Warren felt exhausted. He’d barely slept a wink the night before, awakened repeatedly by disturbing dreams. Eventually he’d got up again, and moved to the spare room, unwilling to disturb Susan, but had just lain there staring at the ceiling, consumed by the worries that the nightmares had provoked.
The dreams had been a smorgasbord of images and themes, melded together by his subconscious, all of which had a common theme: fatherhood. The excitement of the pregnancy had given way to a feeling of dread and fear and guilt.
First there was the dread from the thought of suddenly being responsible for the care of two helpless beings. Warren had never been a father before. What if he wasn’t up to the task? He’d certainly crossed paths with enough men in his time as a police officer who had been unable to step up to that obligation. But leaving that aside, he worked outrageous hours during investigations. Could he juggle that with his responsibilities as a parent? Warren’s own father had been absent for much of his childhood, pursuing his career and leaving his mother to do most of the parenting. Warren felt that his father had missed out, that his mother had been unfairly stifled in her own ambitions, and that he and his brother had paid the price. He had vowed not to let that happen to him.
And what about Susan? She had been working as a head of science for several years now; her next career move was likely to be as an assistant or deputy head. Would she want to pursue that at her current school, should an opportunity arise, or would she rather move back to the Midlands? To his chagrin, Warren realized he’d never really asked her.
The support network of Susan’s parents and family would certainly make juggling home life and work life easier, particularly with twins, but it didn’t really solve the problem of Warren’s own contact time with his children.
That being said, Warren knew that if he moved back to the West Midlands, his hands-on policing approach would have to end. The circumstances of his position in Middlesbury were all but unique; in other forces, nobody would countenance a Detective Chief Inspector even interviewing suspects, let alone going out into the field to track them down. He’d miss it, and it was unquestionably an approach that worked, but should he be delegating more? It would certainly make his work hours more manageable.
Modern communication technology meant that he wouldn’t have to spend as many hours at the station as he did; calls could be routed to his mobile phone, and he could keep a track of his email just as easily at home, whilst watching a sleeping baby, as he could at work. God knows, DSI Grayson spent enough time out of the office. Perhaps a change in working patterns would mean that he didn’t need to move back to the Midlands?
Warren didn’t need the services of the counsellor he’d been seeing sporadically since the death of Gary Hastings to identify the trigger for this sudden introspection. The worries about fatherhood had been there since the moment Susan had emerged from the bathroom, her cheeks flushed with excitement, holding the pregnancy test triumphantly. The issues from the loss of his father, although largely resolved in recent years, still haunted his dreams occasionally, and his guilt over the death of Gary Hastings had lost much of its rawness.
However, anticipation of today’s visitor had brought all those feelings together and triggered the previous night’s dreams.
Warren cleared his throat to bring the briefing to order, then took a swig of water to combat his suddenly dry mouth.
‘Before we get started, I just want to welcome back a former member of the team, Detective Constable Karen Hardwick.’
Karen Hardwick smiled self-consciously as everyone in the briefing room turned to face her. Her hands on her lap felt clammy and her stomach was tight with nerves. She’d been awake since four a.m., but for once Oliver hadn’t been the reason for her lack of sleep. In recent weeks, he’d been sleeping through until almost five a.m. most days. When he’d finally awoken, she’d been almost glad of an excuse to get up.
After changing him, she’d prepared several bottles of formula, ready for her parents who would be taking care of him that day. By six-thirty, an hour before they were due to arrive, she was showered and ready, despite having spent far longer than usual choosing what to wear.
She’d felt like it was the first day of a new job, and she had tried on three different trouser suits before settling on a smart, charcoal two-piece. If anything, the suit was larger on her than it had been before she had Oliver. Grief had a way of helping shed the baby weight.
Of course, it had all been for nothing, as her beloved son had decided to be sick down it five minutes before his grandparents were due to arrive, and she’d ended up grabbing the nearest clean suit to hand.
Perhaps it was for the best. Suddenly finding herself running late had pushed her worries to one side, and she’d arrived in CID flustered, but oddly nerves-free.
Looking around the room, most of the faces were new to her; seconded officers from Welwyn. But everybody knew who she was. Everybody knew what had happened to her. Everybody knew about Gary.
She felt a sudden rush of dizziness. She couldn’t be here. What was she thinking?
Officers on maternity leave were entitled to up to ten keep-in-touch days, but they weren’t compulsory. She didn’t need to take them. She could have just started back the day her leave finished, no questions asked.
But she had wanted to come in. She’d spoken to her Federation representative a few weeks previously and gone through the rules surrounding return from maternity leave. Her terms of employment clearly stated that if she chose not to return to work after her leave, then the extra maternity pay that she had received, above the statutory legal minimum, would be forfeited. She would have to pay the money back.
