Grayson’s order to get some sleep was easier said than done. Warren had hardly slept a wink. He’d arrived home angry and upset. The case was coming to a close, he could feel it, and to be taken away from it at such short notice …
Susan had already been home, settling in for another night alone in front of the TV.
Despite his fury at being treated like a child, it was the sight of his wife in her dressing gown, her face puffy from crying, that finally calmed him.
Maybe Grayson was right. After all they’d been through, what was he thinking? He should have been here for her. Susan had decided to go back to work, and Warren supported her decision, but still, she shouldn’t be on her own at night, watching crappy television, wondering what time her husband would finally show up.
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she’d said after hearing Warren’s account.
He hadn’t intended to share with her the story of the baby in the woods, but she’d seen the evening news and immediately pieced together what must have happened.
‘Maybe John is right: you are too close to this. After everything you’ve … we’ve been through, you need time to get your head straight.’
Warren winced as she parroted Grayson’s words.
‘Take the time off. Go and see Tony tomorrow – you haven’t seen him for weeks. Then we can go to Coventry at the weekend and tell Mum and Dad, and Granddad Jack about the babies.’
Warren had nodded, unable to disagree. The loss of the babies was like an open wound. Intellectually, Warren knew that they couldn’t start to heal properly until they told their family what had happened. For the past week he’d flinched every time the phone went, or he came home to find post on the kitchen table – who knew how many people had been told the couple’s good news? The card from Granddad Jack had been like a knife twist, and he’d buried it at the bottom of the waste bin before Susan even saw it.
Bernice, Dennis and Jack would be heartbroken, and he didn’t have the emotional energy to tell them that they were no longer going to be grandparents again. But he couldn’t put it off forever. They had to tell them, and it wouldn’t be right to share that news over the phone.
‘And why not go to Occupational Health? You know what they said last time you went. If you start having bad dreams again, you should go back for more counselling. It really helped after Gary’s death, and the murders at the abbey last spring.’
Susan, as ever, was right.
‘Grayson said he would arrange for an emergency appointment. I haven’t checked my emails.’
‘Then clearly he wants you back as soon as you’re fit. You’re his best officer, Warren. And he cares for you.’
Again, he couldn’t fault his wife’s logic. Nevertheless, neither of them had slept properly, and it had taken all of Warren’s willpower to avoid checking his email until Susan had left for work that morning.
It was clear from the size of his inbox that Grayson hadn’t told the team why he was absent that day, and he spent an hour forwarding messages to others to action whilst he was out of the office, his sense of frustration growing. Occupational Health responded at nine a.m. with the offer of an appointment first thing Monday. Grayson had obviously pulled some strings – over the past few years, the counselling service had borne the brunt of the government’s sweeping cuts to the policing budget. He and his colleagues been asked to do more and more, with fewer and fewer resources, and a significant decrease in personnel. Front-line services were stretched beyond breaking point, taking an inevitable toll on officers’ health and mental wellbeing. Waiting lists for counselling appointments were at an all-time high.
Warren still felt annoyed that Grayson had forced his hand, but the sooner OH gave him a clean bill of health, the sooner he could be back at his desk. In the meantime, he vowed to try and enjoy his enforced rest. Walking into the living room, with a cup of tea and a handful of custard creams, he perused the couple’s ‘to be read’ bookcase, groaning with books that he hadn’t had time to even look at. Deciding on the latest Lee Child, he settled into the comfy leather armchair. Some days he envied Jack Reacher. No attachments, and few worries beyond what motel to check into that night – the lifestyle of Child’s nomadic character seemed almost idyllic, and he looked forward to escaping into that world for a few hours.
By lunchtime, Warren was going stir-crazy. For the first time he could remember, he’d been unable to focus on Lee Child’s sparse, yet descriptive prose, finally giving up barely thirty pages in. Reacher hadn’t even punched anyone yet.
A flick through the TV channels had revealed nothing more diverting than some middle-aged people getting overly excited about bidding at an auction for some junk found in an attic, and some deeply unpleasant individuals being goaded into fighting over the results of a paternity test by an even more unpleasant studio audience. After another cup of tea, and a cheese sandwich, Warren gave up. Grabbing his coat, he headed out into the chilly autumnal air.
