Reckless Obsession

by Dai Henley

Overview

When DCI Flood’s wife is murdered in a hit-and-run attack by a vengeful gang, his life is torn apart. The police fail to discover the perpetrators. Two years later, the investigation is relegated to a cold case. Flood becomes obsessed, spending all his spare time hunting his wife’s killers, alienating friends and family.

After witnessing another shocking murder, he is plunged into the menacing world of organised crime. His investigations unearth startling similarities to the cold case, which puts his life in danger.

‘Twists and turns fill every page. There is plenty of mystery to keep a reader enthralled. A well-plotted, pacy thriller.’ The Wishing Shelf.

'The author has a real talent for creating characters you can believe in and Andy Flood is one of his best.

Top-class plotting and a real feel for what modern policing is like.'The Bookbag.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781787196605
Publisher:	New Generation Publishing
Publication date:	03/16/2018
Pages:	274
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x (d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday 20th February 2001

Detective Chief Inspector Andy Flood would never get used to waking up with a cold, empty space by his side. He stumbled to the bathroom, trying not to make a noise and wake up his daughters.

His mother, who'd moved in after his wife's murder, would wake the girls later, give them breakfast, take them to school and pick them up in the afternoon.

He shaved, dressed and left home as the sun rose to drive to his office at Southwark Police Station. He took his customary route, driving his beloved Honda through a little used B-road close to Greenwich Park. Sunlight dappled through skeleton trees, melting the sheen of frost on the tarmac.

Flood thought about the overwhelming number of live cases filling his in-tray, giving him less time to work on a particular closed case; the one closest to his heart. His deliberations were interrupted when he spotted a Ford Focus smashed into a tree fifty yards ahead.

'What the fuck ... just what I need.'

The severely crumpled bonnet and shattered windscreen confirmed a severe collision. Smoke poured from the engine and flames flickered underneath the car.

The Honda skidded to a halt as Flood slammed his foot on the brakes. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he called the emergency services as he dashed towards the driver's door.

A young woman's head lay slumped against the headrest. Blood poured from a deep gash on the bridge of her nose. It dribbled down her mouth and chin onto her white blouse turning it crimson. Her lips moved, trying to say something.

He yanked the driver's door handle. It didn't budge. The impact had jammed the door. He noticed the bonnet's paintwork bubbling in the intense heat, like stew in a cauldron.

On his fifth adrenaline-fuelled tug, the door gave way. Leaning in, he noticed smoke pouring through the air vents. The acrid smell of burning tyres and plastic caught in his nostrils and throat.

Flood shouted, 'Can you hear me?' The woman gave the slightest of nods. He reached over her body to grab a coat lying on the passenger seat and used it to apply pressure to the head wound still oozing blood. Realising he had little time, he unfastened her seatbelt, gently eased her out and placed her limp body on the grass verge. Her eyes rolled upwards.

He put his lips close to her ear. 'C'mon, stay with me. Help's on the way.'

A minute later, he flinched, as the car exploded, shooting flames and white-hot metal fragments skywards. Lying over the woman's body to protect her, Flood felt the shards land on the back of his jacket. He stood and shook them off but not before they'd scorched his skin.

As he knelt down again, he heard the sound of increasingly strident sirens followed by screeching brakes as an ambulance and a fire engine arrived. He put his lips close to her ear again. 'Hang on. You'll be OK now.'

The paramedics took over as Flood explained that he was a police officer. They applied a dressing to her gaping wound and checked her for other injuries. When they'd set up a drip and applied an oxygen mask, they lifted her onto a stretcher. As they manoeuvred her into the ambulance, one of the paramedics turned to Flood.

'Did you know there's a bullet wound in her chest?'

'What? I assumed the blood on her blouse came from the head injury.'

'No. I'm certain,' the paramedic said, as he jumped into the back of the ambulance as it roared away, sirens blaring.

Flood called his sergeant. 'Tom, I've got a car crash and shooting incident. I need a Crime Scene Manager with the team here, urgently. I'll secure the area until they arrive. We're on Cripps Hill, two hundred yards short of the junction with the A206.'

Turning to the car wreck being damped down by the firemen, he added, 'Better organise a low-loader. Forensics and the Traffic Unit will need to check out the wreck.'

* * *

When Flood arrived at the police station, he walked up the stairs feeling blisters stinging his hands and back. He entered the toilets and peered into the mirror. Grimy streaks ran down the side of his face. Looking more closely, he noticed the tips of his hair and eyelashes were singed. After running his hands under the cold tap, he cleaned himself up as best he could and returned downstairs.

When he reached his office, Flood typed out notes on what he'd witnessed in case they may prove useful later. The image of the woman's blood-covered face and body never strayed far from his mind. He asked DS Tom Jordan several times for an update on the investigation.

'Sorry, Guv. Nothing to report. We're working flat out to reconstruct what happened.' Later that afternoon, Superintendent John Fox put his head around Flood's office door.

'Just heard about your victim. She didn't make it, I'm afraid.'

Flood grimaced as he looked up at his boss. 'I'm not surprised. Do we know who she is?'

'Her name's Jenny Cahill. Ring any bells?'

