Nick put the phone down and rubbed a weary hand across his face, feeling the burr of stubble against his palm. His mouth tasted of old coffee and his eyes were burning. Since he’d got back from the field he’d been staring at his computer screen for four hours straight—and, before that, for most of the night as well. The disadvantage of modern technology. It never sleeps, so neither do we.
He always kept spare clothes in his car, so hadn’t been home since yesterday. Nothing heroic about that—the whole office had the slightly sour tang of unchanged shirts and overwhelmed deodorant. An electric fan stood on one of the filing cabinets, wafting the stale air in languid sweeps. It wasn’t helping much.
Nick glanced round and saw red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders, dogged determination in the face of exhaustion. We’re none of us doing any good here, he considered, and knew they’d lynch him if he voiced the thought.
A few minutes ago, Jim Airey had stuck his head round the CID office door, nervy, looking for DI Pollock. Airey was in his civvies, clearly having eaten, showered and slept. The grumble of resentment that rippled outwards after he’d gone convinced Nick not to speak out.
He clenched his jaw, ignoring the ache in his back, his hand, and bent grimly over his keyboard, noted others doing the same.
Since his return, he’d been checking local firearms licence applications, old and recent, though heaven knows no-one had ever held a licence for the kind of weapon used out there. Waste of time. But it was procedure; someone had to do it.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t extend the search a little to anyone who’d held collections before the gun ban, anyone who’d apparently handed everything over in dutiful fashion. Perhaps a little too dutiful.
Someone else had been given the job of checking into Pete Tawney and Nick had eavesdropped on progress. That was the promising lead, he could feel it. The military connection screamed at him. All the rest was going through the motions but he didn’t have the standing to say so. It would make them dig their heels in, and right now he was more interested in catching this lunatic, however they achieved it.
Nick had been shot at twice when he’d been a Firearms officer in Manchester. Once with a combination of small arms and a sawn-off shotgun during a botched bank raid, and the second time by a drugs gang with an Uzi. Point and spray. Both times he’d seen the weapon before the shooting started. Only moments before, but enough to mentally brace for action.
He remembered the way Robertshaw had gone down, totally without warning. Wondered if he’d ever forget it. And Grace, defying orders, going out to him. An act of courage that terrified everybody who saw it. He’d fully expected her to disappear in a mist of blood and bone at any moment. Somehow, being out there with her had seemed preferable to watching from a cowardly distance.
And this morning, when he’d seen her sitting there amid such furious activity, dog-tired, vulnerable. It made her bravery all the more remarkable, set his stomach tensing. He sat up straighter, tried to roll the creases out of his shoulders. It didn’t work.
The phone lines had been jammed since the early hours, and already the press were circling. No surprises there—an MEP’s wife, shot dead in front of hundreds of witnesses. It had the glamorous smack of assassination. They were clustering around Cumbria HQ at Carleton Hall out near the motorway. At least that kept them away from the smaller station at Hunter Lane where Pollock was coordinating the official enquiry, cracking the whip over his team to get some kind of result before the whole thing was taken away from him. Not that they needed chasing. Everyone was working themselves into the ground over this one.
“All right, lads, listen up!”
There were three female officers working plainclothes but Pollock’s introduction never varied. Nick twisted in his chair.
The inspector stood in the doorway, tie hastily shoved up into the vee of a still-unbuttoned collar. He looked dishevelled and angry. There was a trace of humiliation, too, like a bear woken from hibernation and then made to dance.
The man next to Pollock had to be the cause of the inspector’s ire. Small by comparison, slim, neat, in a dark three-button pinstripe suit and a tie that hinted at an old school. He stood half a pace behind the inspector, faux respectful, hands clasped in front of him and a newspaper folded under his arm. Nick almost groaned aloud.
“This is Detective Superintendent Mercer, from the Counter Terrorism Command,” Pollock said flatly, eyes travelling over his weary troops as if to gauge how much more of a beating they could stand, then delivering another anyway. “He’ll be taking charge of this investigation until further notice.”