‘Warren! What a lovely surprise.’ Marie Sutton greeted Warren with a warm hug. ‘Tony, Warren’s here,’ she called back over her shoulder.
‘I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ Warren’s hadn’t thought to call ahead and he’d no idea if Sutton was busy.
‘Of course not.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s going mad stuck in doors all day. He’ll be delighted to see you.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘And you’ll be doing me a favour. He’s as grumpy as sin.’
‘I heard that,’ came Sutton’s voice, as the living room door opened.
It had been a month since Warren had last checked in with Tony Sutton. Technically, Warren shouldn’t be performing line manager visits with his sick colleague, since he himself was signed off also, but he’d been friends with Sutton too long to worry about such formalities. If anyone asked, he was visiting a mate.
The mini-stroke that had felled his friend six months previously had left no permanent damage, thankfully, but the heart condition that it had uncovered had left its mark.
‘You look well,’ said Warren.
‘Bollocks, I look like shit.’
Since his collapse, Sutton had been in and out of hospital. In the past months, he’d lost a significant amount of weight, and his pallor had improved. But Warren noticed that he was still out of breath, as he led the two of them into the living room.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Marie, as she disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Decaf only,’ Sutton apologized. ‘You get used to the taste, but I miss the kick.’
‘Probably for the best,’ said Warren. ‘At least Rachel Pymm will be pleased.’
Sutton grunted. ‘She won’t be happy until we’re all pouring hot water over the contents of the garden waste bin. What’s she drinking these days?’
‘I assume it’s mint tea, either that or she’s boiling mouthwash.’
‘Hah.’
The two men sat down.
‘So how is everyone?’
‘Fine. Busy and overworked as usual, but they’re ploughing on. Moray’s training for a triathlon and stressing about his wedding; he and Alex are trying to agree on whether they should both wear the same style suit or do their own thing. The problem is, there’s almost a foot difference in height, and five stones weight between them. I’m glad I didn’t have to worry about that when Susan and I got married.
‘Rachel is doing well. She’s recovered from her last relapse. I just have to make sure she doesn’t overdo it again.’
‘Good luck with that. What about Hutch?’
‘He’s bought himself a new motorbike.’
‘Mid-life crisis?’
‘That’s what everyone reckons.’
‘And Mags? Is she still running?’
‘Yeah, she’s doing parkruns with Moray most Sundays. She’s hoping to get a place in the London Marathon, raising money for the NSPCC.’
‘That’s a good cause,’ said Sutton. Warren agreed. Since the appalling events of the Middlesbury Abbey case, earlier that year, the team had been raising money for children’s charities. That investigation had really got under everyone’s skin.
‘How’s Susan?’ asked Sutton.
‘She’s fine,’ said Warren quickly, ‘but what about you?’
Sutton made a so-so gesture with his hand. ‘Good days and bad days.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
Sutton let out a puff of air. ‘I’m permanently in arrhythmia; my pulse rate is all over the place.’
‘Have they still got you on those beta-blockers?’
‘No, thank God. They really disagreed with me. I was huffing like an old man. They’ve put me on some new ones, and they’re going to try another cardioversion, to see if they can shock me back into a normal rhythm.’
‘And if they can’t?’
Sutton sighed. ‘Different tablets and the possibility of an ablation, to kill off the piece of heart tissue that is causing the abnormal rhythm.’
‘Christ.’
‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ said Sutton. ‘They go in through a blood vessel; it’s not like open-heart surgery.’
The door opened, and Marie appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. ‘Sorry, Warren, decaf only.’
‘At least Marie lets me have the decent biscuits when we have guests,’ said Sutton.
‘Ignore him,’ ordered Marie. ‘You’d think I had him living on gruel and warm water.’
‘So, any idea when you’ll be back?’ asked Warren, after she’d left.
‘I take it the Brownnose Brothers aren’t living up to expectations?’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Warren.
Sutton grunted, his eyes narrowing.
‘They’re … different,’ Warren allowed.
‘So I’ve heard.’ Sutton paused. ‘Their reputation precedes them. Word on the grapevine is they’re ambitious.’
