Chief Superintendent Jo Howe, her deputy, Superintendent Gary Hedges, and ‘the father of the station’, Detective Inspector Bob Heaton, shuffled away from the crematorium, snatching what shelter they could beneath the overhanging trees that lined the 500-yard driveway.
At any other police funeral, the hearse would have been flanked by a white-gloved guard of honour, snapped to attention. As close friends, Jo, Gary and Bob would have been among the lucky ones to have allocated seats inside but, for most, it would be standing room outside with the proceedings relayed through loudspeakers.
This was no ordinary send-off though. Phil Cooke, now being vaporised in Woodvale’s furnaces, had suffered a catastrophic fall from grace, and the fact that his only living relative had been whisked back to HMP Pentonville in a prison van seconds after the committal only underlined the reason why so few ex-colleagues wanted to be associated with him. Alive or dead.
The tiny plus point of the sparsity of mourners was that rather than 12having had to park miles away, Jo’s car was within sight of the chapel.
Each were lost in their own thoughts, memories of a man they all had reason to admire and love. A man to whom, whatever he later did and became, they each owed their careers.
Jo zapped the key fob as they approached the police-issue Peugeot 508 Hybrid. The hazard lights winked their hello, accompanied by the reassuring clunk that invited them to step in from the rain. Jo and Gary removed their hats and both unbuttoned their dress-tunics, while Bob, the only one in plain clothes, slid into the back seat.
The two more senior officers went to the boot of the car and carefully laid their jackets inside, resting their caps on top. As Jo closed the lid, Gary broke the silence.
‘Christ on a bike, have they no respect?’
‘Who?’ said Jo, following Gary’s gaze to the grass verge.
‘Bloody junkies,’ he said, as he kicked the three hypodermic needles further from the road. ‘Can’t they go somewhere more suitable to pump that muck into their arms?’
‘In fairness, at least it’s not a park or the beach. Probably the safest place.’
‘They could just not do it at all,’ said Gary as he squeezed between the trees and the car to get in the passenger side.
‘Simple as that,’ muttered Jo as she climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘What is?’ asked Bob as he looked up from his phone.
‘Oh nothing. Attila the Hun here is moaning about some needles on the road and I’m just saying where else do you expect them to go?’
‘Not that again. Just leave me out of it,’ said Bob as he returned to his screen.
‘Well, if you did your job, Bob, and nicked the dealers, we’d have no issues,’ said Gary.
‘Not now. I haven’t got the energy for this,’ said Jo as she pulled out of the space and snaked her way towards Lewes Road.
Gary huffed, then changed the subject. ‘Nice eulogy, Bob. I’d love to 13have seen the old boy running naked down Old Shoreham Road that New Year’s Eve.’
‘Really?’ said Bob. ‘It’s an image I’ve not been able to shift in twenty years.’
‘I bet. Shame there weren’t a few more there to hear about the true man. I counted ten, including the prison officers, and I reckon two of the rest were journalists.’
Jo kept quiet and let the men chatter inanely. She was lost in her own thoughts. It seemed only yesterday she’d driven from this very spot having said a premature farewell to her sister, Caroline, after she’d succumbed to her heroin habit with a massive overdose.
The two Gary had spotted were indeed reporters and she predicted the headlines later that day would not be pretty. Instead of carrying on into the city centre, Jo circumnavigated the Gyratory roundabout and headed out of town.
‘Hey, where we going?’ said Gary.
‘Pub,’ she said.
‘I’d love to,’ said Bob, ‘but I’ve got a conference with CPS re Op Vellum at three. I’m taking them through all the undercover evidence.’
‘We’ll be back by then,’ said Jo. She caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘I can make it an order if that helps.’