There wasn’t a murmur so much as a collective drawing of breath. A couple of them sat back, slumped, as if their efforts had been for nothing. Mercer’s gaze moved over them with clinical detachment, head tilted as though listening to instructions only he could hear. Nick recognised it was more than just fatigue that made him bridle.
Silence fell under this slow scrutiny. The only sound was the squeak of the oscillating fan as it ran through its tireless arc.
“Sir!” Young Yardley—it would be—slapped his hands on the arms of his chair like he was going to bounce up and make something of it. “With all due respect, sir, if we’re looking for this bloke Pete Tawney, what’s it got to do with CTC?”
“My department is concerned with the possible political ramifications,” Mercer said with that deceptive smile below a cold gaze. “At this stage, it’s not clear who was responsible for this incident—I understand Mr Tawney is just one line of enquiry, yes? Until we have confirmation, I’m afraid I’ve been asked to…oversee things, as it were. Particularly after this.”
He seemed to look directly at Nick as he spoke, who felt a sudden sinking in the pit of his stomach, almost a premonition of disaster as Mercer stepped forwards to flick the newspaper carelessly onto the nearest desktop.
People leaned in automatically. It was one of the red-top tabloids, with a banner headline and a slightly fuzzy colour photograph. The picture was of three people kneeling over someone lying flat on the ground. He didn’t need to get any closer to recognise it, even without the headline: ‘THERE BUT FOR GRACE’
“A fine low-key job you’re doing,” Mercer said, mocking, and didn’t miss the venomous glances slipped in Nick’s direction. “So, would anybody care to fill me in?”
With plenty of glances at Pollock, people offered up halting information, such as it was. Nobody had seen or heard any whispers. They’d had no joy tracking down their one possible suspect, and forensic evidence still being gathered. There was nothing to go on.
“And you’ve been here all night for that?” Mercer said without inflection when the last of them petered out.
Nick sensed the trap and sat very still but there were a few self-conscious nods. Pride, from those who’d put in the time.
Mercer nodded, too, as if agreeing with some internal comment.
“Go home,” he said.
“What?” Yardley again. “But, sir—”
Mercer’s icy stare slapped him down. “Anyone who’s been here more than twelve hours, go home. Get some sleep. Get a shower and some food that doesn’t come deep-fried. Get a change of clothes. I don’t want to see you back here inside six hours at the earliest. You’re no use to this investigation running on fumes and we can’t afford mistakes. If you haven’t found something useful by now, you certainly won’t find it in the state you’re in.”
For a moment, there was no reaction. Mercer watched them calmly, waiting.
Then someone reached for the power button on their computer monitor, and that broke the dam. A dozen chairs went back, jackets were shrugged into, keys and phones shoved into pockets. They tried to look offended, reluctant, mostly couldn’t manage it. They filed out, trying not to meet their inspector’s eye.
Nick risked a glance at Pollock and saw a simmering resentment directed towards the CTC man. Not for trespassing on the inspector’s turf, he realised, but for sending his people home when it was something Pollock should have done himself. For that alone, Mercer had just earned himself the inspector’s intense dislike.
Nick stood, grabbed his jacket and prepared to follow the rest, but as he reached them, Pollock fixed him with a growling stare.
“Not you, Weston,” he said, lip curling. “Mr Mercer’s put in a special request for your services.”
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Nick.” Mercer’s smile was broad as it was insincere as he thrust out his hand.
Nick would rather have offered his hand to a Great White shark, but short of outright mutiny, ignoring the gesture would have been childish. He was thankful that most of his colleagues had already gone, but there were enough left to tar and feather him for this, he noted bitterly. He kept it as perfunctory as he could manage, the tapping of gloves before the opening bell.
Mercer turned to the depleted team. “OK, everyone. I don’t have to tell you that we need to catch whoever is responsible for this, and we need to do it fast before it becomes any more of a media circus than it already is. I would suggest we concentrate our efforts on who has the capability to make this kind of a hit, at this kind of distance. I think you’ll find it’s a pretty exclusive club.” Mercer waited until he’d received grudging nods in submission.
