Catching the Ice Queen Read online

  ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ asked Robin as she wound the window down. The woman was tall enough to have to lean right over to look into the car, which Robin tried not to think about.

  ‘DC Sullivan, is it? I happened to overhear DS Bolton asking you to investigate an assault and wondered if I might tag along?’ At the look of astonishment on Robin’s face she smiled and continued: ‘I know it’s a bit unorthodox but I find it’s the best way to really get a feel for the workings of a Service.’

  There wasn’t anything to say to that other than: ‘Of course. Please get in.’

  As the senior officer walked around the car Robin frantically shoved the file into the glove compartment and cleared the passenger seat of old water bottles and various bits of cycling gear that she’d discarded there. DCC Black opened the door and sat down as elegantly as she did everything else, resting her hat on her lap. Her eyes turned to Robin, and then caught sight of the dashboard engine alert, which had pinged on again.

  ‘Oh. Is that something you need to take care of?’

  Robin busied herself exiting out of the car park and joining the one way system, trying to look professional and not flustered. ‘Er, no. I mean, yes, there is some kind of fault but nobody at the garage has been able to find it yet.’ She waited for a lorry to cross a roundabout in front of her and then pulled smoothly out onto the ring road. ‘To be honest this car is on its last legs so it probably won’t pass its MOT anyway.’

  ‘You don’t drive an unmarked car usually?’

  Robin didn’t say that after several unpleasant experiences of driving one of the fleet cars after Tony and Lenny had been using it had put her off for life. Instead she just smiled politely and said: ‘I prefer to use my own. It’s simpler that way.’

  They lapsed into silence for a few minutes as Robin navigated through the outer reaches of the estate and headed towards the run-down block that Gary Greenway called home. As always she felt her spirits sink at the sight of the fly-tipping and boarded up houses, and wondered again why the council didn’t do more to improve the area.

  ‘Not the most scenic of spots,’ remarked Black drily.

  ‘You could say that,’ agreed Robin. ‘Where were you based before this, ma’am? The Met, wasn’t it?’

  The blue eyes turned towards her and the scrutiny made Robin’s skin burn. She gripped the steering wheel hard and tried to ignore the powerful signals her body was sending her. Be professional, for God’s sake! It didn’t help that DCC Black was even lovelier close up, and her beauty somehow accentuated by the fine silver scar Robin could see curling beside the full mouth, or another just beside the twist of golden hair. She suddenly felt very self-conscious about the way she’d shoved her own hair back into a rough pony tail. She shifted in her seat. Was this shirt even clean? She hardly remembered this morning and her stumblings to the wardrobe to get ready for the early shift.

  ‘Yes, I was based out of Holborn for three years.’ She paused, as if considering whether to continue. ‘Before that I worked in East Anglia, Cambridgeshire, and various other places.’

  Robin’s ears pricked up. ‘You were in Cambridgeshire? I was in the Cambridgeshire Service myself before this.’

  ‘Before your time, I expect,’ she said and folded her arms suddenly, as if shutting off that conversation. ‘So what’s the backstory here?’

  All business again, are we? Fine. Robin pushed down a stupid feeling of disappointment. ‘Gary Greenway is a well-known local low-life, with convictions for burglary, receiving, shoplifting, TWOC, and so on. He started early, and he’s only in his twenties now although he doesn’t look it.’ She glanced out of the window at a group of hard-faced kids who were watching the car with suspicion. ‘We’ve just had him in the nick for stealing a load of knock-off watches, and he was bailed on Monday.’ She tried not to blush at the thought of walking in that to that meeting. ‘Anyway, he’s not usually involved in violence so I was a bit surprised to hear he’d had a battering.’

  ‘What did the case notes say?’

  Bugger bloody all, thank you, Tony. ‘They indicated that there had a been a fracas earlier this morning.’ She thought furiously. ‘I’m expecting an update from uniform about any witness statements.’

  ‘I see.’ The words were calmly amused. Robin drew up outside a tatty corner shop with rusted metal grids on the windows. ‘Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee.’

