The kill list, p.6
The Kill List, page 6
‘Fine,’ Henley said with annoyance. ‘Let’s sit on your doorstep and talk about Andrew Streeter.’
‘I told him I didn’t want to get involved,’ said Kerry, dropping teabags into two brightly coloured mugs.
Henley made a mental note of the small CCTV camera that was attached to the large kitchen window and the empty box for a new home alarm system on the kitchen table. There was also a window and door brochure, despite the windows and the front door looking relatively new.
‘I told him, but he didn’t listen,’ Kerry said, placing the cup in front of Henley and returning to her position at the kitchen counter.
‘How did he get in touch with you?’ asked Henley.
‘Through his lawyer. I don’t know how they found me. I’m ex-directory. I’m not on social media except for WhatsApp, if that counts, but I suppose they have their ways. They wrote to me and then called me at work.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I own a spa in the town centre. I told his lawyer, and I wrote to Andrew and told him to leave me out of it. I’ve got my family to think about. I don’t want them getting caught up in this.’
‘Can you tell me how you know Andrew Streeter?’ asked Henley.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Kerry finally said, turning to face Henley. ‘I don’t think I’d even turned twenty yet when I first met him.’
‘What were you? Boyfriend and girlfriend?’
‘Something like that.’
Henley didn’t push it. ‘Streeter was insistent that I speak to you.’
‘Why?’ Kerry said warily.
‘You did say that Streeter’s lawyer tried to talk to you.’
‘But I didn’t actually speak to him. I told him not to call me and that I wanted nothing to do with Streeter and I put the phone down,’ Kerry avoided Henley’s gaze and ran a hand through her hair. Henley saw her wince slightly as one of her rings caught a hair extension.
‘I saw Andrew a couple of days ago,’ said Henley. ‘Did you know he and his legal team referred his case to the CCRC?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Kerry said quickly – too quickly for Henley’s liking. She had been expecting Kerry to ask what the CCRC was.
‘Well, they are.’
‘And what has that got to do with me?
‘Because Streeter made a point of telling me about you and something that happened when he was first arrested.’
There it was, the silence again. Kerry’s hand began to tremble, and some tea spilled over the edge of the cup. She finally placed it down on the counter. Henley wouldn’t have been surprised if Kerry’s legs had given way as she made her way to the kitchen table and finally sat down.
‘I’m just going to ask you a few questions,’ Henley said gently. ‘Did you tell the police that you were Andrew Streeter’s alibi twenty-five years ago?’
Kerry nodded.
‘Who did you tell?’ Henley asked as her heart began to beat faster.
‘They arrested Andrew at my grandmother’s flat in Stepney. He’s the only one who knew that I sometimes stayed there,’ Kerry said, her eyes taking on the haunted look of someone who was reliving the past. ‘He wasn’t hiding there at my nan’s but that’s how they made it sound in the papers; that he was on the run.’
‘Was he on the run?’
‘He mentioned going to Amsterdam, but you’ve got to understand that he was scared.’
‘So, what happened when the police arrived at your grandmother’s house?’ asked Henley.
‘It was bloody chaos. My nan was away at the time, she was visiting her sister in Southampton, but the police just barged in. Loads of them. They dragged Andrew out and they threatened to arrest me, but they didn’t.’
‘What happened next?’
‘They arrested Andrew and I tried to tell them he didn’t do anything. The police turned up again the next day and I told him that Andrew didn’t kill those people and that he’d been staying with me when Tiago went missing.’
‘Who exactly did you tell?’ asked Henley. ‘Who was the officer?”
‘The officer who took my statement?’ There was a tremor in Kerry’s voice. ‘Sergeant Rhimes.’
Henley felt sick and pushed her cup of tea away. ‘Are you sure?’
‘He said that his name was Detective Sergeant Rhimes.’
‘And he took your statement?’ asked Henley. ‘An alibi statement? A written one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Signed by you and taken by a police officer?’
