Luke Delaney - The Rule of Fear

‘Doesn’t sound like I’m going to get much of a chance to do any real police work,’ he teased them.

‘As you travel through the ranks,’ Gerrard smiled, ‘you’ll realize that making policy and providing a general umbrella of supervision is the true backbone of the service. Anyone can charge around in a police car arresting people, but adhering to government targets of crime reduction and managing the borough budget is an entirely different matter. In many ways now is the time for you to put away such childish things and accept the responsibilities that come with having been selected for accelerated promotion.’

‘Of course,’ King smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I understand.’

‘Good,’ Gerrard beamed.

‘Excellent,’ Johnston added through her assassin’s smile.

‘Well if that’s everything, sir,’ King stated more than asked, rising from his chair, ‘I should be getting back to my duties.’

‘Of course,’ Gerrard agreed. ‘Of course.’

‘But I would like to say that I’m very much looking forward to returning to the borough as a sergeant,’ King added, before immediately regretting it.

‘Return?’ Gerrard asked, the smile dead on his face.

‘Here?’ Johnston added. ‘To Newham?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ King confirmed.

‘Well, that’s your choice entirely,’ Gerrard took over, ‘but there are easier boroughs in which to complete the rank of sergeant. Ones in which you could say you’re less likely to be … tarnished with anything unsavoury or unpleasant that for example the media could exploit later on in your career when you’re of a suitably high rank. These are the sorts of things that a potential future Commissioner already has to start thinking about. You take my point?’

‘Of course,’ King nodded and tried to look serious, ‘but I like it here. Newham will do me fine.’

‘Well,’ Gerrard recovered his smile, ‘maybe after a few weeks at Bramshill you’ll change your mind.’

‘Maybe,’ King lied and pointed at the door. ‘Is it all right if I …?’ he let his words trail away.

‘Keen to make the most of your last few hours as a constable, eh?’ Gerrard asked, pretending that he could understand what that might mean to someone like King.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, heading for the door as quickly as he could, turning the handle, only seconds from freedom before Gerrard stopped him.

‘And remember, Jack,’ he told him, ‘the likes of you and I and Inspector Johnston here have been selected to rule over this organization of ours. We carry on our shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ King answered before escaping through the door, blowing through puffed-out cheeks with relief as he closed it behind him. ‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ he whispered under his breath and headed towards the station yard to hitch a lift back to his beat in an area of Newham he doubted either Gerrard or Johnston had ever seen.

King walked along Central Park Road in East Ham cursing the body armour and traditional-style helmet that made the intense heat of a London summer almost unbearable. He listened to every call that came out over his personal radio, determined to end his constable career with yet another decent arrest and maintain his reputation as a thief-taker, something that had surprised his peers and seniors alike, unaccustomed as they were to seeing anyone on accelerated promotion showing any street skills . But he felt born to be a street cop – his law degree nothing more than something he’d obtained to please his parents. Although they still expressed their deep displeasure at his chosen career, the accelerated promotion programme he’d been offered as a graduate had mollified them. He’d accepted the deal to keep the peace, but doubted he’d stick to it. Maybe he’d even join the CID proper – not just on an attachment as a future senior officer passing through, but as a trained and qualified detective. It would kill off his chances of ever being anything more than a detective inspector or at best a detective chief inspector, but at least he wouldn’t be permanently trapped behind a desk.

Finally a call came out over his personal radio that interested him and that he could get to on foot within the acceptable response time: suspected domestic disturbance at 15 Gillett Avenue – sounds of a disturbance in the background.

‘I’ll take that, 914 over,’ he said into his radio.

‘ You sure, 914? ’ the female voice from Control came back to him. ‘ It’ll be your last shout as a constable. Sure you want to end on a domestic? ’

‘Why not?’ he answered, knowing that domestic disputes were always good for an arrest. ‘I’m just round the corner. ETA two minutes.’

‘ OK, 914 ,’ the female voice told him. ‘ I’ll sort some back-up out and send them to your location .’

‘Fine,’ he agreed and picked up his pace, determined not to let a mobile unit beat him to the shout and any possible arrests. But as he turned into Gillett Avenue and began to walk past the rows of neat terraced houses, a feeling quite unlike anything he had experienced before began to wrap itself around him – an unpleasant feeling of something terrible happening close by. The street was deathly quiet, only the sound of the leaves in the small trees moving in the faintest of breezes disturbing the stillness. The birds had stopped singing.

When he reached number 15 his sense of dread only increased as he found the house in complete silence with none of the usual reassuring sounds of screaming and shouting coming from inside – the small house looked somehow foreboding and threatening.

He slowly reached for his radio, pressing the transmit but ton a second before speaking. ‘914 to Control.’

‘ Go ahead, 914 .’

‘Any informant details for the domestic at 15 Gillett Avenue?’

‘ Negative. Caller was using a mobile number – declined to leave a name. ’

‘Can you call them back?’ he asked. ‘It’s all quiet here.’ But before Control answered, the front door began to slowly open, the darkness from inside seemingly spilling into the light outside as an unseen malevolence chased the warmth of the sun from the street. He slowly took two steps forward – unnerved enough to carefully draw his telescopic truncheon, extending it to its full length with a flick of his wrist as the door continued to open inch by inch, but still he could see no one.

‘Police,’ he called out to reassure himself as much as anything. ‘Show yourself.’ But his command was met only with a deathly silence, as if the street had been sucked into a vacuum in time and space. He took another step forward, squinting into the darkness of the house as a faint shape began to form – small and flowing white, moving towards the light like an ethereal being. His pounding heart sent torrents of blood rushing past his ears, creating an internal deafness as his vision tunnelled towards the shape that became increasingly human as it approached him. A young girl, no more than ten, slim and pale, dressed in what appeared to be a long white nightdress with long straight blonde, almost white, hair, staggered into the light – red blood spreading through her clothing as she walked towards him trembling, arms stiff by her side before falling forward into his arms. He caught her safely and lowered her to the ground, his mind still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

The girl’s eyes blinked fast and hard as she used the last of her strength to whisper into his ear. ‘They’re inside.’ Her eyes rolled back inside her head as she went limp in his embrace, dead or passed out, he couldn’t tell.