  Robin saw a uniformed constable advancing towards them. She lifted a hand to acknowledge him and then turned. ‘That’s Nick Wilson, he’s a good sort. How do you want to play this, ma’am? Do you want to take the lead?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the DCC unclipped her seat belt and shifted her long legs in preparation for getting out of the car. Robin found she was hyperaware of the tiny sound of the nylon brushing together and felt her mouth go dry. She quickly looked away. ‘This is your show, not mine. Just ignore me.’ Fat chance! thought Robin, but she smiled bravely and got out of the car.

  ‘Alright, Tweetie.’ The constable smiled and then froze when he caught sight of the DCC. ‘Er, good afternoon, ma’am.’

  ‘PC Wilson. Ignore me.’

  His eyes swivelled in alarm to Robin who pulled a quick ‘I know but what can you do’ face in return whilst Black’s back was turned. ‘What’s happening, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Right. Well, the postman phoned in at 9.20 this morning to say a punch-up was in progress outside Eridge House.’ The three of them turned and walked towards the building. ‘Ordinarily he wouldn’t have reported it, he said, but one fella was getting a right pasting and he thought it could get nasty. PCs Conway and Malik attended at 9.40 and found the attacker had done a runner, but our friend Gary was sitting on the grass with his head in bits. They escorted him to the General and he got patched up and then brought him back here to answer a few pertinent questions.’ He shot her a sideways look. ‘What’s CID’s interest?’

  ‘DS Bolton suggested it would be wise to take a look,’ she replied evenly and saw the wheels turning in the bloke’s head. They pushed through the entrance doors and into the sour-smelling lobby.

  ‘Right.’ Wilson’s face remained deliberately impassive, giving him the air of weighty ponderings. ‘It’s the third floor and somebody’s been sick in the lift.’

  They trudged up the stairwell, Robin again pleased that she didn’t lose her breath. Cycling for miles at the weekend to burn off the anger and frustration of the working week really did wonders for your fitness. Perhaps she should market it: Rage Trails. She almost smiled to herself but stopped when she saw the DCC watching her curiously.

  At the sight of three coppers every resident of the block seemed to have vanished. Robin was sure that usually there would be half a dozen skinny lads loitering near Greenway’s scuffed front door but today the corridor was empty. Even the persistent thump thump of the music leaking out from within the flat seemed half-hearted. PC Wilson knocked.

  ‘Come on, Gary, it’s the police,’ he shouted.

  For a long minute it looked as if nothing was going to happen, and then the door was suddenly wrenched open, releasing a rush of R&B and stale air. Gary blinked at them all blearily from blackened eyes and Robin was shocked at the extent of the beating he’d obviously taken. What on earth had he done to deserve that?

  ‘What d’you want?’ His speech was even less articulate than usual and his gums showed the gaps where several of his teeth had been dislodged. His usual innate cockiness also seemed to have been knocked out of him and Robin almost felt a pang of pity for this bedraggled figure.

  ‘We’ve come to ask you what happened this morning. Can we come in? Thanks.’ PC Wilson smiled breezily and shoved his way inside without waiting for an answer. With a sigh of resignation Gary trailed after him.

  ‘After you, Detective Constable,’ said the DCC. Robin walked ahead into the dank interior, the senior officer following.

  Gary threw himself into a battered old arm chair and reached for an open can of Special Brew.r />
  ‘So what happened, Gaz?’ asked Wilson. Robin glanced automatically around the room, noting the detritus of Greenway’s chaotic existence. For the second time she felt a pang that, in the right light, could have looked like sympathy.

  ‘Nuthing.’

  ‘Really? Run into the side of a bus, did you?’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘Who was the bloke who beat you up? Just give us his name.’

  After five minutes of futile questioning their only results were the looks of total scorn that Gary was giving the constable and the obscenities he was muttering under his breath. Behind them, the DCC prowled like some trapped wild beast, making them all nervous. Robin decided to take a different tack.

  ‘This was about the watches, wasn’t it? Was somebody upset that you took them?’ Bingo. Greenway’s face went rigid with fright for a second, before he took a long pull at the beer can to try to disguise it. ‘Who was that then?’

