Bright had risen early, determined to kick off his first day back at work with a more positive outlook – albeit without Stella. But a lot can happen in just two hours. A dressing-down from the ACC had put paid to that. And the atmosphere between the two officers was as bad as it had ever been.
‘Tell me you’re not serious!’ Martin yelled.
‘DCI Daniels is certain, sir . . .’ Weary of standing, Bright shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at an empty chair, hoping his boss would take the hint and invite him to sit.
He was out of luck. Martin just glared at him.
‘I’ve contacted Soulsby’s brief and he is trying to arrange an application for bail.’ Bright’s eyes scanned Martin’s face. It looked as though he must have shaved in a hurry that morning: his face had more nicks than a butcher’s block, and a tiny piece of bloodstained tissue was stuck to his neck, giving the impression that his pristine shirt collar was torn. ‘It was the very least I could do, given the doubt over her guilt.’
‘Jesus Christ! That woman’s reputation hangs in shreds and we – you, are wholly responsible. This is a public relations nightmare.’ The ACC looked past him towards the closed door. ‘Where the hell is Daniels, anyway?’
Bright had to stop himself from answering with: How the hell should I know? Daniels had been a law unto herself in recent weeks, distracted by work and whatever else was going on in that head of hers. Even after Stella’s funeral, when he’d invited his colleagues back to the house, she’d made her excuses and rushed off early, having stayed just long enough not to appear insensitive. It wasn’t like her. He felt like a pig, hitting on her when Stella was alive, and wondered if his behaviour that day had changed the dynamics between them for good. It hadn’t been his finest hour.
He sighed – he should’ve waited to make his play.
‘Well?’ Martin yelled.
‘The DCI is busy making further enquiries and mobilizing the squad. I believe the Tactical Support Group are gearing up to help in the search for the coat as we speak.’
His words made Martin even more irate. ‘Get out!’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh and, Bright . . .’
With his back turned, Bright winced. He knew what was coming and steeled himself for another tirade. Letting go of the door handle, he turned to face his boss.
‘You make bloody sure the press don’t get wind of this until I’m good and ready to speak with them,’ Martin said.
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘What d’you mean, too late?’
Martin looked as if he was about to explode. Bright wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole but decided, after a moment’s hesitation, that honesty was the only way to go.
‘They’re already camped outside, baying for blood,’ he said. ‘The nationals are wetting their knickers for the story and they’re prepared to pay handsomely to get it.’
‘What? They’ll crucify us! Who the hell tipped them off?’
‘Who do you think?’ Martin knew as well as he did that William Oliver was a solicitor who liked his name in the papers and his face on Sky News. ‘I assure you it wasn’t one of ours, sir.’
‘Oh really!’ The ACC bit back. ‘Well, I’ll give them a bloody exclusive, Bright! And believe me, heads will roll. And yours will be one of them, just in case you’re in any doubt.’
In the MIR, the atmosphere was a little less tense. Some of the murder investigation team were nursing hangovers when they arrived at work, regretting the excesses of the Christmas break. Others were happy to be there: rest days cancelled at short notice meant an opportunity to work overtime. With double pay and time off in lieu on offer, even Maxwell was glad of the opportunity to work.
‘You come to give me grief too?’ Robson said as Gormley approached.
Gormley walked straight by, took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He sat down at his desk, in no mood for small talk, particularly with Robson. But his colleague failed to take the hint.
‘The boss’ll be chuffed,’ Robson said, the trouble he was in momentarily outweighed by his enthusiasm for Jo’s imminent release. Only then did he take in Gormley’s scowl and realize he was in for the high jump. ‘Where is she?’
Gormley glanced in the direction of Daniels’ empty office. He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s gone to make sure that the CPS don’t oppose her release. Although I’d like to see them try! She’s got a lot of time for Jo. So did we all, until your ridiculous cock-up.’
Robson’s grin slid off his face. ‘Hank, about the coat business—’
‘Save your excuses, man.’ Gormley pulled his chair closer to his desk and logged on to his computer. ‘What’s done is done. You weren’t the only one to blame.’
Robson knew he was referring to Bright, who, for some reason, hadn’t yet made an appearance. ‘Has anyone contacted Jo’s sons?’ he asked timidly.
‘Oliver’s taking care of it.’
Feeling for his pocket, Robson pulled out his mobile, which had already switched to voicemail. He collected the message, then asked: ‘Is your mobile switched on?’
‘Why?’
‘That was the guv’nor.’ He pocketed the phone.
‘And?’
‘He sounds frantic. He’s been trying to reach you.’
Gormley shrugged. He had ignored a number of calls that day. Since the news got out, his pocket hadn’t stopped vibrating. ‘Yeah, well, he can wait. It was him got us into this mess.’ He wondered whether Bright felt guilty at all. ‘If he’d listened to the boss, Jo might not have spent the past six weeks inside. Can you imagine what that would do to someone like her?’
‘He wasn’t firing on all cylinders, what with Stella—’
‘Yeah, well, we’ve all got problems. But we still have a job to do. And some of us manage to do it properly.’
Robson looked at the floor. ‘He’s on his way in, wants all hands on deck and a debrief from the boss as soon as possible.’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ Gormley moved off. ‘I’ll see if I can track her down.’