DS Nick Sheridan liked to think of himself as a decent man. Conscientious and diligent in his work, always putting in as much effort as he could, a staunch friend and supportive colleague. One of the good guys, making a difference by catching the bad guys. Or women. Or however they preferred to be referred to. He didn’t differentiate. At home a loving husband to Carrie and a great father to Chloe and Baxter. He also refereed non-league football matches. Just a hobby, but one he took seriously, bringing his rigorous sense of right and wrong to bear on the pitch. He saw it in part as an extension of his police work: creating as fluid and exciting a game as he could while at the same time not allowing impropriety to go unpunished. Rigorously enforcing fair play in all things. So to have doubts about his colleagues and their attitude towards an investigation was no small thing for him. And to actively take steps to investigate for himself was unheard of. It challenged every belief he had been brought up with, the very bedrock of his existence. Nevertheless, something told him to persist. And he listened to that voice.
No police station was ever silent and Middlemoor, the Exeter headquarters for Devon and Cornwall, was no exception. With its flat-fronted red brick façade and pitched roof, it resembled anything from a redundant Territorial Army base to a factory in an old Norman Wisdom film. Inside it had been gutted and renovated according to the best practices of every generation of police commander, every Home Office initiative. Currently the Serious Crimes Squad worked out of a large open plan first floor office, all workstations and access cards.
Sheridan was still at his desk even though the rest of his shift had long since gone home. He was waiting for an unobtrusive time to start investigating, when he wouldn’t attract too much attention from the night shift.
The office was still well lit, the overhead strip lights and desk lamps turning the windows into mirrors against the darkness beyond. Night shift tended to be on call more than day shift, reactive not proactive. As such he found himself alone in the office. He had made small talk with the few officers he had encountered, telling them he had reports and court documents to finish before he could go home. Trading weak jokes and bonhomie, they left him to it.
He had thought of working from someone else’s computer in case anything was logged but decided that his own would be secure enough. There was a legitimate reason he was searching for these things, after all. He logged into the Police National Computer. Quickly found who he was looking for.
Dean Foley. Plenty on him and what led to his subsequent imprisonment. But it was less informative than he’d been expecting. Sheridan knew all the facts already. There was only a mention of Killgannon by the pseudonym ‘Witness M’ and a note that nothing more could be revealed about his identity for fear of being compromised in the field. It stated that Witness M had infiltrated Foley’s gang under the name of Mick Eccleston and was reporting back to his handlers. It was his first-hand testimony that led to Foley’s arrest and imprisonment for drugs, people trafficking, assault, robbery, intimidation, extortion and anything else they could find to throw at him. And it had stuck.
As he read through something caught his eye. The fact that there had been another undercover officer involved in Foley’s gang. ‘Witness N’. Witness N had been placed first but hadn’t been as successful as Killgannon. For some unspecified reason there was no mention of Witness N anymore. Sheridan tried a search under that name. Came up with nothing.
That was as much as he could discover. The rest he knew, even down to which prison Foley now resided in. Which made Sheridan wonder. Had Harmer not known Killgannon was really Witness M when he assigned him to cosy up to Cunningham? Or had the information somehow slipped through the net? Or the line of thought Sheridan didn’t want to pursue but knew he had to: had Beaker known about Foley’s presence and still assigned him? Or even worse, assigned him because of Foley’s presence?
It made no sense. Or none that Sheridan wanted to countenance. He sat back, came out of the PNC.
What next? He looked over at Harmer’s closed door.
He knew what he had to do. And he didn’t relish it one bit.
He stood. And caught his reflection in the glass. He looked furtive, a criminal about to commit a crime. Felt immediately guilty because of it. Maybe that’s all he was. An untrustworthy sneak spying on his colleagues. In a way he hoped so. He wanted to be proved wrong. But there was that niggle again. Telling him that he was right. That there was something wrong and he had to find out what it was. No matter how unpleasant the outcome.
He crossed to Harmer’s door, tried the handle. Unlocked. He knew he should feel pleased about that but it just made what he had to do all the more unpalatable. He looked round once more even though he was the only person in the office. He felt he was being watched through the night-mirrored windows. Or maybe that was just his sense of guilt again. He stepped in Harmer’s office, opened up the screen, tapped in Harmer’s password. Finding it had been easy. His porn name. Name of first pet, mother’s maiden name. The team had played that game one night in the pub. Harmer, not wanting to appear standoffish, contributed his. Then, still drunk later, let it slip he would use it as his password. Sheridan, good copper that he was, had filed the information away. He never thought he would need to use it, especially under these circumstances.
When requested he typed in ‘LolaCraddock’ which he supposed could have been a real porn name given some adjustment or imagination, and he was in.
But he didn’t actually know what he was looking for. He just hoped he would recognise it when he saw it. If he saw it. He still hoped that he was imagining things.
And yet . . .
He scanned the files for anything that looked out of place, anything alluding to the current investigation. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Everything seemed in order. He was going to leave things at that, reluctant to delve further into a superior’s work, when something caught his eye. A file. No. Two files. He checked their names.
Witness M.
Witness N.
Sheridan sat back, heart hammering away.
He had been right. Damn it, he had been right.
He didn’t know whether to congratulate himself or commiserate with himself.
He did neither. He opened the files.