And now the story was everywhere. Not much ink for Brad because he was a former underworld enforcer, and guys like that did things like this all the time, so nothing new there. But the newspapers had gone to town on Michael McDevitt, Scotland Yard DCI, believed to be responsible for numerous deaths, and assumed to have fled the country. His life and crimes were offered to the world beneath eye-catching headlines, from ‘DEFECTIVE DETECTIVE’, to ‘ROGUE COP ON KILLING SPREE’ and ‘OFFICER OF DEATH LOOSE ON STREETS’. Every little threat he’d ever made to another officer or a criminal painted him as evil incarnate. Ramirez, now back on the streets, had been quoted heavily. All of his previous investigations were going under the microscope in a search for injustice.
Thinking about Gondal made his lip tremble. He wished he’d let the man live. Gondal had been a good man, a man dedicated to crime fighting, just like he’d been. He should have respected that common bond. However, it wasn’t the fact that Gondal was dead that irked him. He could have tied him up to get him out of the way for a couple of hours – that he hadn’t thought of doing such, that he’d acted rashly… it was his own fuzzy thinking that upset him. He was supposed to be better than that.
Strangely, there was no mention of the two goons that he’d sent Brad off with, which meant they were either dead and buried, or alive and keeping silent. He was betting they were gone for ever.
He’d expected people in his orbit to tell the journalists all sorts of daftness, of course. What he hadn’t counted on was how many people from his past would jump on the bandwagon. Someone from his school had called a paper to talk about ‘Killer Cop’s Evil Streak’, without, of course, mentioning that all he’d ever done was flushed his head down a toilet for ruining Mick’s pencil case. ‘Killer Cop’s ex-girlfriend suffered years of Rape and Abuse’, apparently, which must have happened while he was sleepwalking and she’d chosen never to bring it up. Most infuriating of all, though, some midwife now seventy years old had claimed that she knew ‘Killer Cop Was Evil Baby’ just from the look in his eyes in his mother’s arms.
That shallow bullshit was worthy of headlines but where was his highlight reel? Where were the supercop stories? They had him for ‘Respected Solicitor Murdered’, but there was no ink allocated to the post office robbery he’d single-handedly thwarted while off-duty as a uniformed constable. ‘Evil Detective Slaughters Disabled Man in Cold Blood’ was more headline-worthy than his record of twenty-six killers and eighty-five armed robbers behind bars. Instead of ‘philanthropist’ because he’d organised a ‘cops vs criminals’ charity football match last year, they called him ‘racist’ because the fellow cop he’d killed had been of Pakistani origin!
Worse than all of that, though, Alize had found out. She hadn’t replied to any of his messages in which he’d said he’d be with her soon. He’d agreed to meet her near Berlin where he’d told her he was meeting a guy from the German State Criminal Police Office to discuss a joint venture. Then, three days ago, long after his name had spread across the world, she’d messaged back, right out of the blue.
Missing you, where are you, Sweetcake?
That question had speared his heart.
Eight months of texting since he’d met her online, a hundred phone calls, swapped presents, and then this! They would have had a great holiday, and then he would have told her he was staying on in Berlin, and before long he would have moved in with her, and together they would have enjoyed the sweet life, but instead she fucking did this! The bitch hadn’t even tried to get his version of the story; she had swallowed every word in the papers and run to the police. They were clearly controlling her social media accounts and using her to lead him into a trap.
The only consolation, if it even qualified as one, was that his be with you soon claim had his hunters looking overseas. Let them waste manpower hiding in bushes around her home, and let her have sleepless nights as she worried that every noise was the infamous DCI Mick McDevitt, PSYCHO SLEUTH, coming down the fucking chimney.
He was angry, but there was also cause for relief. One vital aspect was missing from every newspaper. The crucial component: the spark that had ignited everything. The event that had instigated his becoming a ‘Murderous Top Detective’ was in there among a plethora of assumptions, but the newshounds and amateur psychologists had missed their chance to solve the case. He was surprised, and a little proud, that Brad hadn’t spilled the beans, especially given the prime opportunity he’d had before the video camera.
In other news: in Slade Green, a package had been posted to the parents of a sixteen-year-old girl who had been raped eighteen months ago. Her CitizenCard had been taken by the rapist as a trophy. When it fell through their letterbox, the parents thought the rapist was taunting them, and they handed the card to the police. Scientists quickly found DNA matching a known sexual offender, and yesterday he had been apprehended while sleeping rough with his brother. When Brad’s street gossipers had first provided the culprit’s name, Seamus Hunt, Mick had been loath to use the man, but over the months the offender had provided the location of three meets at which eight paedophiles had been arrested. Mick had destroyed every other piece of evidence in the Loyalty Box, but he had been unable to allow a child molester to walk free.
Seamus Hunt had so far chosen not to mention ‘SLAYbian of the Yard’s’ name, so the world didn’t know about his involvement in those embarrassing cases. Good.
Finally, he turned his attention to what really mattered.
He typed Karl’s name, but got nothing. Liz’s name brought up the triple murder and some offshoot stories. Nothing about their involvement in the past few days’ activities. Clearly this meant they had not been charged and that their names had been kept out of the papers. Certainly they would have had their lives scrutinised by detectives because they were integral performers in this production: statements checked, pasts unearthed, every coincidence put under the microscope. But, in the end, they had walked through this thing unscathed. Mick burned with anger at that notion: Karl and Liz out there, right now, probably fucking each other and laughing and living their lives as normal, and not giving Detective Chief Inspector Michael McDevitt a second thought.
But gossip wasn’t his reason for scouring the newspapers for Liz Grafton. He was after a specific piece of information, and when he found it, it made him sit back in the battered, puke-smelling armchair in shock.
He remembered taking the piss out of Brad for believing that he and his gay lover were destined to be together, but since then a number of occurrences had eaten away at his cynicism. That story in the newspaper finally pushed him from sceptic to believer.
Now he knew why the bitch had escaped his wrath every single time he had her within his grasp. Fate. It was meant to be.
Ninety-Four
Karl