in Bethnal Green. In the weeks leading up to her party, she put several large packages in the post. On the night before her birthday, she kissed her mum goodnight, then she went to the cupboard under the stairs. The knife that Dad had supposedly used to stab himself in the ribs had been returned to the family with the rest of the evidence, years ago. Rob had actually kept it, put it back in the toolkit it had come from. That was typical of him. Lisa had made sure, every week since, that she knew where it was. It was clean, free of incrimination, but she wanted it. She put it in her pocket.

She left the house at midnight, a legal adult now, carrying only a small suitcase and a wad of cash, the loss of which could never be reported to the police.

Her lawyer got in touch with the Toshack family at ten the next morning, before, as it turned out, anyone had even realized she was gone. He indicated that all communication in future would be solely between him and the family. He also told them that Lisa intended to change her name.

She made sure she could not be found. She knew exactly what that would take, and how far the Toshack soldiers would go. Then she thought of what had happened in her room that night, and went many steps beyond. She chose the name Ross, which she’d seen on the side of a refrigerated lorry lying overturned in a ditch. Lisa Ross subsequently worked in a supermarket in Durham, where she was happy and helpful. She was promoted twice. She studied sociology of crime, sports science and criminology part-time at college. She’d been meaning to become a police officer, but the more she read, the more she realized how difficult it would be, if she did so, to carry out what she needed to do.

She walked into a police recruitment van at the careers fair, talked for ten minutes about what her ambitions were, and in response they suggested exactly what she’d already started training herself for. She therefore applied, and was asked to attend an interview a few weeks later and, on the same day, to make a presentation, with half an hour’s preparation, about an organizational system she was familiar with.

Dressed properly and efficiently, she stood up in front of the panel, and began her presentation with a chart she’d drawn from memory during that half-hour. ‘This,’ she said, ‘shows the flow of money within the Toshack crime family.’

The exclamations of astonishment from the panel didn’t manage to make her smile, though she’d thought they might.

The big guys didn’t express an interest in her at first, not even an awareness. She was told many times that she had to do what anyone else would do, that her heritage actually made it harder for her. She agreed, she nodded, she knew, but she didn’t waver. She went through psychometric testing and, to her surprise, everyone seemed to think she was sane. She didn’t mention anything which would convince them otherwise.

She took the three-week basic training course, learning about the intelligence cycle, the national intelligence model, handling five by fives and assigning codes. She was told she was lucky the training centre had moved up north, since she’d thus missed a particular grim building in Putney. She hadn’t mentioned that, if the course had been located there, she wouldn’t have gone. At the same time, she started studying for her criminology degree in the evenings.

Her first assignment as an intelligence analyst was in Bishop Auckland. She watched the patterns of small-scale drug sales, learned how to use I2 link charts to get to know who knew who, where they met, where the money went. She learned how the best intelligence was predictive intelligence, and that it only became intel once an analyst had processed it. How only the phone call logs of criminal organizations formed a closed circuit, without any random calls made to 118 or pizza delivery or girlfriends.

Patterns like that started saying things to her. It was like discerning the hidden contours in a map. She loved it so much, it was nearly enough in itself.

But it wasn’t.

Her boss was a senior analyst called Andrea Stretfield, a ferociously calm lady in her sixties, the last, she said, of some previous generation who possessed wisdom that had since been lost. ‘Don’t just crunch the numbers,’ she advised. ‘Don’t ever be afraid of the responsibility of offering an opinion. There is an art to report-writing, young lady, and it’s not about cutting and pasting. This is how we find the naughty men, by applying the craft.’ At the time, Ross had wondered if this was genuine wisdom, or just the past attempting to claim that it had been better, that the new boys and girls were naive fools. Andrea seemed so sure of everything, but was obviously now a bit out of touch. Gradually, though, Ross came to see how she could pick and choose from the tension between past and present, that having the old guard assert themselves let her take the best from what they knew and then she could apply it to going forward.

She’d imagined that that phone call from her lawyer, a few years ago, would have caused the gravity to shift in Bermondsey, made the drugs and the prostitutes and the gambling and the chop shops vanish. For a while, at least. Maybe for a year. That only then would they start to poke their heads out again, and finally not be able to resist continuing as usual. But, during her time up north, she learned that nothing of the kind had actually happened, and that Toshack had continued business as usual.

That had been a bad night. That night she had again heavy objects up against the door of the bedroom of her flat — and then taken them away again because of how doing that had scared her.

But again she’d thought of her dad, and had kept going.

She had waited, learning her skills in operations that were nothing to do with her. She learned devil’s advocacy, brainstorming and analysis of competing hypotheses. She went on a course with the army Intelligence Corps, and loved what she saw of that way of life. Some part of her wanted to be a real soldier, not in the way that Toshack used the word. She made the rank of higher analyst, which was supposed to put her on equal terms with a DI — though she’d never met a copper who saw it that way — and she started to get roped in by senior detectives on completely different operations, to help them with presentations when the money stuff got difficult. She got the reputation she was after: direct and straightforward and thorough.

And finally, finally, they came to see her.

A Met detective superintendent called Rebecca Lofthouse showed up at her nick. She looked as if she had no time for any bullshit from Ross, which was good, because Ross had none to give her. She spent a good long time looking at her before she even said a word. She toyed with her charm bracelet instead, then finally she seemed to decide. ‘Your uncle,’ she declared, ‘is a thoroughgoing bastard.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Ross.

‘If you’re working undercover for him, it’s the deepest I’ve seen. And he doesn’t need it, not these days. So. . We’ve currently got nothing and you might give us something. There are also factors involved about which you may never hear. At any rate, I’ve decided to take you up on the generous offer which you haven’t yet made to us.’ It transpired that she had an operation in mind, down in the smoke, which would require Ross to be transferred, a request which had already been granted in principle. Lofthouse had already pulled a DI from SCD 7(2), the special projects team, to lead it, and Lambeth Operational Command Unit were letting them use a station that was a significant distance from the subjects, and would keep the op out of the organized crime mainstream, in case Toshack’s intelligence-gathering was all it was cracked up to be. Ross, with the possibility of name and face recognition, would even be kept out of that. They were going to play a long game, putting in some UCs using her knowledge. It was to be called Operation Goodfellow.