‘They’re certainly that,’ said Warren diplomatically. Despite his years of friendship with Sutton, he was uncomfortable bad-mouthing other members of the team. Grimshaw and Martinez certainly had their faults – Grimshaw in particular – but slagging them off was unprofessional. Warren had spoken to Grimshaw on more than one occasion about his choice of language when discussing victims or suspects in their cases. He also had a habit of making crude jokes that were more suited to the pub with like-minded friends, than an office environment. Everyone on the CID team was a grown-up, and dark and often adult humour was a common way of dealing with what they saw each day. Nevertheless, there was a line between what was appropriate and what was too much, and Grimshaw didn’t seem to know – or care – about that line. If the man ever wanted to make it as an Inspector, he would have to work on that.
By contrast, Martinez was the polar opposite. Rachel Pymm had once described him as ‘smooth, like an estate agent’. Given the difficulties she and her husband had been having trying to sell their house, that wasn’t a compliment. Warren didn’t really know much about him, other than his love of football, and the fact that he apparently came from a wealthy background.
‘Anyway,’ continued Warren, ‘you didn’t answer the question. When do you think you’ll be back?’
‘Is this an official question?’ asked Sutton.
Warren was shocked. ‘Of course not. You know that’s not how it works.’
Sutton waved a hand in apology. ‘Sorry, ignore me. I’m just sick and tired of sitting around doing nothing.’ He looked towards the closed living room door.
He lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll be back.’
Warren sat back in surprise. It hadn’t really occurred to him that Sutton might not return to duty. Tony Sutton loved his job, and he loved Middlesbury CID even more. Warren’s predecessor, Gavin Sheehy, had fought tooth and nail to keep Middlesbury independent throughout the mergers and cutbacks of the past decade or so, and Tony Sutton had been a vocal proponent of that approach.
Warren realized that he couldn’t imagine Middlesbury without Sutton. The two men had certainly had their ups and downs, particularly during their first few months, but Warren had come to regard Sutton as one of the finest officers he’d ever worked with.
‘Welwyn have been really good to me these past few months,’ said Sutton. ‘Since I was taken ill on duty, they have extended my sick pay at full rate past the six months. But I’m going to have to make my mind up sooner, rather than later.’
‘What does Marie think?’ asked Warren.
‘She wants me to put in for ill health retirement.’
‘And what do you think?’
Sutton sighed. ‘I don’t even know if I’d be eligible; just because I can’t go legging it after suspects, doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of other roles I could still do. Look at Rachel Pymm. When she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, they supported her retraining as an officer in the case.’
‘But?’
‘But that isn’t me. I know my way around a computer, but sitting behind a desk all day …?’
‘So, what would you do, instead?’ asked Warren.
‘That’s just it, I don’t know.’ He clenched his fist in frustration. ‘All I ever wanted to be was a copper. You know that. My old man was in the police, and his old man before him. I’ve never been able to see myself in any other job. I’m not even fifty yet. What will I do? I’ve spent six months trying to keep myself occupied and failing miserably.’
He took a mouthful of his coffee. ‘And of course there’s the money. Ill-heath retirement is half-pay at best. I’d have to get another job, or Marie would have to work extra hours. And not to mention Josh; me and his mum are still helping him out.’
‘Teaching’s a good career,’ pointed out Warren.
‘Well that might be on the back-burner for a bit.’
‘Really? Susan says he was very enthusiastic when she arranged for him to do some work shadowing in the history department.’
‘He was, and he’ll probably go into it one day, but he’s just been offered a place on a master’s course, with the possibility of extending it to a PhD.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Exactly. He’s applying for funding, but there’s so little available for the humanities. And even if his course gets funded, he probably won’t get more than a pittance to live on. We’ve said he’s welcome to stay here, since his mum’s new husband has three small kids of his own, and their place is a bit of a zoo, but that’s going to be hard if I’m on reduced pay.’
Warren looked at his friend with concern. Sutton saw his expression.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. The first thing I need to do is get this heart thing sorted though, there’s nowhere quiet in the office for my afternoon nap.’
A few hours later, and it was clear that Susan had been right. Warren felt more relaxed than he had done in days. Susan had a parents’ evening to attend, and it hadn’t taken much to persuade Warren to stay for dinner.
