Six days later,
Thursday, 3rd April
The three faces on the other side of the table were all male. To varying degrees, all wilted and drooped by age. A mish-mash of loosely hanging jowls, of deeply scored wrinkles, differing shades of grey.
Seated to Shields' left was Detective Chief Superintendent Rogers - a man she'd come face to face with only once before and then very briefly, but who nonetheless had confirmed his reputation for arrogance and haughtiness, was doing again so now.
Dressed in civilian clothes to her right, meanwhile, was the retired chief constable, Harold Wilks - a frail-looking figure with a bald, liver-spotted dome whose occasional interventions were heralded by the raising of a jittering index finger.
And there at the centre of the trio was the current chief constable, Lionel Grayson - his the most aquiline of the three faces, the gaze the most menacing. Once the facts of the matter had been elicited and examined, it was he who first offered his conclusions.
"Tone. It's all a question of tone, sergeant. It is of course natural - one might say professionally healthy even - that a subordinate officer may occasionally have differing ideas to their superior, but it is essential at all times that the subordinate officer express his or her alternative hypothesis in a polite and constructive tone."
Particularly if said subordinate officer happened to be a mere female, Shields could only surmise.
"There's a reason DCI Gooch is of a higher rank than yourself," Grayson continued.
Principally because he was a man, Shields reflected, but once again decided it wise to leave her thoughts unvoiced.
"Other than his numerous other qualities, the inspector has a much greater level of experience than yourself. It is your duty as a subordinate to not only learn from him but also to value the added wisdom he can bestow upon you."
The chief constable then twisted his head to either side, as if inviting his colleagues to take up the discourse. DCS Rogers duly obliged.
"Just as much as personal respect, what I expect from my subordinates is total discretion."
A comment to which Wilks raised his jerky index finger.
"Confidentiality, sergeant."
The focus then returned to Grayson. "I believe what my colleagues are referring to, sergeant, is the unauthorised sharing of information with the media which is... shall we say, somewhat delicate of nature."
Wilks' index finger once more jittered into a vertical position. "Potentially damaging to the good name of the constabulary."
"Being a complete and utter blabbermouth," added Rogers, in case the concept wasn't yet quite clear.
Grayson observed her with his brows lowered to either side of his protruding nose. "We have reason to believe that it may have been you who divulged certain inside information to the Echo concerning the Gupta case."
He waited as if in expectation that she would launch into some vain denial. She didn't want to give him or his two colleagues the pleasure however. Much like Gupta's ID parade, the whole thing was a charade, a simple case of going through the motions. She had absolutely no doubt at all that they'd already made up their minds. Whatever words were to come out of her mouth would make no difference at all, so it was better just to stay silent. Observe those three faces before her with the same cold disdain they observed her.
She then pushed back her chair.
Stepped wordlessly out through the door.
*
A few minutes later she found herself rolling back over the Wyn Suspension Bridge. As always when passing that way, she tried her hardest to keep her eyes on the road before her - the juddering, slightly precarious rear of the lorry just ahead. Attempted not to veer her gaze off towards the side, imagine at which exact point it was which her father had thrown himself from the gantry. Sought to ignore those grey, lethal waters far below, not allow her mind to dwell on those details she'd read in an Echo report many years later of a teenager who'd also thrown himself from the bridge.
An estimated 75 miles per hour at point of impact... Internal organs crushed in an instant...
It was to no avail however. Obstinately, bloody-mindedly, her neck muscles swivelled, craned, stretched.
Suicide, yes...
It had become something of a recurring theme just of late. Gupta, of course. And then what about Bryan Dixon's wife she'd read about in the Echo? Melanie, her name. A cocktail of alcohol and sleeping pills. The same way, Shields had been informed over a tearful bottle of shared Saturday night wine, that Jessica's sister had taken her life.
As Shields crossed over the far bank of the estuary, turned a final glance seawards at the looming white ferry heading into port, it was the Jessica's voice which soothed its way into her mind.
Do it for him. PC Maguire.
After turning onto the northbound A-road which led back to Branstead, she pulled into the first service station, stepped over to the phone box. There was a pensive pause before pushing the ten pence piece into the slot, a glance across at the zip of passing traffic through the dirt-smudged glass. A final moment of soul-searching, fully aware that this was the point of no return.
"Jessica, it's me. Are the boys---"
"Yes, yes, everything here's fine." The voice on the other end of the line was urgent, almost breathless. "How'd it go?"
