My desk is a tip. Most of the office is a tip, but my desk is definitely the icing on the cake. The problem with this job is the amount of paperwork you’re expected to file. If you don’t do it, the Crown Prosecution Service come down on you like a ton of bricks. If you hire a civilian to do it, the public accuse you of wasting money. If you do it yourself, they bemoan your not being out on the streets. Either way, you can’t win.
I try to shut out the visual clutter and allow my mind to be as free as possible, but it’s not that easy. My brain is still clouded and is chugging over like a broken tractor.
There’s a knock at the door. I call out for whoever it is to come in. The door opens and Anne Linney, Detective Superintendent — my superior officer — comes in.
‘Good afternoon, Nick.’
‘Hi,’ I reply, keeping it polite and professional. You can never be too careful with Anne. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘This murder in Strathmere Road. You live in the area don’t you?’
‘Yeah, you could say that. Right across the road, actually. Why’s that?’
‘Did you know the woman who was killed?’ she asks, cocking her head slightly to one side.
‘Nope. I didn’t even know who lived in the house until I got there this morning. I can’t actually see it from my place, which probably explains a lot. To be honest, I’ve never met any of my neighbours. So there’s no conflict of interest if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘It isn’t,’ she says, perching on the edge of my desk. This always worries me. ‘Nick, I’m not one to cast aspersions on your methods, but did you touch anything at the scene?’
‘Touch anything? No, of course I didn’t.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, looking at me as if I’m an unruly school kid. For a fairly small, petite woman, she has a remarkable way of making fully-grown men feel tiny.
‘Of course I’m sure. I’m an experienced police officer, Anne, not a wet-behind-the-ears PC fresh out of Hendon. Why are you asking anyway?’
Anne sighs. ‘Because forensics fingerprinted the place earlier, as you know. We’ve got preliminary results back and there are items which had your fingerprints on.’
‘Items? Like what?’ I try to remember if I touched anything. I’m pretty sure I didn’t.
‘We haven’t got all the results back yet, but they’re on the panel of the bedroom door. As if it was pushed open by you after being ajar. And on the handrail on the stairs.’
I blink rapidly. I know I didn’t touch the handrail. At least I think I didn’t touch the handrail. I’m always so careful. Did I touch the door? I really don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was already wide open when I got there. I don’t recall having to open it at all. The front door, yes, but not the bedroom door.
I’ve been so tired recently I really don’t know what to think. The patches in my memory aren’t helping. I suppose I guess I could’ve touched things. I can’t be one hundred percent sure of anything at the moment.
‘Uh, I really don’t recall touching anything,’ I say. ‘But I guess I could’ve done. I suppose you can’t really argue with fingerprints.’ I don’t want to tell Anne I’ve been unwell. That’s a surefire way to be sent home for a few weeks. It might sound peachy, but I sure as hell wouldn’t just walk back in and onto another big case. I’d be in a back office filing paperwork for the next six months while I was “assessed” and “monitored”.
‘Listen, I’m just letting you know what forensics said,’ Anne says. ‘Have a think and see if you can remember anything. Hopefully we can avoid a disciplinary.’ She sighs.
That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. It wouldn’t be the default outcome — only if it was shown that my stupidity had resulted in valuable evidence being lost or obscured. A fingerprint on the door in itself wouldn’t be a disaster, but I wouldn’t exactly be Mr Popular either.
‘Nick, why don’t you go home?’ she says, resting her hand on my forearm. ‘You look shattered. Get some sleep and see how you feel in the morning. I’ll handle the case for now.’
I nod, not really taking in any of the words. I get the meaning, though: she’s giving me the benefit of the doubt. She’s noticed something’s up and she’s giving me a few hours to get my head together and avoid the alternative of a few weeks sat at home watching daytime TV.
As Anne leaves my office, a young Detective Constable, Mohammed Abad, walks in with some stapled sheets of paper fluttering in his hand. He’s a keen lad, that’s for sure. Nothing gets past him and his eagle eye has earned him a good reputation in his short time here, but he strikes me as another poor young sap whose enthusiasm will be systematically sucked from him as he slowly comes to realise what the job really is.
‘DI Thomas, I’ve got a report here on a man suspected of having unlicensed firearms at his house. Gregory Martin, his name is. I’ve applied for a search warrant but was told I need to run it by you.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I say. ‘We can’t do much without the warrant anyway, so leave it with me. I’ll take a look in the morning.’
DC Abad nods and leaves. I rub my forehead, skim-reading the report on the man with the unlicensed guns. Yeah. It can wait until tomorrow.