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Grand Hall, Central Criminal Court
Old Bailey, London
Clive Reynolds checked his watch, wondering if he should wait, or simply call the office and tell them to send the pair to CPS instead. He really needed to get back to the office before yet another clerk came by and tried to find out information about yet another case. Wilkinson’s tone had been strained, to say the least, and Reynolds’ own curiosity about what this was all about was really the only thing keeping him here, waiting for –
“Mister Reynolds?” Reynolds turned to see Hagen and Owens approaching. He could see the tension in Doug Hagen’s shoulders, and his already bursting curiosity swelled even more.
“Afternoon, Superintendent. Constable,” he nodded at Owens, and tried not to chuckle as the young DC appeared flustered by the recognition. Reynolds turned back to Hagen. “What is going on, Doug? Jerome seemed... out of sorts.”
“Likely because I wouldn’t talk to him about it,” Hagen replied.
“Right.” Reynolds nodded affably at another clerk passing by and quickly motioned for them to walk. “I hate to push us along, but I need to get out of the Old Bailey before a crime takes place... of which I will be the perpetrator. Shall we?”
Hagen nodded his assent, and the trio walked through the ornate Grand Hall, and out of the building.
Reynolds squinted against the brilliant glare of the sunlight. He had sunglasses in his briefcase... unfortunately, it was his other briefcase, which was sitting quite comfortably at home on his desk. They entered the shady side of the building and Reynolds relaxed his squint with relief.
“Alright, Doug, what is so urgent?”
Hagen removed his own sunglasses and glanced around quickly before he began to speak. “Grayson. He’s at it again.”
Reynolds couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling skyward. Jesus, that bulldog was a nuisance! “Pierce again?”
“No, actually. This time he’s put a block on the personnel files for our victims.”
“Personnel files?” Reynolds frowned in his confusion. “How could... oh, you mean...”
Hagen nodded. “Newcastle and Corbett. Marshall as well, I believe.” He glanced briefly at Owens as the young constable fumbled to answer his ringing mobile.
“Why would he want to restrict their personnel files?” Reynolds asked, as much of himself as of Hagen. “They were the victims, what would be in their records?”
“I don’t know,” Hagen replied. “We saw them briefly when they were still accessible... Owens looked at them a bit longer than most... but now we can’t get to them. Big restriction seal, no entry whatsoever.”
Reynolds sighed. “Well, I can begin a process to force them, but it would be quicker if you went to the families. They could get the files released into their custody and pass them to you.”
“Yes, I know,” Hagen replied, his voice a bit husky as he tried to contain his agitation. “This has to stop, though, Clive. There must be a way to make it stop.”
“Uh, sir?” Owens pocketed his mobile as he stepped back into the group. “That was Sergeant Pierce. We’re needed back at the Met.”
Hagen nodded, then looked back at Reynolds. “I’ll get in touch with the families, see if I can skirt around it this time. He’s getting too brazen, though, Clive... they all are.” Hagen slipped his sunglasses back on, adjusted his fedora. “They’re going to go too far... It’s going to happen.”
Reynolds’ could feel the tension in his jaw as he spoke. “I know, Doug... I’ll speak to Jerome... It may make it worse, but I can try.”
Hagen smiled, the first genuine smile he’d really made during their entire meeting. “Even so, thank you.” He jerked his head in the direction of his car. “Paul, let’s go.” Owens quickly followed, and the pair hurried across the street and toward a side street where Hagen’s blue BMW was most likely parked.
Reynolds watched them go, then heaved a huge sigh. Speaking to Wilkinson would likely only stir up more trouble. He needed to get in his books for a few hours and see what he could find, some precedent that he could use to collar and muzzle Grayson for a time at least. From what he knew, there wasn’t any legitimate reason for their constant pursuit of Sergeant Pierce, the struggles to trip him up, the blatant joy when difficulties befell him. It wasn’t difficult to feel sorry for the Dublin-born detective, with his slight accent and quiet manner. The man seemed to Reynolds to be the ideal copper... military background, served with distinction in several conflicts... a decorated police officer... a seemingly law-abiding citizen...
Reynolds glanced at his watch, and decided home would be his destination rather than chambers. There wasn’t anything he needed there that couldn’t be collected tomorrow, and he really wanted to avoid the onslaught of clerks and get to his research as soon as possible. Something was niggling in the back of his mind, however, and Reynolds momentarily thought of what should probably be unthinkable... but under the circumstances, it was best to be prepared... He took out his mobile and quickly skipped to the voice recording feature he had installed a few months before, a brilliant utility for taking notes when pen and paper weren’t handy.
“Phone Pryor and ask him to look into the background of Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce... full write-up.” He stopped the recording, feeling a twinge of guilt for even thinking of doing this. There had to be a reason, though... a reason why these men, including his own second chair barrister, would have such a vendetta against this seemingly harmless man... and as a barrister and now prosecutor, Reynolds knew better than anyone that you simply don’t go into battle of any kind without being fully armed.