‘I can’t remember signing it, but he wrote it all down. But then …’ Kerry paused and stared back at Henley. ‘He said no one would believe me. He said if I gave evidence in court, they would bring up my history.’
‘What history?’
‘Drugs,’ Kerry whispered. ‘I used to run drugs for some local dealers, selling cocaine and ecstasy in nightclubs. I never kept drugs at my nan’s house, but he said that they found drugs in my room at my nan’s when they arrested Streeter. Only—’
‘You never kept drugs at your nan’s house,’ Henley said with resignation.
‘There was nothing there, but the officer, Rhimes, he had pictures of packets of pills and cocaine in my drawer, which was shit because I never—’
‘Are you suggesting that Rhimes planted it there?’
‘I can’t see how else it got there,’ Kerry replied.
‘So, what happened next, after you gave your statement?’ Henley asked, struggling to come to terms with Kerry’s revelations. In all the years that she’d worked with Rhimes she’d never seen him act in a way that would suggest he would bribe a witness or step outside the code of conduct to get a result. Rhimes wasn’t perfect but he followed a moral compass. Henley’s gut told her that Kerry might be telling the truth, but her head was working through a different scenario. Streeter was a manipulative murderer. Kerry was an associate of Streeter and a drug dealer. Kerry was a criminal. Kerry couldn’t be trusted.
‘I had a lot going on in my life. I’d been through a lot. My nan had been ill and then there was the stuff with Andrew. It was all too much, and he offered me money.’
The words of disbelief were already forming on Henley’s tongue as she tried to make sense of what she was hearing. ‘Who offered you money?’ Henley finally asked, instead of saying what was really on her mind – that Kerry was a liar.
‘Two grand. All cash, in an envelope.’
‘Rhi— DS Rhimes offered you two thousand pounds?’ Henley asked, aware that her voice had grown quieter.
‘He didn’t offer it to me. He gave it to me. In cash. In a white envelope. In my hands.’
‘And you took it?’
‘I was scared.’
‘Scared of what exactly?’
‘Don’t talk to me as though I’ve done anything wrong. He … that man threatened me. He scared me.’
Henley took a breath and tried to push down the confusion. ‘What did he want you to do for the money?’
‘I was young and I was scared. You have no idea about what I’d been through,’ Kerry said angrily.
‘OK, OK. Calm down,’ Henley said. ‘What did he want you to do?’ she asked again, aware that her voice was shaking with anger.
‘Withdraw my statement,’ said Kerry. ‘And to say that Andrew was never with me.’
‘And you withdrew it.’
‘No one had ever heard about it anyway. And no one ever asked me about it again. Until today, when you turned up.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Henley asked. Pellacia was standing in the doorway of the SCU when he should have been strolling along Las Ramblas in Barcelona with his girlfriend, local MP Laura Halifax. ‘I thought you weren’t back from holiday until Monday?’
‘Change of plans,’ Pellacia answered.
‘Did you finally see the light and dump her?’ came Joanna’s disembodied voice from somewhere within the office.
‘Why don’t you … do you know what, Jo, never mind,’ Pellacia said. He placed his hand across the doorframe, effectively blocking Henley.
‘Are you not going to let me through?’ Henley asked, trying to ignore how much she wanted Pellacia to answer Jo’s question.
‘No, I’m not,’ Pellacia said softly. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Henley sensed the tell-tale signs of a tension headache forming. She knew the tension was a by-product of the guilt she was feeling and the pressure of keeping secrets from her team. She thought about telling Pellacia about Streeter’s letters, Kerry Huggins, and the prison visit. But what would be the point? Streeter had been convicted of five murders, had appealed his conviction twice and lost. Henley’s brief visit to the past was over.
‘Can we do this later?’ Henley asked, looking up at Pellacia. ‘Can you excuse me, please? I’ve got work to do.’
‘Work. I didn’t think you were interested in work. You’ve got Ramouter working on this arson case by himself while Eastwood is coming up with piss-poor excuses for you not being here. It’s almost …’ Pellacia raised his left arm and checked his watch. ‘It’s 12.54 p.m., Henley.’
