The Informant (3 page)

Little by little Kaz began to trust Helen. The lawyer’s visits continued and Kaz simply assumed she was coming every few weeks because the old man paid her to do so. Helen, by this time,
had an agenda of her own; Kaz was her special project, her experiment. The girl had a razor-sharp brain if she could get clean for long enough to start using it. In the second year of her
incarceration Helen persuaded Kaz to try out an art class. Kaz habitually and restlessly scrawled patterns with her finger in the spilt tea on tabletops, doodled in the margins of any form she had
to fill in. Helen wondered what would happen if someone put proper drawing materials in her hands. The result had surprised everyone.

Helen shepherded her client into the office, a spacious glass-walled box. The desk was large but overloaded: neat piles of papers and a stack of files on either end. After six years in a prison
cell, where they could spy on you any moment of the night or day, Kaz couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to work in a goldfish bowl. But Helen seemed comfortable wherever she was.
She removed a briefcase from the leather sofa and invited Kaz to sit.

‘So you haven’t been to the hostel yet?’

‘Came straight here.’

‘Well, I think you’re going to like it. Of all the places they could’ve allocated you, I happen to know this one is five star. The Ritz of APs.’

Kaz smiled. Now she was relaxing, her eyes darting around, taking in every detail of her new environment. Helen watched, trying to ignore the tension in her lower abdomen as she noticed yet
again how beautiful her client had become. The junkie that Helen first encountered had been painfully thin, avoided eye contact; a broken, hunted creature. The young woman in front of her now
couldn’t be more different. Athletic, alert, with a quiet confidence.

‘Yeah, okay, I know you wangled me a good place. And I’m grateful for that too.’

Helen brushed this off. ‘Down to your offender manager, not me.’

Kaz’s gaze had come to rest on Helen’s face and it was unnerving. Helen realized that her feelings, which she always kept carefully under wraps, were in danger of spiralling out of
control. She glanced at her desk, grabbed the nearest file and opened it.

When Kaz was inside it had all been so simple. The formal structures of prison visiting had dictated the nature of every encounter. They also helped Helen avoid asking herself why, in a busy
schedule when there was really no reason, she took time out to trek all the way up to Cheshire to visit this particular client. Now she was thrown off balance, she could feel her cheeks reddening;
Jesus Christ, she was reacting like a bloody lovesick teenager, she needed to get a grip!

Kaz continued to look, mentally sketching her face, though truth be told she could draw Helen in her sleep. But the lawyer was resolutely avoiding her eye. Pulling another file from halfway down
the neat pile, Helen sent the whole lot tottering.

‘Oh honestly. The workload they expect you to carry in this place, it’s bloody ridiculous!’

Kaz watched Helen struggle. She wanted to reach out, touch her hand; the sexual frisson zapping between them was unmistakable. But she held back.

‘I’m taking up your time, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have come.’

‘No no!’ Helen flapped her hands about as if to bat away the uncomfortable feelings. ‘Now tell me about college. When do you start?’

‘Not ’til the autumn. That’s if I get my grades.’

‘Oh you’ll walk it.’

‘The art maybe, not so sure about the English and Maths.’

Helen gave her a confident smile, the blush in her cheeks subsiding. ‘Karen, you’ll get in.’

Now Kaz was the one having problems meeting Helen’s eye. She started to pick at the loose sole of her trainer.

‘Well, we’ll see. Anyway I’m gonna do some courses over the summer, mainly drawing, get me up to speed.’

Helen nodded. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, took a deep breath. ‘That’s excellent.’

The excitement of Kaz’s release had got the better of her, that was all. Now she was retreating behind the professional facade. Karen Phelps was just another client. Okay – her first
real success story. Still, that was no excuse. Of course she was fond of the girl, and Kaz was grateful to her. But the boundaries between them had to remain clear.

Kaz continued to pick at her shabby trainers, they were coming apart, a small private smile crept across her features. Helen’s reaction was telling her everything she needed to know.
Inside, every meeting had been freighted with tension and longing. That was the nature of jail time, it distorted relationships, made equality impossible. Getting close to serious felons, that in
itself could be a potent drug and Kaz had seen plenty of counsellors, volunteers, do-gooders and even screws who were hooked on the power, turned on by the sexual buzz of helping needy women and
basking in their desperate adoration. But what had happened between her and Helen, Kaz knew that had to be different.

