It was a closed community with a high crime rate, an area of the city where role models came at a premium and doors slammed in the faces of the police. Gormley pulled to the kerb outside a semi-detached house, its windows protected by heavy iron bars and closed-circuit television security cameras above the front door. He got out of the car with Brown in tow and locked it securely, hoping it would still have four wheels by the time they got back.
A couple of young kids skateboarded across the road in front of them, nearly coming to grief as a double-decker bus swung round the corner in a huge arc, its driver shaking his fist, receiving two fingers in return. The kids hopped back on their boards and skated off laughing. Gormley remembered the days when he’d have clipped them round the ear and taken them home for worse from their parents, a time when being a policeman counted for something more than just a big fat lump sum at the end of thirty years – enough of a pension to live on for the rest of your days.
Brown pushed open a rusty iron gate in dire need of a lick of paint. The garden was awash with all kinds of rubbish: pizza boxes, chip wrappers, abandoned cans and bottles chucked over the wall without a second thought. As he depressed the bell push with his thumb, the word WANKER right in his eye line, Gormley wondered whose bright idea it had been to situate the Regional Psychology Service here.
‘Respect agenda, my arse!’ he said.
Brown pulled a face. ‘Did I miss something?’
Gormley shook his head. Blair’s ‘respect agenda’ had left so little trace, what was there to miss? ‘Just thinking out loud.’
A woman’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Yes!’
Brown held up his warrant card to the CCTV camera. ‘Police.’
A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. They passed through an outer hallway into a narrow corridor, Gormley leading the way. There was a reception desk at the far end where a middle-aged receptionist sat behind thick protective glass, which was just as well, given the clientele. It was Scumbag Central; a side bench was lined with a bunch of them slumped with their legs outstretched, effectively blocking the narrow waiting area. Some were reading, some listening to iPods, the rest just staring blankly at the opposite wall. The nearest one, Gary Henderson, didn’t bother to move as they approached.
‘Shift!’ Gormley said, in no mood to be messed around.
Henderson nudged Forster, the next man down, who had his head in a magazine, and then sniffed at the air artificially.
‘What’s that smell, d’you reckon? Shite, pig shite, or just pigs?’
Forster grinned but kept his head down, not wanting to get involved. Gormley smiled reassuringly at the receptionist, figuring she’d have witnessed one or two fights in her time. With the likes of Henderson it was usually a case of when, not if, things would kick off. The wimp on the right was far too old for the shaved head and tattoos he was sporting under thinning hair. Gormley ignored him, eyeballing Henderson instead, bending over him and placing his hands on the bench either side of Henderson’s thighs.
He leaned in close, so close their faces nearly touched. ‘I said shift!’
Henderson smirked.
Gormley swung back his foot, kicked both men’s legs away and then carried on to reception. The woman behind the desk was practically beside herself, eyes darting past him, expecting more trouble as he made his way towards her.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gormley, this is DC Brown. We need a word.’
The receptionist put her hand out, expecting Gormley to pass his warrant card under the narrow gap of the security window. Instead, he pressed it against the partition, making her examine it through the glass. In all his time in the force he’d never let go of his most prized possession and wasn’t about to start now. She peered over the top of her spectacles, comparing him with his ID. The man in the photo was much younger than the man standing in front of her, but she could still tell it was him. Then Brown produced a search warrant and shoved it beneath the window.
‘We need access to Ms Soulsby’s office,’ he said.
The receptionist unfolded the piece of paper and took forever to read it. When she looked up, she shrank back from the glass, highly agitated. Henderson was on his feet and walking towards them.
Gormley swung round on his heels. ‘Move and I’ll break your arm!’
Henderson backed off, holding up the middle finger of his right hand. As they were buzzed through a door marked PRIVATE, Brown cautioned him to sit down and show some respect.
They found Jo’s office at the rear of the building on the ground floor. Apart from bars at the windows, it was a pleasant enough room: a large mahogany desk in the centre, a comfortable chair, solid-wood bookshelves housing professional manuals, with a small selection of children’s books on the bottom shelf.
They spent over two hours searching before returning to the front desk. Gormley thanked the receptionist for her cooperation while Brown gave her a list of items they were taking away: Jo’s desk diary, her laptop, a mobile telephone receipt and several other documents they thought they might need.
‘We may need to come back,’ Brown warned. ‘We’ll also need a copy of Ms Soulsby’s current caseload.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ the receptionist said.
‘’Fraid so.’
The woman logged on to her computer and typed a command. The printer reset itself, then sprang into action, spewing out a list of sixty or so names. Brown wondered if the people on it would be referred to as clients or patients. Either description was too good for the scum they’d met on their way in.