‘I know what time it is, and I’m sorry.’
Pellacia paused and stared at Henley, biting the inside of his cheek. The silence stretched.
‘Look, it was personal,’ said Henley finally, breaking the tension. ‘Something came up and this morning was the only time I could deal with it.’
Pellacia released a frustrated sigh. ‘Fine. Fine.’
‘So, can I get back to work now?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’ Henley folded her arms in agitation.
‘As I said, I need to talk to you. Do you want to take a walk?’
Henley flinched as she picked up the switch in Pellacia’s tone. It was warm and empathetic. She realised that she had made a mistake by interpreting Pellacia’s words as hostile.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Let’s walk. I’ll get you a cup of tea or something.’
‘I’ve had enough tea,’ said Henley. She looked over Pellacia’s shoulder and caught Eastwood’s gaze. Henley cocked her head to one side, and Eastwood shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, No idea.
‘What’s so important that you had to take me out of the station?’ Henley asked. They had walked from Starbucks towards Greenwich foot tunnel, and were now sitting on a bench facing the river. Students from the nearby university and the early influx of summer tourists milled around them.
‘You can almost pretend you’re somewhere else,’ Pellacia said. ‘Forget all about the chaos that’s going on out there.’
‘You can never really forget.’ Henley watched a conga line of primary school children, all wearing bright yellow high-visibility vests, follow their teacher.
‘How’s Emma doing?’ Pellacia took a sip of his coffee and shifted closer to Henley.
‘She’s fine. Causing chaos in nursery. Can’t believe she’s going to be four years old next year, which means I’ll be sending her off to primary school soon. Time flies.’
‘Yeah, it does,’ Pellacia replied sadly. He moved again so that their knees were touching.
‘What’s going on?’ Henley asked, turning to face him. She knew him well enough to know when Pellacia was trying to find a way to deliver bad news softly.
‘I didn’t want you to hear it back at the station. I wanted to be—’
‘You wanted to be what? What is it, Stephen? You’re not sick, are you?’ Henley felt a panic rise in her chest as her mind started to flick through an infinite number of scenarios that ended with Pellacia being buried six feet under.
‘No. No. I’m not sick. It’s nothing like that.’ Pellacia sighed. ‘It’s about Andrew Streeter.’ Pellacia took Henley’s coffee from her and placed it next to his, to the side. Henley didn’t say a word as Pellacia took hold of her hand.
‘Andrew Streeter?’ Henley asked, silently praying that her voice had followed the right inflections that came when someone was surprised. ‘Why are you bringing him up?’
Pellacia squeezed Henley’s hand even tighter. ‘Fuck, I don’t want to put this on you. I know how much Melissa meant to you and this is … I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else but me.’
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on because this is … this is a lot.’
‘It looks like Streeter may be released.’
A rush of heat swept through Henley’s body as Pellacia continued to speak. She could see his lips moving but she had no idea what he was saying. Even though she’d sat with Streeter two days ago and knew what his lawyers were planning, the prospect of Streeter walking around London wasn’t one that she’d fully considered.
‘As I understand it,’ Pellacia was saying, ‘his case was referred to the Criminal Cases Review Commission last month and they agreed with his application and—’
‘What do you mean, they agreed? That would—’ Henley forced herself to stop talking, in case she revealed that she knew more than she was letting on.
‘You need to let me finish,’ said Pellacia. ‘The CCRC agreed with his application and referred his case to the Court of Appeal.’ Henley felt exposed as Pellacia stared at her so intently. ‘Yesterday afternoon the Court of Appeal granted Streeter leave to appeal,’ he said solemnly.
‘How do you know all this?’ Henley asked, stunned.
‘A court clerk informed the Director of Public Prosecutions this morning and advised him to inform the families of the five victims before they issued a press release tomorrow morning. The information trickled down and I got a call from the borough commander about an hour ago. She thought you should know. I’ve got a copy of the CCRC decision, here.’