'Should it?'

'She's one of us. An authorised firearms officer. Recently acquitted at the Old Bailey for fatally shooting a major villain, Terry Connor.'

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday 20th February 2001

By the time Flood arrived home that evening, everyone had gone to bed. He went straight to his study, as he'd done every night for the past eighteen months.

Back then, he'd taken one heck of a chance. He'd photocopied the case notes relating to his wife's murder, stuffed them into his briefcase and brought them home from the station. Flood never forgave the police for relegating the investigation to cold case status after two and a half years due to the absence of new leads.

It should have been straightforward. Two months before her murder, Flood had been responsible for putting away a notorious gang leader. He suspected that the gang had taken revenge by fatally mowing down his wife as she cycled to work.

The case notes now lay strewn across the desk and floor of his study. He attempted to make sense of them, looking for inconsistencies in the hundreds of statements taken at the time of the murder.

A whiteboard, similar to the one in the Major Incident Room at the station, took up a wall of his study. Yellow Post-it notes with scribbled comments written on them together with mug shots of suspects covered most of the surface. Laser-straight, colour-coded marker pen lines connected each one.

He stood, ripped off one of the stickers, screwed it up and threw it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket. 'Another bloody dead end,' he muttered.

After two hours, he stopped. He placed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose and closed his stinging eyes, bringing them temporary relief. Opening them, he glanced at the clock on the wall. It showed 1.30 am.

Flood left his study and locked the door behind him. The room was strictly off-limits to his mother and daughters. Especially his daughters, seven-year-old Pippa and nine-year-old Gemma. He climbed the stairs. Before going to the bathroom, he looked in on their bedrooms. He kissed the top of their heads as they lay sleeping and whispered, 'Sweet dreams, princess,' to each of them.

* * *

Superintendent Fox buzzed Flood as soon as he arrived at the station early the next morning. He asked him to come to his office, a goldfish bowl stuck in the middle of a huge open plan admin centre on the first floor.

The big fish sat behind his desk, papers and files neatly stacked to one side. Flood tapped the door. Fox waved him in. 'Take a seat.' He indicated one opposite him.

'Andy, I want you to be the lead officer on the Jenny Cahill case.'

'You must be joking, Boss. You know how many live investigations I'm involved in.'

Fox leaned forward. 'We're talking about the cold-blooded murder of a police officer. The case is bound to be high profile. You know what the media's like. Love a good cop killing.'

'Yeah, I know but ...'

'Andy, you're my best detective. I want you to give this case top priority. I'll reallocate your current caseload, OK? Give you whatever resources you need. I want this sorted before I feel the heat from above. Understand?'

'You're the boss.'

'You start immediately.' Fox stood, signifying an end to the meeting. 'Let me know if you need anything else.'

* * *

By the afternoon, Fox had transferred Detective Sergeant Laura Miles and two extra Detective Constables to Flood's team. The experienced DS had worked with Flood before. Her face reminded him of Agnetha from Abba, the one with thesquare jaw line, impossibly grey-green eyes and light blonde hair. She even spoke with the merest hint of an accent. It all fell into place once she'd told him her mother was Scandinavian.

Laura had helped Flood settle in after he'd been promoted from DI in Hampshire to DCI at the Met. Several disgruntled, long-serving officers resented his promotion from the sticks.

Once, he'd overheard a conversation in the station's local watering hole, The Ship Inn, as he sat hidden behind a pillar talking to a DC. He heard an officer say, 'I can't believe the Met would promote a turnip from Hampshire. The most he's probably had to deal with is a bloody stolen bike.'

Laura had turned on them.

'Have you seen his record? For starters, he's got three Chief Constable's commendations for courage and dedication. He's sorted out more villains than both of you will in the rest of your careers put together. Lay off him.'

'Ooh, get you! Got the hots for him, have you?'

'Piss off.'

He'd smiled to himself. He liked her attitude.

* * *

Flood arranged the first meeting of his twenty-strong team in the Major Incident Room later that day. The Crime Scene Manager had already attached the known information about the case onto the whiteboards, including head and shoulder shots of Jenny Cahill and Terry Connor. He'd added photos of the crime scene from different angles showing the burnt-out car and a detailed road map of the area.

The room, humming with chit-chat, fell silent when Flood strode in carrying a file. Placing it in front of him, he opened it, removed his jacket, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

'OK, listen up, everybody. Yesterday, one of our own was gunned down on a road near Greenwich Park in broad daylight. I witnessed what appeared to be a car accident. Except it wasn't. The car crashed after the driver, an authorised firearms officer with the Met, Jenny Cahill, had been shot.' He turned to the whiteboard and tapped her photo. 'She died from her injuries at the hospital.'

Several officers groaned. One spat out, 'Bastards.'

He paused before continuing. 'A month ago, a judge acquitted Jenny of killing Terry Connor, a leading member of an organised gang, The Goshawks.' He pointed at Connor's photo.

'They're so-called because this particular bird of prey is extremely territorial. It possesses a ferocious attitude and razor-sharp talons. I'm told Attila the Hun wore its image on his helmet. The gang had the motivation; retaliation for her acquittal. If we don't sort this out, every villain in London will think we're a soft target.'

