‘A case?’
‘I’m running an operation there, yes. What is it you need doing?’
Khan opened his mouth to speak, but there was a knock at the door and Anita appeared with a tray. Khan waited until she had put it in front of him and left the room. ‘I have a problem, Charlotte. A very sensitive problem that will need a very sensitive touch.’ Khan leant forward. ‘Racism has always been a problem within the police, both in the way they deal with the public but also in the way they deal with each other. I believe, Charlotte, that several officers at the very top of this force are racist. And I need you to expose them.’
‘Racist in what way?’
‘In the worst possible way,’ said Khan. ‘Racist comments, blocking the promotion of officers from ethnic minorities, backpedalling on cases in which minorities are the victims.’
Button looked pained. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent, but that’s really not within my remit,’ she said. ‘We’re tasked with investigating major crimes, drugs, people-trafficking.’
‘Racism is a major crime,’ said Khan, sternly. ‘It’s something I take very seriously indeed.’
‘As do I, Chief Superintendent, but in order for me to commit resources, the case has to be within our remit.’
‘I need an officer to be under cover in our headquarters here. I can’t use anyone from our force, obviously, which is why I thought SOCA would be the ideal solution.’
‘Have you considered approaching the Met and asking them to second an officer?’
Khan sighed and sat back. ‘I had, but the nature of the investigation is such that there might be . . . ramifications. It might result in the dismissal of officers at a very senior level, and men like that have friendships that reach across geographical boundaries.’
‘I think what you’re suggesting is highly unlikely,’ said Button. ‘Police investigate their own all the time.’
‘But generally not at such a high level,’ said Khan. ‘Look, I understand your reservations about initiating such an investigation, but is there anything I can do to persuade you to help me?’
‘I don’t see how I can, Chief Superintendent. I’m sorry.’
Khan nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let me give it some more thought.’ He stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, anyway. I’m sure you’ve a lot on your plate at the moment.’ He showed her to the door. As he held it open he raised a finger. ‘Oh, do you have a card with a direct line, just in case I need to pick your brains?’
‘I don’t work from an office,’ said Button. She reached into her bag and pulled out a purse. ‘But I have a mobile.’ She fished out a business card and handed it to him.
‘Good luck in Belfast,’ said Khan, and closed the door behind her.
Khan sat at his desk for the best part of an hour, staring blankly at a file in front of him. Eventually he sighed and stood up. He took his overcoat off the hook on the back of his door. ‘I’m heading out for a while, Anita,’ he said to his secretary.
‘Do you need your car?’ she asked.
‘I’ll walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back before three.’
Khan took the lift to the ground floor, went through the metal detector and out into the street. Half a dozen civilian workers were clustered around the entrance, smoking and chatting. He lit a cigarette and strode away from the building. He hated himself for what he was doing but he had no choice. Hassan knew where he lived and Khan had no doubt that he would wreak terrible vengeance on his family if he didn’t do what he wanted. He had thought long and hard after Hassan had approached him, considering his options late into the night as he drank endless cups of coffee and smoked his way through two packets of cigarettes. If he went to his bosses and told them what had happened they could put him under police protection. But what would that mean? For the rest of his life he and his family would be virtual prisoners. His children’s education would be ruined, his family would lose their friends, his career would stall. Everything he had worked for, all the sacrifices he had made, would have been for nothing.
There were two phone boxes a short walk from his office but he passed them, deep in thought. He cursed under his breath. He should have listened to his parents and become a doctor. They had always wanted him to study medicine, but even as a teenager he had known he wasn’t cut out to be a medic. He didn’t want to be around sick people, he wanted to catch criminals. He wanted the uniform, the squad cars and the comradeship. He’d studied law at university, but only because he knew that a law degree would get him on to the police fast-track promotion scheme. He’d made inspector within five years, superintendent five years later, and eventually even his parents had accepted that he’d made the right choice. He was doing well in a job he loved, and all the signs were that he was destined for even greater things. He knew he was already spoken of as the first Asian police commissioner, and all he had to do was keep climbing the slippery pole, seizing opportunities as they presented themselves and ensuring he didn’t make any stupid mistakes. He chose his public appearances carefully and had two tame journalists, both Asian, one on a redtop tabloid, the other on a worthy broadsheet, who could be relied on to write puff pieces as needed.
He had planned his career perfectly, he had forged useful friendships and distanced himself from anyone who might have held him back, and now it was all to be wrecked because of a man called Hassan. A man who would kill an innocent girl to gain power over another human being. Hassan was pure evil, and Khan knew that even a high-ranking police officer was powerless in the face of such a man. He had dealt with hundreds of criminals over the years – thieves, drug-dealers, conmen, thugs and murderers – but he had never been confronted before by a man like Hassan. Khan knew that if he didn’t do what Hassan wanted, he would kill Khan’s family. He was as sure of that as he was that there was nothing the police could do to protect them. There was no way to hide from a man like Hassan.
He reached another phone box and stopped, checked that no one he knew was around, then took Button’s business card from his wallet, pushed a pound coin into the slot and tapped out the number Hassan had given him. The phone went straight to voicemail.
Khan cleared his throat. He was about to cross a line, and once he had crossed it there would be no going back. He closed his eyes. Images of Sara being murdered flashed through his mind and he shuddered. He had to protect his wife and family. They were all that mattered. If others had to be sacrificed so that his family were safe, so be it. ‘She lives in Surrey,’ he said. He cleared his throat again. ‘She’s married with one child. The daughter is at boarding-school. Her husband is an estate agent, close to where they live. She’s working on a case at the moment in Belfast and will be back and forth between London and Northern Ireland over the next couple of weeks.’ Khan took a deep breath and exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘Her mobile number . . .’ He hesitated. Hassan hadn’t said why he wanted information about Charlotte Button, but Khan knew there could be only one reason. He wanted her dead. He said a silent prayer, but knew that wouldn’t help. He closed his eyes and continued to talk into the phone, his voice a hushed whisper.
Shepherd went upstairs with the wooden pole where, on the landing ceiling, he found a hatch with a small brass ring between the two back bedrooms. He reached up with the pole, inserted the hook and pulled. As the hatch opened, a folding aluminium ladder came into view. Shepherd used the hook to draw it down, then climbed up it.
At the top he stepped into an attic and flicked a light switch. There were wooden beams running the length of the area and foam insulation had been sprayed into the gaps between the beams. A stack of cardboard boxes stood just inside the trapdoor. Shepherd opened one. It was full of women’s clothing. The old man who had lived there before him must have put it up here after his wife had died.