Henley waited as Pellacia took out his phone and tapped in his passcode. ‘Just because the Court of Appeal have granted Streeter leave to appeal doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s going to be released.’ Henley could hear the denial and desperation in her voice. In that moment she knew she sounded like a mother insisting that their child was an angel even though a witness had seen them stab someone in the neck. Henley had looked into the eyes of a murderer, but the CCRC had flicked through the paperwork with a stone-cold detachment. She felt sick. ‘Do you know how many murder convictions are referred to the Court of Appeal every year? Look at how many of our cases have gone to the Court of Appeal and those cases have been laughed out of court. This will fail,’ she said.
‘I would usually agree with you, but look at the speed at which this happening. Listen to what the CCRC said in their decision: After careful consideration, the CCRC has found compelling evidence that calls into question the credibility of the investigating police officers who questioned him at the time of his arrest and presided over the murder investigation of Gyimah et al. Having considered the Court’s findings in that case, the CCRC considers that the credibility of these police officers, one of whom was earlier criticised in the Court of Appeal’s decision in R v Duff, Branton and Sage [2002] 1 EWCA 90 as “a witness of truth in criminal proceedings”, is substantially weakened. On that basis there is a real possibility that the Court of Appeal would conclude that Mr Streeter’s convictions are unsafe. They’re basically saying that—’
‘I know exactly what they’re saying,’ Henley replied, burying her head in her hands. ‘You know who one of the officers who questioned him was, don’t you?’
Pellacia didn’t reply as he put his phone away.
‘It’s not just the fact that they’re saying Streeter’s conviction is unsafe,’ said Henley. ‘It’s the fact they’re saying—’
‘Rhimes was corrupt,’ said Pellacia, disbelief coating every single one of his words.
‘All those rumours, all those years of denial. He sat in front of us and denied it. He came to my house, sat in my living room, and said it was all lies.’
‘You’re not saying you believe this, are you? You can’t be saying that?’
Henley turned her gaze away from Pellacia. In the past month she’d embarked on a journey where she’d stood up and blindly defended a dead man. Her loyalty to Rhimes had overridden her ability to listen to Elias Piper and Streeter and objectively analyse and assess what they had told her. As far as she was concerned, everyone was lying and looking to absolve themselves of any responsibility by placing the blame at the feet of a dead man. What if she was the one who’d been wrong? Henley couldn’t hide from the truth anymore.
‘What did that decision say? The CCRC has found compelling evidence that calls into question the credibility of the investigating police officers. Compelling evidence. They haven’t reached this decision on a whim. They have something.’
Pellacia rose from his seat, placed his hands on his head, and walked towards the railings. After a few seconds he turned and faced Henley with a look of disbelief and betrayal on his face.
‘What are you saying?’ Pellacia finally asked. ‘That you believe Rhimes – our Rhimes – was corrupt?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I believe, does it?’ Henley replied. ‘What I believe, think, or feel isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference.’
Henley stood up and joined Pellacia. She turned her attention towards the growing City of London skyline in the west, and watched the waves lapping against the river wall below. Should she tell Pellacia about Streeter’s letters and her visit to see him?
‘There’s more,’ said Pellacia, stepping away from Henley.
‘What more could there possibly be?’ asked Henley, taking a deep breath to calm herself down.
‘The Court of Appeal are going to fast-track the appeal against conviction,’ said Pellacia. ‘It could be as early as next Monday.’
‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Henley. ‘Those three judges have already made up their minds if they’re fast-tracking this.’
‘Are you OK?’ Pellacia asked, his voice softening as he finally faced Henley.
‘It’s just a lot, Stephen.’ Henley looked out across the river. Melissa’s body had been found less than a mile away. ‘Twenty-six years is a long time, but I never forgot what happened and what I saw. I had nightmares for months and I would sleep in the top bunk in Simon’s room because I didn’t want to be alone. I don’t think he wanted to be alone either.’
