Detective Constable Jameson flicked through the buff, cardboard file as he drank his tea, alone, at his desk. He no longer bothered going into the canteen.
After his success in getting David Fuller put away for a good long stretch, on drugs and forged-passport charges, he had been ready to spread his net wider and to make a real name for himself. But he knew now that it wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had hoped, that it was going to be damned hard work, in fact. His hoped-for progress with his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Leigh, had been disappointing to say the least, and his contribution to getting Fuller banged up was hardly acknowledged in the final reports. But Jameson had determination, youth and efficiency on his side, and every moment of his spare time was now concerned with beating a foolproof path to the well-hidden, but very crooked, door of Peter Burman.
No one would be able to ignore Jameson if he nailed a genuine Mr Big, a real player like him.
Jameson had dismissed a couple of leads as being a complete waste of his time, but had now found a very interesting new direction to follow that had caused him to seriously consider spending his annual leave in Cyprus.
The focus of his interest was Bobby Sykes, who, during the past eighteen months, and despite his apparent stupidity, seemed to have risen rapidly in the ranks of Burman’s organization over there. Rumour also had it that Sykes’s wife, Maureen, had been taking an active interest in the business, and that she was a bit of a powerhouse.
Jameson was very curious to see what he could dig up over there.
Then there was Sonia Fuller. Although she was still in a coma after all this time, he knew she was the key to what had happened to Mikey Tilson – which motorway fly-over he’d been cemented into, or which Essex smallholder had minced him up and fed him to the Dobermans.
He jotted down a note to remind himself to give the London Hospital a ring. She would have to wake up one day and Jameson wanted to make sure the consultants knew who to contact.
He flicked over another sheet of paper. Sarah Pearson. Was she worth a follow up? He read through his neatly typed notes. Worth keeping because of her association with that old fence, Doris Barker, but anything more? He put her details to one side, on the pile he had yet to decide on.
Now, who was this?
Angela Knight.
She’d not shown any sign of involvement in Burman’s world for over two years now. Never really had any serious involvement in the first place.
He studied the photographs of the smiling, glossy-haired girl. One of them showed her arm in arm with Fuller, as they made their way along the King’s Road, in the summer, that would be, of 1965, mingling with all the other Saturday afternoon shoppers.
She was a pretty girl. Very pretty. But totally insignificant. And no one got anywhere by playing around with the tiddlers. No one got anywhere playing around, full stop.
Jameson screwed up the sheets of paper headed Angela Knight and the photographs of the smiling, glossy-haired girl and tossed them into his bin.
He had far bigger fish to fry.