By mid-morning on his second day in CID, Jack was starting to doubt DI Taylor’s comments about no two days ever being the same. He was already on first-name terms with the man in the local corner shop, and had started to wonder how many cups of tea and coffee his colleagues could possibly drink — and what had happened to the teabags and jars of instant coffee he’d bought only an hour and a half earlier.
He’d woken that morning with a bit of a thick head from the night before, so had been responsible for four cups of coffee himself. He’d left for home after the third pint, not used to drinking heavily on a work night. His uniformed colleagues had occasionally gone out for a couple of drinks after work, but it was usually much more sedate. In contrast, his new CID colleagues had decided to hit the whiskies after their third pints — something Jack politely declined.
Whisky didn’t agree with him at the best of times. He’d heard it was something you became more accustomed to as you got older, but Jack couldn’t see that himself. He certainly didn’t ever imagine himself becoming a whisky drinker. The odd beer or two, maybe. But never whisky.
As the morning wore on, Jack was starting to think that he might actually get a lunch break. Stealing a bite of something here and there was about the best anyone seemed to manage in the police force. The diet usually consisted of chocolate biscuits or crisps — anything that could be eaten on the job and provide a quick sugar kick at the same time.
Just as he was imagining what culinary delights he might be able to enjoy, he was pulled out of his reverie by the sound of DI Taylor slamming his phone down. With lips pursed, the DI strode into the centre of the room as the other detectives looked on.
‘There’s been another burglary in town. Birch Street. Another elderly woman, alone in the house. Mary Stokes. This time, though, she caught him in the act and tried to put up a fight. She’s currently in Mildenheath General, having emergency surgery. She’s eighty-eight, unlikely to see eighty-nine.’ Taylor’s voice rose in volume as he spoke. ‘She is somebody’s mother, somebody’s grandmother. The wanker who did it was spotted, again by a neighbour. Fortunately, it seems neighbourly relations are still strong in Mildenheath. Unfortunately for you, No Knock,’ the DI said, rounding on Jack, ‘the person they spotted coming out of Mary Stokes’s house covered in blood was young Gary McCann.’
Jack’s heart sank. He swallowed hard. Taylor was waiting for him to speak.
‘Are we sure it was McCann?’
‘Yes. No doubt about it. The eagle-eyed neighbour is an old schoolfriend of his. Charlie Emerson. Would know him anywhere, he told us.’ Taylor’s voice was now calm. Too calm. There was a sinister edge about it which told Jack he’d really fucked up.
‘Has he been nicked?’ Jack asked.
‘He has, and he might get done for this job, but we’ll need more than just a witness statement. And we’ve got nothing on him when it comes to Wilman Street. Not unless we can prove his alibi wrong.’
It had been Jack’s call to leave McCann alone for the time being, hoping the warning would have done enough to put him off robbing any more old ladies. But it hadn’t done anything of the sort. Instead, another elderly woman had been targeted, and this time was lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life. He’d been told during his early days as a police officer that the decisions he made and the actions he took would often have far-reaching consequences, but this was the first time he’d really seen that take effect.
‘Sir, I don’t know what to say. I thought that—’
‘You didn’t think anything,’ Taylor yelled. Jack held back from telling the DI that he thought he was being a little unfair. After all, Taylor had been the senior officer at the scene and could have easily overruled Jack and brought McCann in for questioning. Knowing Taylor, he would’ve taken his time doing so and McCann would still be sitting in a cell now. And Mary Stokes would be sitting in front of her log fire reading a Catherine Cookson.
Jack looked up at the faces of the other officers. A couple had their gazes fixed elsewhere. Some were looking at him through narrowed eyes. Although he was reluctant to take responsibility for what had happened, the blame was only ever going to fall on the new boy. How many other young officers had come into CID and fallen on their swords over the years? Jack knew he couldn’t have been the first new officer to take the rap for something he couldn’t have avoided. He supposed it was self-preservation from the senior officers. Make it his decision, and they were protected from their own fuck-ups.
‘What can I do, sir?’ Jack asked, fearing the answer.
‘Stable doors and horses spring to mind,’ Taylor said. ‘I don’t know. Go to Mildenheath General and apologise to Mary Stokes and her family for what you did. Go next door to the Albert and drink yourself stupid until you wake up with an almighty fucking headache. Go home and stew. I don’t give a toss. All I know is I don’t want you around here today. I’ll deal with you in the morning. I’ve got enough of a mess to sort out here.’
Jack nodded, stood up and took his coat from the back of his chair. Without saying a word, he drank the last of his coffee and left.