Getting clean was the most frightening thing Kaz had ever done. Stripping away the layers of protection had left her raw and exposed. She knew she’d never have set out on such a parlous
course if it hadn’t been for her desire to impress Helen, to retain her interest, keep her coming back. Every therapy group she attended was just a sideshow for the main event: reporting her
progress to Helen.

In spite of the drugs Kaz had always been quick; whatever situation she found herself in, she soon figured out how to play it to her advantage. In the Phelps family, manipulation was the key to
survival. Art classes, the gym, she poured her energy into whatever project Helen suggested to her. Then an odd thing happened. She found she was really enjoying doing all this stuff. She found she
was hooked. And when she told the lawyer this, she could see from Helen’s triumphant expression she’d hit pay dirt. From then on she morphed into the model prisoner. But really it was
all about pleasing Helen.

Helen gathered up the papers from the spilt files and put them in order. She gave Kaz her standard professional smile; it was sympathetic but also detached, she’d spent years perfecting
it.

‘And what about the family?’

Kaz sighed.

‘Come on Helen, we been through all this. I know Joey’s into all kinds of villainy, but that’s not my concern. I’m staying right out of it. I want my life back. I done my
time, I’m going to college.’

Helen smiled. Yes, things were back under control, she could relax a bit.

‘Have you met the new probation officer yet?’

‘I got an appointment Thursday.’

‘You understand the terms of the licence?’

Kaz gave her an irritated look. ‘Well yeah, ’course I do. Behave or you’re back in the nick.’

‘There’ll be random drug-testing at the hostel. The curfew’s ten o’clock. But once the senior PO gets to know you I’m sure there’ll be room for
negotiation.’

Kaz cocked her head, a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘Why? You gonna take me to the theatre?’

Helen looked puzzled. ‘The theatre?’

‘You don’t remember? Few years back, I told you I’d never been to the theatre. You said when I got out, you’d take me.’

Helen gave her a wry smile. She rearranged her body in the chair, but still felt absurdly self-conscious.

‘Well, we could always see a matinee.’

‘Is that a date?’

Helen was used to fencing, the cut and thrust of legal repartee. But this wrong-footed her.

‘I’d be happy to take you to the theatre. But let’s be clear; I’m your lawyer. This is a professional relationship. Technically you’re still serving your sentence,
although you’ve been released on licence.’

Kaz huffed. ‘Lighten up. I was only teasing. You don’t have to hide behind the lawyer crap.’

‘It’s not crap.’

Helen’s tone was far sharper than she’d intended. It found its mark. Kaz jumped to her feet.

‘Okay, look, this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come . . .’

‘I’m not hiding. All I’m saying is we have rules for a reason . . .’

Their eyes met, but Helen looked away. She raked her fingers through her hundred and fifty pound haircut. Even in her sharp suit surrounded by all the trappings of the legal profession she had
the look of a confused teenager. Kaz could see she was floundering and her anger evaporated. She loved this woman, there was no question of that and no other word for it. What had she expected
though, Helen to jump her there and then on the office sofa? Kaz shook her head and laughed.

‘This is mental. I didn’t come here to upset you. What I wanted was to give you this.’

She pulled a large envelope out of her holdall and offered it to Helen.

‘Go on, open it.’

The envelope contained a small pen-and-ink sketch of a woman, a back view of naked shoulders and tumbling hair. The drawing was elegant, the lines delicate with enough detail, but not too much.
Helen gazed at it in amazement.

‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

‘Just something I copied from a magazine photo. Anyway, you’re busy, I can see that. Stuff to do. So I really should go and check out this hostel.’

Wrong-footed yet again, Helen started to get up.

‘Oh, okay . . . but—’

Kaz hoisted the holdall on to her shoulder and was already halfway out the door.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way out.’

Helen stared at her awkwardly, unthinkable scenarios cascading through her head.

‘Well . . . if you need—’

Kaz flashed a smile at her. ‘Yeah, I’ll give you a call.’

