Mackenzie looked up at them with such speed as Ottey walked into the open area that she knew immediately something was up. But before she had a chance to ask her young colleague, DI Warner appeared from his office and said, ‘Ottey. Carson’s office now. Where’s the savant?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, walking straight past him in the direction of the DCI’s office.
‘Then text him and tell him to come up,’ Warner instructed her.
‘You have his number,’ she replied.
She realised his tone was neutral. Not at all pissed off. She and Cross had discussed the fact that Moreton would undoubtedly have made some calls after their visit. But his attitude meant that Warner felt he was in an advantageous position. He had obviously had time to confer with Carson and the resultant plan of action suited the DI.
The first thing Ottey noticed when she walked into Carson’s office was a strong smell of Tuberose. She wondered where or who it was coming from and then saw it on the bookshelf. A lit scented candle. The world was often divided into distinct groups of people, to Ottey’s mind. Take lanyards, for example. There was one group where people wore them, as designed, round their necks, and another who stuffed them casually into their pockets. Even this group had a subgroup – those who put them away so that they couldn’t be seen and those who let it be seen hanging from their pocket scruffily as if to ensure their small gesture of rebellion was visible to everyone. Cross and Ottey were both lanyard wearers. Warner was a visible lanyard pocket stuffer. But was it a subversive act against an enforced homogeny or a considered, sartorial choice?
Another division in life, pertinent to that morning’s meeting, was about people’s attitudes to their office at work. There were two groups, essentially. The first group treated the office at work as just that – an office at work. Functional, serving a purpose, existing solely to accommodate the occupier while at their job, with rudimentary accessories to facilitate work: a desk, a chair, maybe two for meetings, filing cabinets, wastepaper basket, coat hook on door and, depending on their seniority perhaps, a whiteboard attached to the wall. The other group in this equation were nesters. People who added personal touches to their office, from simple things like photographs of their partner, or children, maybe even primitive paintings with indecipherable dedications on them. The next level up in the group though was the person who tried to make their office like an extension of their home. These people inhabited their offices rather than simply occupying them. Some brought their own chairs, sofas even, potted plants, framed prints. They might even paint the walls. Carson was one of these. He even had a collage of photographs of himself. From Hendon recruit to uniformed constable, photobooth quads with friends pulling the requisite looks of surprise or fake hilarity. The scented candle was just one step further. Was it another iteration of the post-natal euphoria Carson seemed to be currently enveloped in? She noticed it was a well-known quite expensive brand. Probably a gift, she thought. Such was the strength of the candle’s scent in such a small, confined space she was tempted to ask whether he’d lit it because someone had farted. But she refrained.
Carson began the meeting in silence. He did this habitually when things were serious and he wanted the people in front of him to realise exactly how seriously he was taking the matter in hand. If it was really top of the serious scale, this silence would be accompanied by his fingers being formed into a spire which reached up to his lips. This morning was one such moment. There was also a knowingness imparted in this gesture. An unsaid acknowledgement that the silence was a product of them all knowing why they were there, and that this was a chance for them, the ones on the other side of his desk, to ponder things for a moment.
He finally looked up.
‘Do you know who I’ve had on the phone this morning, George?’ he asked.
‘I do not. Do you want me to find out for you?’ Cross replied.
‘The chief superintendent, who had had a call from the assistant chief constable, who had himself received a call from the chief himself, who was calling because he’d had a very irate call from Sandy Moreton MP.’
‘Is he still an MP?’ Cross asked. ‘I’m not sure what the form is when someone has been recalled.’
Carson went on, ignoring this.
‘All of them wanting to know why I, yes that’s me in the firing line, thank you very much, am letting you continue an investigation into a case which has been closed by DI Warner here. Closed with a man in custody, awaiting trial with a fairly formidable amount of evidence against him.’
No one said anything.
‘Do you two really have nothing to say in response?’ asked Warner.
‘I do not, as a response by its very definition requires a question to initiate it,’ replied Cross.
‘All right, George, it’s a little early in the morning for your semantics. But I know how you like clarity, so let me ask you this directly. Do you have any firm leads or avenues of enquiry backed up with recently discovered new evidence that might indicate or give some weight, indeed any weight, to the idea that DI Warner has charged the wrong man?’ Carson asked.
‘No, sir. I do not,’ Cross answered honestly.
‘Fine, then I’m giving you a direct order, both of you, to cease making any further enquiries into the case. Is that clear?’
‘It is,’ replied Cross after a moment’s thought.
‘DS Ottey?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Presumably this countermands the instruction you gave me to continue investigating the case discreetly so as not to alert DI Warner’s attention?’ Cross enquired.
‘That will be all, George,’ said Carson, glancing nervously at Warner. ‘We have a body in a housing estate in Longwell Green. You’d better get down there sharpish. Both of you.’