“... obviously you’ll get it in writing, Bill, and the board’ll have to ratify it. Just thought I’d tip you the wink, old man.” Breezy. Dismissive. Condescending. The voice on the line was Harry Astwood’s, Assistant Chief Constable, citizen focus. Detective Superintendent Bill Byford, tight-lipped, gouged a hole with his Waterman on the report he’d been writing. Astwood was more into politics than policing, a graduate tosser and ten years younger. Byford had no time for the creep and wasn’t in the mood to pretend otherwise.
“Thanks for letting...” Whoops. A slip of the digit. Was ending the call prematurely the same as hanging up? Who cared? Byford slung the pen on his desk, sat back, loosened his tie. Six months of dark clouds on the horizon lifted in one fell swoop phone call. The internal inquiry had put Byford’s personal and professional life more or less on hold since January. And now it was all over bar the rubber-stamping. So why wasn’t he cracking open the Scotch, dancing a jig round the office? He rose, hands in pockets, paced an already well-worn carpet.
Richard Cooper was dead, nothing was going to change that. As to how he died, the inquiry had finally made up its split mind that it wasn’t Byford’s fault. Just like that. He turned his mouth down, wished he could be so sure. Christ, he’d been there that night and still had doubts, still had nightmares: Bev semi-conscious on the ground, her life blood leeching into the snow, Cooper looming over her with a baseball bat ready to strike the death blow. Byford dragging him off. Cooper dead with his head in the gutter, Byford kneeling beside him. The detective had been on paper-shuffling since the incident. Now he was free to resume operational duties. Clean sheet. Stainless character. To coin a Bev Morriss phrase: Yeah right.
Wandering to the window, he avoided his reflection in the glass. If he didn’t register the now permanent stress lines, the hair that was more grey than black, the slight stoop to his six-five frame, he could kid himself they weren’t there, at the same time fully aware they’d worsened lately. That’d be the endless partying, the loose women. Ironic snort. Or was it the pressure, the soul searching sleepless nights? What if he didn’t want the hassle any more? At fifty-more-years-than-he-cared-to-remember-plus, he’d served his time. The job wasn’t what it used to be anyway what with all the hoop-jumping, the Forthbridge paperwork, the mindless political correctness.
He sighed then narrowed his eyes. Something was kicking off in the car park below. Half a dozen uniforms running to motors, doors banging, tyres squealing. Was a time action like that would have sent his adrenalin into overdrive. He turned away, pulled a ten pence piece from his trouser pocket, tossed it in the air. Tails. He shrugged. To coin another Bev-ism: the suits could stick it where the sun don’t rise.
First things first: grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair he headed for the door. Bags of time to make it official.
Josh’s Joe 90 glasses were burning a metaphorical hole in Brett Sullivan’s combats pocket. Couldn’t be a real hole ’cause Brett had off-loaded the bins soon as he’d grabbed them, chucked them in a stinky dustcart and waved bye-bye. No naffin’ use to him, were they? Nothing wrong with Brett’s eyes, except for the last two days everywhere he looked Josh Banks’s ugly mush stared back. And not just on the telly. When Brett had nipped in Select and Save to nick some fags this morning, the kid’s pic had been all over the papers. Stupid git getting himself killed. And the cops wanting witnesses.
Brett was in McDonald’s now, wagging it. School was no place to be. He needed to think. He polished off a big Mac then slumped against a cracked orange banquette. What the feck was he meant to do? Slurping the dregs of a chocolate milkshake, he gave the bird to an old geezer who’d glanced up, glowering. Granddad shook out a copy of the Sun, hid his grizzled face behind it. Stone me. Brett curled a lip. Stig was there again. Was it a sign from on high? Was it buggery.
He watched an ugly slag and her two screaming brats leave the next table then leaned across and dragged over a carton with a few chips in it and stuffed his face. Brett hated the filth. His older brother was banged up in the Scrubs, his old man had done more time than Big Ben, Brett himself could open a police caution shop. He owed the Bill squat. He burped then dragged a sleeve across his mouth. OK, Stig’d had it tough, but if Brett ’fessed up about the glasses, the cops wouldn’t let it go. They’d needle him till he couldn’t think straight. Then stitch him up. Sod that for a game of Star Wars. It wasn’t down to Brett. Stig should’ve known better, stupid kid had been asking for it getting into that sodding car.
Bev stood at a desk, leafing through a pile of paper, glanced up when the door opened. Her widest smile was in situ before she could stop it. “Guv! How you doing?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was ages since Byford last showed his face in the squad room. Scrub that. It was five months, two weeks, three days.
“Not bad, thanks.” Brisk nod. She gave him a subtle onceover. Looked as if he was putting on a bit of beef, hitting the booze, maybe? Couldn’t live without her, eh? Yeah. And I’m the Pope’s daughter-in-law.
“DCI Knight around?” he asked.
Only if he was the Invisible Man. The place was comparatively deserted since the turnout first thing, just Hainsworth and a handful of DCs phone-bashing and taking incomings. Most detectives were in the field... detecting. And keeping the peace. A couple of officers thought a spot of bother could be brewing on the Quarry Bank estate, angry residents scared about their kids’ safety, demanding police protection. Powell had asked her and Mac to suss it out, nip it in the bud. Mac was waiting for her in the car with a pair of secateurs.
Smile dropped, she matched Byford’s delivery. “Not seen him since the brief.” Jotted a number on a post-it note, shoved it in the pocket of her navy linen pants.
“He said something about a strategy meeting?” Partial enlightenment came from a rookie DC nestling a phone under his chin. “Policy review? Something like th...” He raised a finger, returned to the call.
“Cheers, mate.” Bag hoisted, she was about to hit the road, took a call on the way out. Just some routine query from admin. Byford was now chewing the cud with Hainsworth over by the printers. Call ended, she headed out again, take two. Byford held the door.
“Ta, guv.” He looked well pleased with the proximity. Not. Like she was? “You back with us, then?” The question was more to fill an uneasy silence than in any real expectation. If he’d heard from the brass, surely he’d have said? It wasn’t as if it didn’t involve her. She cut him a glance, couldn’t read his expression as he worked on a reply.
“Maybe.”
Was equally enigmatic. She frowned. “How’s that work then?”
“Later, Bev. How about...?”
“Sarge!” Shit. Fire broke out? Bomb gone off? Both spun round, made brief body contact, side on. She felt warm flesh, smelt the soap he used, the mint tea on his breath. Had no time to consider what the effects were having on her heart rate. The detective constable who’d been on the phone was waving frantically from the squad room doorway. Even from here she could see he was wired.
“Sarge. The killer?” As she neared, his trembling hand held out a scrap of paper. “Looks like we’ve got a name.”
And address.