Kaz strode through the outer office towards the lifts, a satisfied smile on her face. She didn’t look back; she didn’t have to. She knew Helen Warner was watching her.

Turnbull clicked his BlackBerry on, scrolled through the inbox. Checking texts, emails, any time he had a spare moment, this is what he did. He needed to keep abreast of
things, that’s what he told his wife. She told him it was an annoying habit.

Across the desk from him DC Mal Bradley had his head bent over the file he was attempting to speed-read. Turnbull studied him; his jacket was cheap and creased, his hair a mop of dark curls.
But, as the father of three teenage daughters, Turnbull reckoned he had a shrewd idea of what young women went for and Bradley ticked all the boxes.

The young DC closed the file and looked up.

‘She’s quite a piece of work, sir.’

Turnbull smiled, slipped the BlackBerry back in his pocket.

‘She’s a candidate for sainthood compared with her little brother.’

Turnbull let his gaze rest on Bradley. The HR file displayed on his laptop made impressive reading: a 2:1 in Psychology, good evaluations throughout his training, plus he’d done the
six-week basic for undercover work. But crucially he had the looks. He could be exactly what Turnbull needed.

‘Ever work undercover Bradley?’

‘Covert surveillance sir, but not the real thing, no.’

Turnbull allowed himself a rueful smile. The real thing? He wondered if Marlow would’ve called it that.

‘I expect you’ve heard what happened to DS Marlow.’

Bradley nodded. Their eyes met. Turnbull scanned his face. What was he looking for? Nervousness? A hint of anxiety? He didn’t find it. Bradley’s gaze remained calm, respectful but
not deferential. His body language was open and relaxed. Turnbull might be his superior officer, but Bradley’s feeling was they were equals. Turnbull registered all this with pursed lips.
Then he went on.

‘He was a good officer. Very experienced in undercover work. You ever meet him?’

‘No sir.’

‘He spent nearly six months on this case, got pretty close to Joey Phelps.’

‘How was his cover blown?’

‘That we don’t know. Unfortunately. We do know our target is a very dangerous individual. Which is why we’re changing tack.’

Bradley inclined his head thoughtfully. ‘Focusing on the sister?’

‘She’ll be your chiz.’

‘Inform against her brother? Has she agreed?’

‘No.’ Turnbull rested his eyes on the young officer. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll find a way to persuade her.’

Bradley rubbed his chin as he absorbed this. He seemed slightly disappointed.

‘Oh. I presumed I was about to become Joey Phelps’s new best friend.’

‘The Assistant Commissioner regards that as too risky. And I agree. That’s why she’s come up with this new strategy.’

Strictly speaking only the first part of this statement was true. The new approach was to use Bradley and that was entirely Turnbull’s idea. What the Assistant Commissioner had in mind was
a spot of political blackmail and she was relying on Turnbull to back her up by delivering Phelps. It was up to him how he achieved it.

A hint of a smile crossed Turnbull’s lips; working for a woman boss wasn’t all bad. He’d learnt a lot from Fiona Calder; in terms of the Met she was a consummate player. Her
plan was simple: Marlow would be put up for the Queen’s Gallantry Medal and as his proud but tearful parents received it, she would give an off-the-record briefing to selected media about the
dangerous escalation in organized crime in London. She would blame the severe budget cuts imposed by the government. Blogs and editorials would follow; politicians on the law-and-order bandwagon
would pitch in. Then as the media shit-storm gathered force, she’d extract a promise of extra funding from the Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime. Marcus Foxley was a political creature,
tooth and claw, but Calder knew how to twist his tail.

For Foxley the deal was a no-brainer: if he loosened the purse strings he’d get to share credit for the high-profile arrest of cop killer and drug baron Joey Phelps. But Calder’s
real aim was to prove publicly that when they were given the resources the Met could still do the job better than anyone, certainly better than any private security outfit. The Assistant
Commissioner put a time frame of three or four months on the whole operation.

Turnbull couldn’t help admiring the breadth of her vision. She thought like a politician not a copper and this was her pitch for the top job. She planned to be the first woman
commissioner. Turnbull knew it was his opportunity too and that’s what Calder was relying on. If he gave her Phelps he’d get to ride on her coat-tails, maybe become an assistant
commissioner himself.