"How it was always going to go."
A response cryptic enough to provoke a moment of silence. Then: "Christ, you mean---?"
"Listen, I'm going to be a bit later than planned. Need to take a little detour over to Dunwick."
*
The Macintosh screen flickered with a half-written report of the house break-in Bridcutt had earlier that morning been called out to take a look at. Unable to concentrate, he clacked his Newton's cradle into motion, swerved his gaze once more through the slanted window blinds of Gooch's office. As moments earlier, the inspector still had his phone clamped to ear, his expression earnest. He nodded along to whatever information it was being fed into his ear, his own mouth closed. Listening, not talking. That only ever happened when it was the chief constable on the other end of the line.
Shields' disciplinary hearing. Had there been some news?
With a regretful puff of the cheeks, the inspector now lowered the receiver back into the cradle, glanced over in Bridcutt's direction. Heaving himself upright from his swivel chair, he then waddled over to the doorway.
"Confirmed. Shields won't be coming back. Been thrown off the force."
Though predictable, the words still carried a certain sting. Maybe it had been naive of him, but Bridcutt had harboured a faint glow of hope. It wasn't just disappointment he felt, however, but the distinct chill of guilt too. That intense, dramatic Thursday, the terrible morning which had followed. Could he have played it differently? Offered the sergeant more support? Tried harder to comprehend her doubts?
Gooch had meanwhile made his way over, now slung a palm onto Bridcutt's shoulder.
"I put in a good word for you, lad. The chief constable wants you to do the sergeants' exam as soon as possible."
And though it was news which Bridcutt suspected he would later reflect on with a great sense of personal satisfaction, right at that moment it had little effect on him. His gaze was concentrated on the vacant desk in front of him - the characteristically disorganised clutter of papers, the world's best mum mug with its dribbles of dried black coffee, the rear of the silver photo frame which contained the smiling faces of Jamie and Lee.
"I know, lad. Had a bit of a crush on her, right? Think all of us male colleagues did to some extent. Those brown eyes of hers, that cute little behind. But not just that, the way she carried herself too. A force of nature, that woman. A blast of a hurricane. But that was the problem - she threatened to blow down trees, damage power lines. But the tempest has now passed. The skies above us will be more serene from here on in."
And with that the inspector began patting his hands to pockets in search of his Benson and Hedges, waddled back towards his office.
*
It came into tragic focus immediately as Shields turned the corner into Victoria Terrace. That humble family home which had once been filled by love now reduced to a shattered canvas of hatred and prejudice. It wasn't just the first-floor window which was boarded up, but now also the ground floor one. This was covered by a wild, vulgar sprawl of sprayed graffiti which veered over the red bricks beyond.
There was no sign of any patrol car in the vicinity: so much for Gooch's promise that he'd have Dunwick keep a close eye on things. She might have known.
But much more importantly, Prisha and her mother - were they still in there, she wondered? Cowering in the darkness like cave-huddled mountain goats from the approaching howl of wolves?
After pulling the Marina to a halt, she scuttled across the street, pounded a fist amongst the sprayed expletives of the front door.
"Prisha! Prisha, are you in there? It's me, Shields."
Thirty seconds passed, an entire minute. Finally, she turned, began making her way back to the Marina.
But surely you can remember him though. How nobody knew him like you knew him.
That smart, pretty young girl. That most loyal and perceptive of daughters.
If anyone was going to help her get to the bottom of all this, Shields realised, then it was Prisha. Where was she though? What in God's name had happened to her and her mother?
It was as she was unlocking the driver's door that she heard a call from across the street. Glancing up, she saw a heavily made-up woman of around her own age a little further down the road, a leg-cocked Jack Russell in her wake. The witness who'd testified seeing Gupta drive past in the direction of Southwold that fateful Tuesday morning, perhaps? The woman had obviously observed Shields banging at the Guptas' front door, her curiosity piqued.
"You a copper?"
The question felt strange somehow, almost insidious. Shields' natural instinct was to call back an affirmative, root a hand into her shoulder bag in search of her ID wallet. It took her a moment - a warped, crushing moment - to realise that false representation as a serving police officer was a crime punishable by prison time. That her precious, hard-earned service badge was no longer in her possession, but had been slapped defiantly down onto Gooch's desk six days earlier.
"No, no, just a... a friend of the family, let's say."
The woman's facial muscles collapsed into a frown. It was unclear if she more was perplexed by the idea that Shields could be the friend of a family comprising a husband and father who'd been convicted of double murder, or - much more banally - that as a white person she could possibly be the friend of an Indian family at all.
