The rest of the day had been far less eventful for Jack. He’d been sent to the local corner shop on a number of occasions to fetch coffee, sugar, tea bags and a variety of other things which could well have been bought together, were it not for the fact that it was much funnier to send him off for one thing at a time.
He didn’t mind, though. He’d had a taster of the real thing from DI Taylor earlier on, and that was enough to keep him hungry. They could throw whatever they liked at him, as far as he was concerned.
The atmosphere in Gary McCann’s living room had been electric. If anyone asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain why, but it had all been down to Taylor. The way he looked at McCann, the way he lowered his voice and paced his words carefully. It carried a menace that Jack had never heard before. It was pure power play, and it was now easy for him to see why Taylor got results. He’d been half tempted to admit to the burglaries himself, such was the power of the atmosphere Taylor had created.
But McCann had been unmoving. Even though he was inexperienced, Jack knew that could only mean two things. Either McCann was innocent, or he was an even harder-nosed bastard than Taylor.
He supposed he must have done a good job of putting up with the playful ribbing of his colleagues, though, as they’d invited him to the Prince Albert, the pub next door, for a few pints after work.
The bar was filled with the heavy fug of cigarette smoke as they entered, the jukebox emitting a tinny beat Jack didn’t recognise.
‘Whaddya want?’ Taylor asked, shouting across two women who were talking excitedly at the bar.
Jack scanned the pumps and chose one. ‘Carling Black Label, please.’
Taylor raised an eyebrow. ‘You sure?’
‘Uh... No.’
‘Good. You’re having an ESB.’
Although he would never have dared admit it in front of his colleagues, Jack had no idea what ESB was, other than the fact that it looked and tasted like beer and that everyone else in the group seemed to be drinking it too. He was barely a pint in before his slightly slurred speech made him wonder exactly how strong this stuff was.
One of the Detective Sergeants, Tony Robson, was regaling them with tales of his first day on the job, making it sound like something out of an old Western film. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised if Tony had thrown in a couple of horse chases and gunfights at the local saloon. Barely pausing for breath, he eventually got up and sauntered over to the gents’ toilets.
‘One thing you’ve got to learn with Tony, No Knock,’ Taylor said, ‘is that almost everything he says is complete and utter bullshit. Nod and smile, son. Nod and smile.’
Jack was grinning, but not at Taylor’s comments. He was returning the smile from the girl behind the bar, who’d been giving him the eye since he’d come in.
Taylor clocked what was going on, but didn’t let on to Jack.
‘How was your first day, then, No Knock?’ the DI asked, his voice muffled slightly as he spoke through his smouldering cigarette.
‘Uh, alright, I think.’
‘Good. Because it don’t get any easier.’
‘I don’t mind that, sir,’ Jack said, glancing back towards the bar.
‘Woah. Woah now, tiger. Just you stop there,’ Taylor barked, placing a firm hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘We’ll have none of that “sir” bollocks in here, alright? This is a pub, not a meeting room.’
‘Alright,’ Jack replied, keen to add something on the end, but feeling uncomfortable about anything but sir. His senior officer on the beat was an old-school military type who had insisted on being called sir, so anything else just felt plain weird. He’d heard the others calling Taylor ‘guv’, so he figured it might be best to stick with that from now on.
‘Thing with people like that McCann kid, No Knock, is that it really doesn’t matter whether you bang them up or not. It doesn’t even matter whether they did it. Just having their collar felt tends to do the job.’ Taylor took a long drag of his cigarette, his next few words being half-croaked as he held onto the smoke for as long as he could. ‘Let’s say he did it. He knows we’re watching him now. He knows we’re onto him. Unless he’s thick or we’ve made some colossal fuckup, there’s no way on God’s green earth he’s going to go breaking into old ladies’ houses again. On the other hand, let’s say he didn’t do it. He’s no satellite, that kid. He’s got pals. They all talk to each other. They’re all involved. Everyone on that estate is linked. The fact that we’ve been sniffing around will put them frighteners on ‘em, you mark my words.’
‘We hope,’ Tony Robson said, returning from the toilets.
‘Like I said: unless we’ve made some colossal fuckup.’ Taylor said this while looking at Jack out of the corner of his eye, the inference being that if any fuckup had happened, the responsibility would rest squarely on Jack’s shoulders.
‘So would you say this was a typical day?’ Jack asked.
The rest of the team sniggered quietly.
‘There is no typical day, No Knock. One minute we can be in some toerag’s living room telling him it’s naughty to climb through people’s windows, the next we can be cutting a dead body down from some scaffolding. Still, beats working in Bejams.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Robson said. ‘Your mum works in Bejams.’
‘No,’ Jack replied. ‘She doesn’t. She... She doesn’t work at all.’
‘Retired, is she?’ Taylor asked.
‘Something like that.’
‘And your dad?’
‘Same.’
Taylor looked at Jack and changed the subject. ‘No two days are the same, No Knock. And you’ll be thankful for that before long.’
‘Do you get many? Bodies, I mean,’ Jack said.
Taylor took another drag of his cigarette. ‘A few. Not as many as some other areas, but keeps us busy.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Put it this way. There aren’t many times you wonder if Bejams has any jobs going, but that’s one of them. It helps, though, seeing that. Makes you even more determined to get justice for the families. You take more than a passing interest in the outcome of a case once you’ve seen a fifteen-year-old boy lying in a ditch with his head caved in, you know what I mean?’
Culverhouse didn’t, but he nodded anyway.
‘Anyway, No Knock. I think it’s your round.’
Jack looked at the table. His colleagues were all sitting there with empty glasses, but Jack still had most of his second pint remaining. He picked it up, took a few good slugs, and got up to order another round.
His feet weren’t as steady as they had been when they came in earlier, and he was careful not to look too drunk in front of his colleagues. The atmosphere was far too macho for him to look hammered after a pint and a half.
‘Hello you,’ the girl said, as she stepped out from the kitchen and walked up to Jack. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Same again, I think. ESBs all round.’
‘Sure,’ she said, smiling.
‘Actually, have you got anything that looks like ESB but isn’t as strong?’
‘There’s this,’ she said, pointing to the second of three pump clips on the bar. ‘It’s just over four percent.’
‘One of those in an ESB glass, please. And the rest ESBs.’
The barmaid smiled again. ‘Strong stuff if you’re not used to it.’
‘Long day tomorrow,’ Jack replied. ‘Early start.’
‘It’s all early starts and late finishes with you lot. Not to mention the lock-ins. They’re here ’til three o’clock some mornings.’
Jack raised his eyebrows and chuckled nervously. ‘I don’t think I’ll be here that late somehow,’ he said. ‘Not tonight, anyway.’
‘Shame. Some other time, maybe. Could be fun.’
Jack might’ve been a little wet behind the ears, even he’d managed to pick up the subtext in the barmaid’s words.
‘I’m here every night,’ she said. ‘For better or worse. Four ESBs and a Landlord. That’s two pounds fifty in total.’
Jack handed over three pound-notes and waited for his change.
‘Thanks...?’ the barmaid said, holding the fifty-pence piece above Jack’s open palm.
‘Oh. Jack,’ he said. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Jack. I’m Helen, by the way. Lovely to meet you.’