Joe remained at his desk. DCI Andy Mills was leaning on the adjacent one, hands still in his pockets, jangling his keys. He looked down at the floor in front of him. There were three or four other people in the room, all discreetly busying themselves, pretending not to listen: it wasn’t every day you saw an officer being relieved of a double murder.
‘Not much I could do, Joe. It’s turned very serious very quickly.’
They’d trained together, been best man at each other’s wedding, and they’d both come close to tears when Tetley’s stopped brewing Bitter in Leeds. There didn’t really need to be any apologies. Yet.
‘Have you seen the press this is getting?’
‘Doing my best not to,’ Joe said.
‘It’s the Graphite Assassin now. Hash-friggin’-tag. They’re already calling him a bloody serial killer.’
‘Leaked before Beverage was in the morgue.’
‘Aye, that’s as maybe, but Kirklees reckon they can get a result. Who was I to argue?’
‘The implication being that you don’t think I can?’
Mills considered the question. There was no one on the Force he admired as much as Joe, and there was no one else he could really call a friend. Their families had spent summer holidays together. Even their kids liked each other. Then Joe had gone to Interpol. That had messed things up a bit. In fact, it had messed everything up.
‘Kirklees wanted overall control. You stay on the Shaw case, though.’
‘OK. I’m sure you argued my corner.’
‘I bloody didn’t. They’ve got a team ready to go. Whereas I’ve got some knobhead who’s been in France translating international arrest warrants and playing pétanque. It’ll save us a fair bit of money, an’all.’
‘I assume I’m not getting any more men this end?’
Mills exhaled, long and hard. And he was a bulky guy; there was a lot of air to come out. It was the same when the two of them were out drinking. There’d be too much beer, then a late-night curry, washed down with more needless pints. At some point Andy would just sit back, empty his lungs, and he’d be done. Half-comatose, he’d stagger to a taxi rank, his night over. You either love a bloke for that, or you don’t.
‘Money’s too tight to mention, pal. If you need owt, ask. But from what I’ve heard, they’re gonna have more to go on with the second body.’
‘OK, OK. Who do I report to over there?’
‘Yeah, it’s, y’know, who you’ve been working with.’
‘Rita! She gets a double murder, and I get the shaft.’
Mills shrugged.
‘She’s local, and she’s got experience of the kind of folk they’re looking at. Who would you have chosen?’
Joe had to admit it, he’d’ve chosen Rita too.
‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘we just got a main suspect.’
Mills nodded. ‘Let them have it. You’re still officially SIO on the first murder, but you’ll be answering to Kirklees on the overall investigation. Sorry, mate. You want an unsolved against your name? Two? If it’s black on black, let them have the bad stats.’
‘It’s not black on black.’
Mills raised his eyebrows.
‘OK. What is it, then?’
‘I dunno just yet.’
‘That’s the ticket. The Joe of old!’ Mills said, venting his exasperation into the air above him as he made his way to the door.
An hour later, the investigation hub for the double murder was up and running at Wakefield HQ. Joe made sure all the case files on the system were copied across. Two data clerks helped him, scrupulously polite and efficient, avoiding eye contact as they worked. The last items to go were Turner’s lists of the members of the Patriot League and the Lobster Pot discussion group. They were scanned and uploaded, with copies emailed directly to Rita.
He’d already told Gwyn Merchant to go home. There wasn’t much more to do late on a Sunday. They’d regroup tomorrow morning, see where they were on Shaw.
Joe sat down at his desk and checked his phone. Sam had sent a WhatsApp message: Welcome to the modern world, Dad!
He considered a witty riposte, but couldn’t think of one.
He clicked on Twitter, searched for the Kirklees District Police feed. There she was, a one-minute video of DS Scannon on the steps of HQ, all po-faced and official. The Comms Officer had even managed to find her a nice sombre jacket.
He listened without really taking it in. Her tone was different now. The victims were young men, and the killer was ruthless and calculated. There was nothing about rapist scum, no mention of the fact that she would have snuffed Beverage herself given half a chance. He was glad Merchant had gone home; he’d have been rolling on the floor, creased up with laughter, going on about all that one-sixty-six bullshit.
His phone buzzed.
A text, unrecognized number:
He looked at the number. It meant nothing to him. Who’d be texting him, apart from Sam? He went through his jacket pockets until he found the beer mat. Scribbled on it in Biro was the same number, plus: Text first.
Karen Cullen.
He replied:
Karen Cullen clearly wasn’t one for full sentences. Was it nerves? Or had she needed to be quick? He checked Google Maps. There were a couple of McDonald’s nearer to the Brown Cow in Batley. There must have been a dozen similar places as well. But there’s nowhere quite so anonymous as a Maccy D’s at a motorway junction, eh, Karen?
He gulped down one last mouthful of coffee and stood up. He wanted to be there when she arrived.