“Duncan Inglis is flying back from Brussels this afternoon and however unlikely it may seem, we can’t ignore the possibility he might be a secondary target, so he’ll be under full protection,” he went on. “As I know the man, I’ll brief him. I can tell you now he’ll want answers. We’ll be issuing a press statement this afternoon regardless.” His eyes flicked to the inspector. “I’m happy to let Mr Pollock here be the spokesman. Let’s give him something worthwhile to say, yes?”
Nick didn’t miss the way his inspector’s hands gave a convulsive clench.
“Shall the three of us carry on this conversation in your office, Brian?” Mercer continued.
“Of course,” Pollock said, toneless. “Follow me.”
They didn’t speak again until the inspector’s door was firmly closed behind them. Nick fully expected Mercer to make a jump for the executive chair behind the desk, but it seemed he felt he’d stamped his authority enough. Instead, the CTC man went to the open window, hands clasped behind him and stared out at the limited view.
Nick mentally measured the distance. Two strides, lock both wrists, heave. He glanced at Pollock’s stony face and wondered if his inspector would back him up on suicide.
“Well, Brian, this is a bloody mess, isn’t it?” Mercer said at last, any hint of softness gone. “No concrete evidence, no clear leads, and it seems like every bobby in the north of England’s done their bit to muddy the waters. Not to mention running to the papers with their happy snaps.”
Pollock glanced sharply at Nick, unhappy to have a witness to this dressing-down, but Mercer smiled again. “Oh, don’t worry about Nick. He and I are old mates, aren’t we?”
Nick’s eyes went to his boss. “I once had the misfortune to be involved in an operation with the superintendent, if that’s what he means.”
Something flickered in Pollock’s face. “We have followed procedure. I ensured the safety of my personnel, preserved the evidence, and have my lads following up every lead we can find. We have the name of a possible suspect and we’re making every attempt to trace him, but other than that we have no real motive for anyone to want Mrs Inglis dead. What more did you expect?”
Mercer studied him for a long moment and Nick caught a glimpse of something very dark in him, then his face cleared. “I didn’t expect you to do more than you’ve done. So, no offence.”
The emphasis was subtle, the insult sly. “Of course, statistically, a lone sniper is far more likely to have selected a target at random,” he went on. “We’ll keep Mr Inglis well under wraps, just in case, but I’ll be concentrating on finding this guy, rather than trying to work out why he did it. Surely strangers stand out in this type of community? I thought that was part of the charm of living out here in the sticks?”
“We’ve already put out appeals,” Pollock said, “and we’re canvassing local farmers—see if anyone’s noticed anything suspicious lately.” He jerked his head towards Nick. “Weston’s been going through firearms licences, checking if anything pops up there.”
“Waste of time,” Mercer dismissed, and the fact that he’d echoed Nick’s earlier sentiment did nothing to appease Nick’s own dislike of the man. “Put a couple of PCs on the number crunching, if you must. I want Nick as my liaison while I’m here. Tap into his local knowledge.”
“He’s not a glorified tour guide,” Pollock said. “I can’t spare anyone.” Even him, Nick heard.
“Oh, I think you’re being a little harsh on DC Weston’s excellent abilities,” Mercer said. “What do you say, Nick?”
Nick wisely kept his mouth shut.
“I’m well aware what Weston’s capable of,” Pollock gritted out, “but—”
Mercer held up a hand to cut him off, blinking momentarily as if calming himself.
“You misunderstand me. It wasn’t a request. Nick was the officer who investigated the shooting of a dog that was recently given away by Mrs Inglis, less than a week ago. An incident which nobody here felt was worth pursuing—except him. Isn’t that right, Nick?”
Nick cursed silently as Pollock glared at him afresh.
“It remains to be seen if those two incidents are connected,” Mercer went on smoothly, “but until then, he’s with me. All right, detective inspector?”
Pollock said nothing for what seemed like a long time, then turned away as if sick of the sight of both of them. “Do what you like with him. He’s all yours.”