‘Bollocks,’ muttered Stanford, joining Henley behind the throng of reporters and cameramen. ‘She’s already here.’
Sian Fox-Carnell stood defiantly at the top of the stairs. Her solicitor looked anxious as the crowd screamed obscenities and reporters shouted questions.
‘Murderer.’
‘Sian, do you have anything to say to the families?’
‘You bitch.’
‘How does it feel to be out of prison?’
‘Is this a miscarriage of justice?’
‘I’m going to kill you!’
A couple of court security guards exited, looking out of their depths as they surveyed the crowd. ‘We need to help them,’ Henley said.
Stanford sighed begrudgingly but pushed through the crowd with Henley close behind him.
‘Police! Move to the side now,’ Henley shouted to no avail, an elbow jabbing her side.
‘I will bloody arrest you if you don’t move right now,’ Henley shouted. Stanford surged forward and was able to form a small space between Fox-Carnell and her attackers. Henley cursed as the rain began to fall harder and she saw someone in the crowd throw a bottle. Two reporters quickly crouched down as it soared over their heads and smashed on the wall behind them. A stocky white man, wearing a brown suit, stepped out in front of Sian and drew back his fist. There was a cacophony of screams as a security guard pushed in front of Sian and the man’s fist slammed into his cheek. The security guard stumbled back causing Sian to fall to the ground, her face scraping against the stone step, her solicitor stumbling against the railings.
‘Police,’ Henley yelled again, lowering herself and grabbing hold of Sian’s arm. Disgust pumped through her at the feel of Sian’s skin. Stanford manoeuvred to restrain the man who’d thrown the punch.
Henley pulled Sian to her feet and her solicitor picked up his case from the floor. ‘Where to?’ she shouted.
‘My car. The black Focus,’ the solicitor called back.
A cup hit Henley’s chest.
Cold milky coffee dripped down her neck and she dragged Sian through the crowd to the sound of police sirens.
‘Get your hands off me, you fucking bitch,’ Sian said aggressively.
‘Either shut up or I’ll leave you to the mob.’ Henley dragged her towards the car.
Sian ran her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood that ran from her split lip. ‘This should be your blood.’
Henley didn’t reply. She pushed Sian down onto the passenger seat and slammed the door.
4
DS Eastwood stood at the bank of lifts having lost two hours of her life in a performance development review at New Scotland Yard. She stepped back with surprise when the doors opened and she saw Pellacia, his forehead crinkled with annoyance.
‘Eastie,’ Pellacia exclaimed as she stepped into the lift and the doors closed. ‘What are you doing … oh,’ he clicked his fingers with the arrival of the memory, ‘PDR. How did it go?’
‘Completely pointless, although they did suggest that I should think about my career beyond the SCU,’ Eastwood said candidly.
Pellacia went to respond but three others stepped into the lift and they fell silent, both keeping their thoughts to themselves until they reached the ground floor and walked out of New Scotland Yard. The sky was the colour of gun-metal grey and the wind whipped up around them.
‘Fancy taking the river bus?’ Pellacia asked. ‘Less faff than trains and they’ve got a half decent bar on board.’
‘Yeah, why not,’ Eastwood replied. ‘If you’re buying.’
The river bus was less than a third full as it left Westminster Pier, towards Greenwich. It was a different view of London. Townhouses, rowing clubs and warehouses, that had once been used to store tea, coffee, spices and other legal – and illegal – commodities, converted into apartments and office spaces bordered the riverfront.
‘Bad day?’ Eastwood deadpanned when Pellacia placed cans of gin and tonic, Jack Daniel’s and Coke and a bottle of Peroni on the table.