  In the sullen silence she ran mentally through the names of local players who might have had an interest in a bag full of counterfeit goods. Her mouth went dry as she realised who was the most obvious candidate.

  ‘What is it?’ Black saw the look on Robin’s face and stepped forward, sounding almost concerned. Gary too had recognised the expression.

  ‘Don’t say it. Don’t you fucking say it.’ Greenway was panicked.

  ‘Don’t say what?’ said Wilson.

  The scrawny man sat up in his chair and fixed two watery eyes on Robin’s face. ‘Please. Please, don’t say the name. She’ll think it was me what told you. Somebody will grass, everyone’s on the take round here and somebody will grass me up. And what’ll she do to me then?’ Tears rolled down the swollen cheeks. ‘I never knew they was hers, did I? I wouldn’t have nabbed them if I did, I ain’t stupid. But there’s no telling her, she don’t listen to words, she’s a fucking nutter!’ The last few words were whispered hoarsely and hung on the air like a curse.

  Robin stepped back and forced a smile. ‘Well, if you reconsider you know where I am.’ The PC looked annoyed as she grabbed him by the sleeve and hustled him out of the room. Black was watching her carefully and followed her lead back to the dank corridor. As they stepped over the threshold Robin shouted: ‘You know witholding information from the police is a crime, right, Gary? You might want to think about that.’ And then louder, for the hidden audience behind every flimsy door on every scruffy landing: ‘Silence isn’t going to help you!’

  She slammed the door and made a face at Nick to get him to shut up, waiting until they’d trooped down the stairs and were standing back at the cars before answering his unspoken question.

  ‘It was Sylvie Dean.’

  His ruddy face paled. ‘Fuck me,’ he said, then caught sight of the DCC. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  She waved it off, and turned her search-light eyes on Robin for an explanation.

  ‘Let’s get back to the station.’ Even out in the open she didn’t feel comfortable talking about this. She got back into the driver’s seat acutely aware that they were alone out here, with a thousand windows giving vantage point to anyone watching. PC Wilson’s liveried Volvo shot down the access road first, and she wasted no time in following. Only when they were back on the main roads and off the estate did her hands unclench from the steering wheel.

  The DCC turned to her and said: ‘Explain.’

  Chapter 3

  Robin took a second to get her thoughts under control from their spirals of near-panic. ‘Six months ago when the original corruption scandal broke in the Force, several senior officers were investigated and charged.’ She glanced across, and found Black staring with frightening attention. ‘As well as the police service side, a couple of local crime bigwigs also got drawn in because it was proven they’d been behind the bribes and all the rest of it. Well, one of those people was Dickie Dean.’ She’d met him once. He was tall and grizzled, dressed with care in the sort of expensive leisure wear favoured by elderly comedians or giants of light entertainment. In fact, with his East End charm and warm smile he would have slotted right into any collection of TV stars on a golf course (and probably often had).

  ‘And who is this delightful young lady?’ he had asked of the Chief Inspector she was accompanying. ‘Welcome to my home, miss. Can I get you a drink?’

  Despite herself she’d warmed to him, and she could see how easy it would be to go along with his pleasantries until you suddenly looked round and realised you’d been hopelessly compromised.

  ‘Dickie was a massive figure round here.’ She went on. ‘He’d been running betting shops and dodgy taxi firms and working girls for years, decades really. He was a shit, hard as nails, but he liked to believe that he had a code of honour that meant he left the really nasty stuff – drugs, human trafficking, hard core porn – to other, lesser men. That suited him and frankly it suited the Force, and everyone knew where they were.’ She swung the car onto the ring road and accelerated. ‘As time went on Dean made a show of ‘retiring’ and doing charity work, getting his photo in the local paper shaking the hand of the mayor, all that kind of thing. He’d begun to groom his daughter, Sylvie, to take over. Then comes the investigation and suddenly Dickie’s up on a charge of perverting the course of justice. Within a week he was banged up and waiting for his day in court.’