After helping Marie clear the table, Warren had settled back down in the living room with his old friend.
Sutton took a swig of his alcohol-free beer and made a face.
‘I won’t be getting that one again,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked my way through most of the ones they sell in Tesco. Some are better than others.’
Warren agreed. He quite enjoyed some of the alternative brews, but this one was trying too hard to be a real ale and failing miserably. He stifled a burp. It was far too gassy.
Sutton put his glass down. ‘Have you spoken to Karen?’
Warren felt his gut clench. ‘Yes, she came in for her keep-in-touch day. It was good to see her.’
Sutton looked at him carefully. ‘And has she spoken to you about returning?’
‘No, I imagine that she needs to speak to HR about that.’
Sutton gave a sigh. ‘She’s not told you, has she?’
‘Told me what?’
‘She might not be coming back. She’s been offered a PhD studentship. She doesn’t know if she wants to accept it or not.’
Warren slumped back in his chair. ‘I guess I can’t blame her. I saw her face when she came into the office …’ his voice quietened ‘… when she saw me.’
Sutton shook his head, vehemently. ‘No. We’ve been through this before. She doesn’t blame you for what happened to Gary. Nobody does.’
‘But how can she not? It was my fault. If I had just waited for backup …’
‘Stop it,’ ordered Sutton. ‘You did everything by the book. You couldn’t have known what was waiting for you. Nobody could have.’
Warren said nothing. Eventually Sutton continued. ‘She came to see me a few days ago. She’s worried what you’ll think if she accepts the offer.’
Warren was confused. ‘Why is she worried what I might think?’
‘Because she knows that you still blame yourself for Gary’s death. And she doesn’t want you thinking that she’s left the police because she can’t stand to be around you.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Warren finally.
‘She has another couple of weeks to decide whether or not to accept. She wanted my advice.’
‘What did you say?’
‘What could I say? She’s a hell of a copper, but she’s got Oliver to think about now. Doing a PhD isn’t easy, but she’s been offered a part-time contract, so the hours are more regular. And she won’t be putting herself in harm’s way. I said that I thought it would be a big loss to Middlesbury if she left, and an even bigger loss to policing. But she has to follow her heart.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah.’
Sutton cleared his throat. ‘And now we’re onto the difficult topics, I see you have some time on your hands.’
‘How do you work that out?’ asked Warren.
‘Well first of all, it’s a Thursday in the middle of a major investigation, and you’ve been sitting in my living room all day.’
Warren glared at him.
‘And someone might have said something.’
There was no point asking Sutton who had told him; he’d never say. Warren could probably make an educated guess anyway.
‘What have you heard?’
‘That you left Grayson’s office late yesterday, with a face like thunder, and that you’ve been reassigning duties by email all morning.’ Sutton’s voice softened. ‘What the hell happened, Warren? The rumour mill is going crazy. Mysterious absences, being sick at a crime scene … Need I go on?’
Warren felt his cheeks flush. He hated that he was the subject of gossip. He was about to tell Sutton to mind his own business, when he suddenly felt the energy drain out of him. This was why Susan had pushed him to visit his old friend. She knew that she was too close to help him; that he needed somebody else he trusted to act as a sounding board. It also explained why Sutton had been at home that day, and Marie had enough ingredients to cook a lasagne big enough for three, before disappearing to her sister’s for the evening.
‘Warren, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,’ said Sutton, after Warren had finished. ‘I should have realized that something was up.’
‘How could you have?’ asked Warren.
Sutton looked helpless. ‘I don’t know. I just … sorry, mate, I wish I could have done something.’
Warren thanked him, already feeling better. The cliché was true: a problem shared was a problem halved.
Sutton left to go to the bathroom, before returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Alcohol-free Chardonnay. According to the label, it’s as good as the real thing.’
He served the two men a glassful each. They each took a mouthful each.
‘Christ, that’s even worse than the beer,’ said Sutton. ‘I figured that even if it didn’t taste like wine, it would at least taste like grape juice.’
‘Well don’t chuck it,’ said Warren. ‘Winter’s coming, you can use it to de-ice the car.’
‘It’ll damage the paintwork.’
The two men laughed, before each taking another sip.