Her rep had suggested that the unique circumstances of her leave – coming as it did after her bereavement leave following the death of her partner on duty might mean the force could be persuaded to treat her sympathetically, if she chose not to return. But it was at the force’s discretion, and in these times of ever-tightening budgets, it was far from a given.
The loss of the money wasn’t her over-riding concern, however. She knew that her parents, and Gary’s parents, would cover that in a heartbeat. Instead, she needed to know that leaving was what she really wanted to do. The offer of a place at university had left her torn by indecision.
Was a career in the police what she truly wanted now? She was Oliver’s sole parent. Didn’t she have a responsibility to make sure that he didn’t lose both his mum and his dad? A responsibility to keep herself safe and out of harm’s way?
Perhaps she could move to a different, less hazardous position? The force would doubtless be sympathetic to her request for a transfer, and casting aside false modesty, she knew that she was a well-respected, highly competent officer, with many skills.
But did she want to leave front-line policing? Would she feel fulfilled in a different role? And if she did decide to stay in CID, should she – could she? – return to Middlesbury and continue working there, now that Gary was no longer with her?
She hoped that today might help her decide.
Walking back into CID after all this time had been a surreal, emotional experience. The layout of the office had been completely changed. She understood why; nobody had wanted to sit at the desks once occupied by her and Gary, but leaving them empty, as some sort of shrine, was neither desirable nor practical. She was glad somebody had made that decision for her. Nevertheless, she found herself unable to look over at the corner where they had once sat.
Greeted with teary hugs by Mags Richardson, and David Hutchinson, and warmth by John Grayson, her meeting with DCI Jones had been stilted and awkward. He still blamed himself for Gary’s death, and she knew that no matter how often she told him that she didn’t hold him responsible, her presence would forever be a reminder to him of what happened that day. She noticed that he too seemed unable to look over at her former workspace, now housing a set of filing cabinets and a photocopier.
Hardwick focused on her breathing, until finally the oxygen drove away her light-headedness. Eventually she was able to turn her attention back to the briefing.
‘… Wilson wasn’t particularly forthcoming in her interview last night, but we hit her with evidence that we knew she had been lying and left her to sweat overnight. We know that she wasn’t present at the time of the murder; our belief is that she is lying to protect her nieces. I think we need to start using that as leverage more. None of them seem to fully appreciate just how much trouble they are in.’
Warren took a sip of water.
‘As mentioned at the beginning of the briefing, the information given by Mrs Green yesterday evening, alongside the recovery of the deleted CCTV footage from the rear of the property, is a potential game-changer.’ There were nods of assent around the room. ‘I intend to hit Wilson with those revelations to break the stalemate. I think we can be cautiously optimistic that Wilson might finally break and give us what we need.’
Hardwick felt a brief moment of panic, worried that she had missed something, before relaxing. She was just an observer today.
As the meeting broke up around her, she had a sudden feeling of dislocation. What was she supposed to do? Everyone else seemed focused; they all had specific jobs to do and left with purpose in their stride.
She remained seated where she was. DCI Jones had already left, talking as he walked to Moray Ruskin. She knew him from the previous summer; the huge, bearded Scotsman had worked alongside Gary on the Meegan case. Gary’s last case. She forced down the sudden rush of grief. Behind Ruskin and Jones, she recognized the Brownnose Brothers: Grimshaw and Martinez. She’d never worked with them, but she knew them by reputation. Everyone knew them. The two had been keen to be seen during the briefing, the first to ask questions. Their ambition was a source of some amusement on the force’s grapevine. Their contrasting appearances – one sharp-suited and clean-shaven, the other rumpled and stubbly – easily allowed her to distinguish between them.
Finally, the room was almost empty, with only Mags Richardson and one other person left behind. There was no need for the introduction, her crutches meant that she could be only one person.
Hardwick swallowed.
‘Karen, I don’t believe you’ve met Rachel Pymm, our full-time officer in the case, I was hoping that you might work with us today.’
Karen shook the other woman’s hand, forcing herself to smile. She blinked, trying to drive away the tears that suddenly threatened to appear. She could convince herself that Ruskin was just another DC, ignoring the obvious fact that he was there, in part, to cover her and Gary.
But Pymm was different; she was Gary’s direct replacement. In the last few months of his career, Gary had been fulfilling the role of officer in the case on a part-time basis, having taken over from Pete Kent. He had been hoping to make a switch to that position full-time, if he was promoted to sergeant. Unbeknown to him, he’d passed his qualification hours before his death. Karen was grateful to DSI Grayson and DCI Jones for insisting that Gary’s final rank be recorded as detective sergeant on the police memorial on the corner of St James’s Park.
As the three women left the room, Pymm touched Karen’s arm. The older woman’s face was creased with concern.
‘I know this must be hard for you, but I just wanted to say that the whole team still talk about Gary. I never met him, but he’s left some big shoes to fill. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you.’
Karen said nothing, her throat too tight to let her speak.