  ‘I don’t remember reading about a trial of anyone with that name.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have done. Four days on remand and he had a massive stroke. For a while it looked as if he wouldn’t make it, but he was a tough old bastard and he pulled through.’ She shook her head. ‘But it’s done him no good, he’s completely paralysed, can’t speak, feed himself, anything. Nobody would have wished that on him. So no trial, charges dropped, and Dickie goes home where he’s looked after by his wife, Barbara, and a team of round-the-clock nurses.’

  ‘And Sylvie?’

  Robin took another breath. ‘Sylvie Dean. She is a psychopath.’ She glanced over. ‘I mean that quite literally. Dickie had managed to keep her more or less under control, but even he was a bit scared of her, apparently. When he had his stroke a couple of his right-hand men, Pete Malone and Tony Hitchens, decided they’d promote themselves to boss. Sylvie didn’t like that. We never found Malone but Hitchens was discovered in forty seven separate bin bags spread along the A22.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘Sending a message?’

  ‘That, definitely. But there was more to it. More –‘ she struggled for the right word. ‘More relish. Anyway, nobody challenged her for the top spot after that. Her first act was to get rid of the local gang dealing heroine, fentanyl, meth and crack. That brought a bit more trade for the Coroner and got her the nickname of the Ice Queen. From there she’s happily forgotten all those boundaries that Daddy Dickie put on what his guys would and wouldn’t do, counterfeiting being the latest string to her bow.’ She caught her lip between her teeth. ‘I wonder what else she’s getting involved in.’

  Back at the station they made a beeline for the DCI and updated him on Robin’s theory. Big, balding and permanently grumpy, even Lionel Goode looked suitably appalled that Sylvie Dean was extending her empire once again.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, running a hand over his thinning hair, ‘that’ll mean everyone selling knock-offs is going to be in her cross-hairs.’ He looked at them both and nodded. ‘Good work, Sullivan. I’d better brief the ACC.’

  Robin smiled politely. She knew that the compliment had been made solely for the ears of DCC Black. She turned.

  ‘Thank you for your help this afternoon, ma’am. I’d best get this report written up for the DS.’

  Black nodded, her icy blue eyes focused on Robin’s face. The younger woman felt herself redden under the scrutiny. And then the DCC just nodded and turned away, walking swiftly out of the room.

  As she sat down at her desk and began typing, Robin couldn’t help but think that having both Lara Black and Sylvie Dean on the patch was like combining matter and anti-matter: a big explosion was the only
possible outcome. Two ice queens, she thought, just what I need.

  Over the next few weeks Robin didn’t see much of DCC Lara Black. She and the rest of CID were caught up in the whirlwind of violence that swept through the city, racing out to scenes of beatings, arson, and – worse – disappearances of some local faces who vanished inexplicably and without a trace. When she was in the station Robin hardly lifted her head from her desk, relegated more often than not to report writing and data compilation by DCI Goode and DS Bolton. Whether this was a result of some chivalrous impulses on their part, or just because her typing was faster, she didn’t know and didn’t care; she wanted to be back out on the street helping to bring Dean to book.

  If DCC Black was drifted around the station like the ghost of a Valkyrie, then Sylvie Dean haunted it like an unquiet devil. Her photo smiled down from every incident board, decorated every report, and if Robin’s own mind was anything to go by, shadowed the thoughts of every officer in the building. Operation Ice Queen, as it was called, took over all of their lives. Working late became even more of the norm, and everybody’s faces began to show the strain of trying to link Sylvie to any of her outrages; so far, they hadn’t come close to making anything stick.

  The one bright point in her working life was that, for some unknown reason, DS Bolton seemed to have taken her under his wing, the gravitational force of his impressive bulk keeping the snarky comments and grabbing hands of Lenny and Tony away. She didn’t know whether Paul Austin had said something about reigning in the pack of DCs – it wouldn’t have been Lara Black, surely – or if he’d just twigged that she was one bum pinch away from GBH, but she didn’t care. With the hounds off her back she could at least concentrate on her actual work for a change, although Sylvie seemed to be able to effortlessly run rings around them.