‘It’s not going to grow on us is it?’ asked Warren.
Sutton shook his head. ‘No, and based on the evidence so far, I’m not even going near the alcohol-free gin I was reading about.’
He settled back in his chair. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me about the case, and I’m worried.’
‘How so?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that you’ve been removed from the investigation at this point?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, that footage didn’t find its way to Professional Standards by itself. If you ask me, somebody wants you out of the way.’
Warren thought about it. If he was honest, the thought had crossed his mind. He’d even said as much to Susan, who had convinced him he was being paranoid.
‘Who?’
Sutton thought about it for a moment. ‘How well do you know Ian Bergen?’
‘Bergen? I can’t say I do. I’ve only started working with him recently.’
‘I knew Ian back in the day. We worked together back when we were starting out in CID. I moved back to Middlesbury, and he went to work in Organized Crime. Worked his way up to DCI, I heard.’
Warren said nothing. Sutton had a look in his eye. One that Warren had grown to trust over the years, and one that he had missed in recent months.
‘Let’s look at the Cullen family. I’ve been hearing their names bandied about as long as I can remember, but nothing ever seems to stick. Why is that?’
Warren thought back to his conversations with Bergen. ‘Lack of evidence. As far as we are aware, they steer clear of drugs and aside from their old man doing time for looking after the proceeds of a Post Office job years ago, they aren’t involved in armed robbery or car theft. With the cutbacks they just aren’t a priority.’
‘And what happens when SOC do try to get evidence?’
‘All the farm workers they meet are legal and claim to be on minimum wage.’
‘As if they’ve been tipped off?’ said Sutton.
‘That’s a hell of an accusation,’ said Warren.
‘Hear me out,’ said Sutton. ‘Where was Bergen when you met that homeless bloke?’
Warren thought for a moment. ‘He was around. He had watched us interview Silvija Wilson earlier in the day, but I didn’t see him in reception.’
‘But his old mate Shaun Grimshaw was there, wasn’t he?’
‘Shaun did say that he thought it was a mistake giving Joey McGhee that money.’
‘And from what I hear about the less polished member of the Brownnose Brothers, he isn’t exactly discreet.’
Warren conceded the point. He could well imagine Grimshaw griping about him within earshot of Bergen.
‘A bit circumstantial, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe. But I’ve been thinking about this “Northern Man” who seems to keep on cropping up.’
‘That’s how Joey McGhee described him, although he was Scottish and he admitted that he isn’t always sure about English accents.’
‘Have you seen Bergen’s car?’
Warren blinked at the strange question. ‘Sure. A red Volvo, I think.’
‘What has he got plastered all over the back?’
Warren thought for a moment. ‘Some stickers. Rugby maybe?’
‘Thought so. Well assuming he hasn’t changed his affiliation in the past twenty years, he’s probably still as fanatical about rugby league as he used to be.’
Warren shrugged. It meant nothing to him.
‘Down here it’s all about rugby union. I used to play with Pete Kent until we both got too old.’
‘Sorry, you’ll have to spell it out to me.’
Sutton sighed at his boss’s sporting ignorance. ‘Rugby league is played in Northern England. If I remember correctly, Ian Bergen moved down south when he was a kid, but he’s still mad about his home team, Wigan Warriors. He used to travel up at the weekend to watch them play whenever he was free. I’ll bet he can turn his Lancashire accent back on enough for even a Scotsman to realize he’s from up north.’
‘Bergen has the most spectacular moustache you’ve ever seen, and he’s almost bald. Surely somebody would have mentioned that?’
‘Did either of your witnesses see his face?’
Warren thought back to the interviews with McGhee and Flitton. Both had claimed that ‘Northern Man’ had been wearing a hoodie, his face concealed.
He said as much.
Warren leant back in his chair. Sutton’s theory was decidedly flimsy, but he couldn’t dismiss it entirely.
A buzzing came from his coat pocket.
‘Probably your missus wondering where you are,’ said Sutton.
Warren looked at the screen before answering.
Sutton watched him over his glass of wine, his face twisting as he remembered why he hadn’t drunk any more of it.
After a few seconds of intent listening, Warren ended the call. ‘I’ll be right there.’