As her Jack Russell slashed a spray of urine over a neighbour's doorstep, the woman's frown eventually faded, morphed into a nod of vague comprehension.
"Last I heard, the wife and daughter were taken in by the... by the..." A frown once more rippled her forehead. "You know, the Sikh mosque or whatever it is down there in Wynmouth."
The Hindu temple, she obviously meant, but Shields was relieved and grateful enough to let the inaccuracy pass. After a quick word of thanks, she lowered herself back into the Marina, turned a pensive gaze at the paint-cracked front door immediately to her left. The dark, lifeless window beside it. Number 11.
Joanne.
Kirsty.
Prisha too.
Who else was going to bring them justice? In Christ's name, who?
With a determined twist of the ignition key, she stuttered the Marina back into life. Three-quarters of an hour later, found herself passing across that majestic, God-cursed bridge once more.
*
As the car wheels bounced over the exit ramp of the ferry and the Bakers once more passed onto British soil, there came an excited yelp from the passenger seat.
"Isn't it great to be back in Blighty!"
The look which John turned his wife was more pitying than one of agreement. No, it wasn't great to be back in Blighty again. Not at all.
As a French teacher at Branstead Comprehensive, the return to England meant that the new school term was on the doorstep. That his students' soul-crushingly uninflected pronunciations of the most basic words were on the doorstep. Confused verb forms, wrong gender articles, missing aigu and grave and circonflexe. And not only all that, the often promised and much put off clearing out of the garage - yes, that was now on the doorstep too, or else Mandy really would begin divorce proceedings rather than just half-jokingly threaten to.
And that was to mention nothing of all the delicious cheeses and wines which for the previous eight days had tingled their way across his palate. A backwater market town like Branstead, where the hell was a gourmet like himself supposed to get hold of a bit of camembert or brie or Roquefort? A decent bottle of merlot or Bordeaux or chardonnay?
And then - oh Lord - then there was the weather. As if in portentous greeting, the drizzle began to spot onto the windscreen as they passed over the suspension bridge. Forty minutes later as they pulled into the driveway of their neat, suburban semi, it had thickened to a full-blown downpour. As an Englishman, John tried to put a positive slant on things: at least the car had had a much needed clean.
With her jacket draped over her head, Mandy made a gasping dash to the refuge of the front porch, leaving John to submit himself to nature's wrath as he unlocked the boot and slung the suitcase out onto the gravel. To his great annoyance, the old guy from three doors down was at that moment ambling past the front gate, cascades of water splashing from the umbrella he held aloft, that yappy damn West Highland terrier of his dragging along behind.
"How was your trip, John?"
Really? Despite the monsoon-intensity rain, he was supposed to stand there and indulge the old sod in neighbourly conversation?
For the sake of basic politeness, John felt forced to turn him a quick smile. "Tres bien, merci. Tres bien."
The guy looked confused for a moment, as if unaware what 'tres bien' actually meant. John's hair had by this point flattened down over his forehead and his socks were already damp. He just wished the sod would bugger off, leave him to scuttle away towards shelter. There the old man stubbornly remained at the gate however, his own socks no doubt completely dry under the protection of the umbrella.
"You'll have heard the news, I suppose."
After slamming down the boot of the Astra, John twisted him a curious frown.
"What news?"
*
She was seated at a table in one of the backrooms of the temple, her back to Prisha. The mane of voluminous blonde hair was damp, unkempt; so too the face which turned up at her as Prisha scraped out a chair on the other side of the table.
"Prisha. Thanks for agreeing to meet me. How... How are you?"
Plonking herself down, Prisha squeezed her eyelids into an aggressive glare. "Grieving. I'm grieving, okay? Will be grieving for the rest of my cursed, crappy life."
"I know, Prisha. I know."
A comment which only served to spark added fire to Prisha's soul. "You know, do you, detective? Your father was bullied into confessing to murder too, was he? As a consequence, took his own life out of shame?"
As Shields gazed mutely back at her, Prisha cast an eye around her surroundings. Judging from the paper-strewn desk a little off to her right, the room served as the temple's office, its role purely functional rather than spiritual. Even so, the chromatic frenzy of the main chamber was echoed in the violet and yellow colour scheme as well as in the vividly toned madhubani artwork on the wall above her right shoulder. As someone accustomed to the drab, grey stonework of Christianity, Prisha wondered what Shields had made of it all as she'd been escorted through the temple. A country dweller for the first time experiencing city lights.