He looked down at the file containing a checklist he'd prepared and allocated routine jobs to several DCs: checking CCTV coverage, preparing and distributing hand-outs seeking eye witnesses and conducting further searches at the crime scene.

Flood tapped the photo of Terry Connor again, and turned to DS Collins.

'Bob, I want you to work with the Intelligence team. Prepare a detailed report on this guy. I want information on his links with other members of The Goshawks. In particular, the leader. Check out what the PNC and HOLMES have to say.'

The Police National Computer database and The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had proved useful in many of Flood's investigations. Except the one that mattered most to him; finding his wife's killer.

He turned to DS Martin, the area forensics officer. 'Jim, I want information about the gun and ammo used. Talk to the Collision Investigation Unit about what's left of the car. They'll have set up a reconstruction by now. I suspect another car's involved. We could be looking for more than one person of interest.' DS Martin made a note in his notebook.

Flood continued: 'I've applied for a warrant to conduct a search of Jenny's house. DS Miles and I will interview her husband, Martin Cahill, also a firearms officer, later today. He can tell us about Jenny's background. Any questions?'

'Yes, sir.' DC Tyler, an ambitious twenty-four-year-old officer on the graduate fast-track programme, put up his hand. 'As Martin Cahill is also a firearms officer, do you think that could be a factor in this case?'

'Could be,' Flood replied. 'I'll assess that when I interview him. Anything else?'

The room remained silent. 'OK. I want you to check and double- check your contacts. I don't care how tenuous the links to the gang are. Note down everything. I want maximum effort. We didn't come into this line of work for an easy life. Let's meet again, 10.00 am tomorrow morning, see what we've got.'

The meeting broke up amid a babble of animated conversations.

The search warrant Flood requested came through at 5.00 pm. He decided to visit Cahill immediately.

* * *

The Cahills lived in a semi-detached house on a modern estate in Lewisham, south east London. Flood and Laura took with them two DCs in a separate car to conduct the search. All four huddled in the porch, seeking protection as the temperature rapidly dropped below freezing. The lights from the hallway reflected on a myriad of nodding daffodils surrounding the neat front lawn.

Flood rang the doorbell. On the second ring, the door opened. Cahill's large, muscular frame, highlighted by a white T-shirt stretched over his barrel chest, filled the doorway. He wore the haunted, unshaven expression of someone in deep shock. Flood noticed that his watery eyes had trouble focussing on the officers for more than a few seconds at a time. He recognised Cahill's symptoms, remembering his own dark turmoil four years previously.

After introducing himself, Laura and the DCs, he continued: 'We're sorry for your loss. I know it's only twenty-four hours since your wife died but you know how these things work. We'll be as quick as we can. Our absolute priority is to discover who did this.'

Cahill mumbled, 'I hope you do.'

'We have a warrant from the magistrates to search your house and take away anything we think may help us in our inquiries. My DCs will carry out the search. May we come in?'

Cahill shrugged his shoulders and slouched back into the dining room without a word. Flood and Laura followed. The DCs pulled on their latex gloves and began their search in the study and living room.

Flood usually adopted his ABC approach at initial interviews: Assume nothing. Believe no one. Check everything. Under these circumstances, he decided to start more sympathetically.

'May we sit down?' Cahill waved at the chairs surrounding a glass dining table as he flopped down opposite Flood and Laura.

Flood asked. 'When did you see your wife last?'

'On the morning of the shooting. I waved to her as she left early in her car. She had to attend a meeting at the Deptford station.'

'She didn't need her uniform?'

'No. These days she helps out recruiting civilian staff.'

'What did you do that morning?'

'I had a day off. Our shifts often don't match. I visited my mother in Walworth.'

'Can you give us her address?' Laura readied her pen.

'Are you saying I didn't go?'

'No. This a matter of routine, as you will know.'

He mumbled the address. Laura wrote it down in her pocket book.

He added, 'I'm not sure how much she'll remember. She's got early-onset Alzheimer's.'

'What about the trial when the jury acquitted your wife? Did you go? See anything which might help the investigation?'

'Of course I went. Every day. I was there when the jury gave their verdict. Bloody tough time for her. And me. We couldn't believe the coroner issued a verdict of unlawful killing. Connor was a bloody gangster! The CPS had no option but to charge her with murder. She could have been put away for a long time if she'd been found guilty. It really fucked up our lives.'

Cahill looked out of the window and turned back to Flood.

'Thank God the jury used their common sense. I couldn't believe Jenny still wanted to work for the Met. They took her back. She couldn't do firearms any more. Been doing admin stuff ever since.'

'Anybody react particularly badly when the judge acquitted her?'

'Only the usual stuff. A few lowlifes cursed the judge and Jenny. The police offered us a Witness Protection Programme. Jenny wanted to take it up. I talked her out of it. I told her, our lives would never be the same again. We'd have to move away, lose contact with our friends, family, everyone. If I'd agreed, none of this would have happened, would it?' Cahill leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Reckless Obsession"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Dai Henley.
Excerpted by permission of Legend Times Ltd.
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