She turned her focus back to Shields. "What I don't understand is why you requested to see me rather than just flash that badge of yours at the first face you came across beyond the temple doors, threaten them with deportation if they didn't immediately bring you to where my mother and I are."
"I... I don't have... I'm not actually a---"
But Prisha wasn't prepared to wait for whatever it was the detective was trying to say. The ire inside of her had swelled to a tsunami - one which no man-made bulwark or even deity could possibly have prevented from crashing its way to the shore.
"Threaten with deportation. That's what you did with my father, right? If he hadn't confessed, we'd all have been on the first flight back to India. My father's age, the question marks which would have hung over his head - think he'd have landed some nice, cushy job, do you? That we'd have been living the high life?" A snort of derision escaped Prisha's nostrils. "You ever visited the slums of Kanpur, detective?" She paused a moment, as if allowing Shields the opportunity to answer. "No? Thought not. Well let me tell you about it then. The women have to queue up for hours each day just to fetch water for the family. Hours, I'm telling you. And the children, are you really naive enough to believe that they go to school?"
The sheer thought of it was enough for her to suck down a sharp breath before continuing.
"Oh, let's leave aside history, shall we? You know, Empress Victoria and all that. The tens of millions who died of starvation while you Brits were scoffing down Indian bread and Indian rice. The more than two million Indian troops who despite all the blood on British hands came over to fight alongside you guys in World War Two." A hand swept to one side in dismissal. "Really, let's just not go there, okay?" She squeezed the frame of her gaze tighter around Shields' face." Instead, let's concentrate on today. The fathers of all my Indian friends who work their fingers to the bone, just like my own did. Factories, agriculture, dawn till dusk corner shops. And this is how as a community we're treated? Not innocent until proven guilty but the other way round. And in the meantime, our private properties are free hits to that brainless, uneducated..." She paused a moment to rephrase the words which had been galloping ahead in her mind. "I was going to say majority of the British public, but that would be an injustice, perhaps. Significant minority, that sounds about right."
And with that, the discourse was finished. She'd said all that she wanted to say. For the time being at least.
But wait, was that a smile there on Shields' face? Not some wide, moronic beam exactly, just a slight upwards crook at one corner of her lips.
"You know, we've got a lot in common, you and I Prisha. If you'd been there in DCI Gooch's office, I think you'd have been proud of me. Just like you right now, I told him straight and true. No fancy words, no beating around the bush. Just went right to the bone."
Prisha felt her facial muscles scrunch with intrigue. "Told him what?"
"That your father was innocent. That whoever it is who killed Kirsty and Joanne is still out there. And after that, I slammed my badge down onto the sod's desk." Before Prisha was able to stammer out any kind of response, Shields had shifted herself forward in her seat. "I'm no longer a detective, Prisha. Earlier today, they kicked me off the force."
Unsure of how she should respond exactly, Prisha settled for the most banal thing that came into her head. "What are you going to do now?"
Slumping backwards in her chair, Shields gave a twitch of her shoulders, puffed out her cheeks. The direction of her gaze was vague, indefinite. "I don't know. Haven't really had the chance to think about it." Those hazel eyes then refocused once more, veered back towards Prisha. "You and your mother, where are you staying?"
Prisha flicked her eyes instinctively towards the door, checked it was still closed. Given the circumstances, the information she was about to divulge was strictly confidential. "There's a house here in the neighbourhood. Couple in their fifties, their kids all grown up. The wife' s father recently passed away, have headed off to India to scatter his ashes in the Ganges. Said we could stay there for a week or two." She pictured that tragic brass urn which she and her mother had placed on the bedroom dressing table, felt another tear prick against her eye. "I promised my mother that we'll do the same with my father's one day."
Shields offered a sombre nod. "And when the couple return?"
Prisha's answer was immediate, determined. "London. I'm going to take my mum to London. A place so big no-one'll know us. Somewhere we can hide."
She was surprised at the hand which reached across the table, gestured that she clasp it with her own; was even more surprised that she did precisely so.
"We can do this, Prisha. We can clear your father's name." Shields nodded in conviction of her words. "You have to help me though. Give me something. Anything."
The bundle of banknotes which had dropped through the door that black, terrible day, over two thousand pounds' worth in total - no, she couldn't share that with anyone. Hadn't even told her mother.
There was something else though perhaps...