Bright Spark (16 page)

“I
understand your frustration, constable, but we are not the police’s humble
turnkeys. We are an independent agency with our own remit. Now, we could sit
here with tea and biscuits for the next hour or two while we both repeat what
we’ve already said in slightly different ways, but that’s not my style.”

It
occurred to Slowey that Skinner had relaxed; not only had his shoulders
dropped, but he hadn’t tutted or interjected for some time.

“What’s
he done then?” asked Slowey, too tired to care about rank.

“Excuse
me.”

“Your
man, Murphy. What are you so embarrassed about?”

“I
think you’re forgetting yourself, constable.”

“I
can be forgetful but that’s why I write everything down. Besides, like you
said, we work for separate agencies. You’re not my gaffer and I’m not your
humble turnkey.” 

“I
indicated politely that this interview was over.”

“You
stonewalled me because you need time to limit the flak your service will take
when you have to disclose whatever it is you’re so touchy about.”

“I’m
not stonewalling. I’m simply declining a request you’re not empowered to make.”

“So,
what’s it to be? I know my office had Dale in for knocking the guests about.
What else did you let him get away with?”

“Enough,
for Christ’s sake,” exclaimed Betts. “He’s under investigation by regional
management…”

“That’s
confidential, nothing’s been decided,” declared Skinner, half standing, “and
you’re not authorised…..”

“…and
you will never presume to tell me the rules again, Skinner,” shouted Betts. She
glared at him until he sank back into his seat.

“Mr
Skinner and Mr Murphy are drinking companions,” resumed Betts, composed again.
“Lager is thicker than water. As I was saying, an internal investigation is
underway. I cannot and will not tell you anything else until the Home Office
agrees, and that won’t be until mid-week at the earliest.”

Slowey
momentarily glanced at his notebook, looking for a gem of inspiration in the
open-cast of his scrawled notes. Betts took the opportunity to stand and extend
a hand. Slowey flicked his notebook shut, levered himself to his feet and shook
hands. Unanswered questions nagged at him and he felt crestfallen, as tired and
sore as an old stag butted out of the rut.

“If
I were your boss, I’d send you home,” she said, soothing now. “You look
dreadful.”

“Well.
Thanks for your time. And if you could push things along with the Home Office…”

“Of
course. Brian,” she said to Hoskins, left eye twitching in what could have been
an unaccustomed wink, “escort this officer out, if you please. Skinner, I need
a private word if you wouldn’t mind staying.”

Skinner
held a protest between pursed lips then swallowed it as Hoskins led Slowey out,
pressing a finger to his lips as soon as the door was closed.

As
they approached the last locked gate that exited onto the cement driveway,
Hoskins made a great show of confusion as he tried one key then another in the
lock. Only when the yard was clear of prison officers did he find the right
one.

“So
what’s going on, Brian?”

“We
can have a quick chat and a slow walk,” said Hoskins, grinning inanely. “But
you’ll have to pretend we’re having a bit of a laugh about nothing in
particular. Nod and grin, you know the drill.”

“Fine.”
Slowey smirked, shook his head with mock disgust and stooped to tie then untie
his shoelaces. “Let’s have it then.”

“This
is off the record, for now. Murphy was a disgrace to the profession. I don’t
feel like I’m betraying the brotherhood when I tell you this ‘cause he
shouldn’t ever have been part of it.”

“Go
on,” guffawed Slowey, straightening.

“Too
much. Here’s a shaggy dog story. Just keep smirking.”

“Sorry,
go on.”

“I’ll
have to be short and sweet. He got his rocks off by locking people up. You
might think that’s a natural perk of the job, but he went too far. He taunted
the guests, knocked ‘em about.

“Not
that he was totally dumb. Didn’t pick on the upper tier blaggers and murderers.
Liked the young and tender ones, the ones who should be on a psych ward. Cells
never clean or tidy enough. Cons always too early or too late. Started with
verbal abuse, real personal stuff. They had to react sooner or later ‘cause
it’s all about face in here. Then he’d be straight in with restraint
techniques. Very smooth. He must have practised in his own time.

“Then
solitary for ‘em if he could swing it. Where he made a habit of shouting more
abuse at ‘em through the hatch. Laugh now.”

Slowey
cranked out a poor imitation of laughter that sounded more like an emphysema
victim breathing his last. Hoskins snorted and nodded his head as if in awe of
his own comic genius. He raised a hand to the portly gate-guard who waddled
past all too slowly.

“Guy’s
a live-wire on the staff side too. Forever bleating about his wife carrying on
with other men. Whether you want to hear it or not, he’ll tell you and stare at
you ‘til you say something he approves of. Everyone from the Governor to the
paedos on the nonce wing knows about the way she gives other men the eye or
looks too made-up or looks too scruffy or takes too long at the supermarket.

“Look,
I’ve got to wind this up but the complaints are probably pukka and he’d be out
of a job if he didn’t drink with the union rep. Besides, there might be a new
coat of paint on this place, but it’s still a powder keg in here. Murphy thinks
it’s funny to light fuses and wait for the bang.

“I’m
not going through that again,” said Hoskins, slapping his maimed leg as he
stopped and pivoted to face Slowey again. “Now then, if you’ve got a business
card on you, drop it near this chap tending the flower bed on your left when we
pass him. You know, accidentally.”

Slowey
palmed a card from his inside pocket, plucked out a stick of gum in the same
hand, extracted the stick with his teeth, folded the card into the silver gum
wrapper and casually dropped it to the ground without breaking his stride. When
he glanced back over his shoulder, the card was nowhere to be seen and the
pale, shaven-headed youth was still intent on his perennials.

“Are
you in the spy game now, Brian?”

“That’s
Jake Barnaby. Used to bunk with that arsonist, Firth. Witnessed all sorts of
antics from Murphy. Wouldn’t come forward while Murphy was still around. I had
a quiet word. His lawyer might be in touch. You might get something useful, you
might not.”

“Thanks
Brian. I owe you a huge one. Who’s the lawyer?”

“Not
the foggiest, but they’ve all got one.  Anyway, don’t thank me. We haven’t
talked. In fact, I barely know you.”

Hoskins
unlocked the inner gate and ushered Slowey into the entry bay.

“Police
coming out.”

By
three p.m., the sun had shredded the humid murk into skeins of low-lying, wispy
stratus. A cleaner light fell through the rents to sparkle in the pits left in
the Mondeo’s windscreen by the anonymous airgun pellets, and shimmer on the
impossibly clean front windows of 3 Glamorgan Mews.

He’d
alerted the search team to the amateur sniper lurking somewhere above their
heads. They’d been nonplussed, particularly those who’d worked in Nottingham in a past life. After all, you weren’t really doing your job unless someone took
a pot shot at you now and again. He’d left them debating the legality of
kicking down doors on the strength of amateur triangulation and gut feeling,
not to mention the time involved in processing a firearms offence on what
promised to be another good evening for a barbecue.

Glamorgan
Mews appeared to have the bluest skies and the whitest fences in the city.
Sandwiched between the river and the maze of Edwardian tenements where
students, hard-grafting Poles and housing association junkies were stacked five
deep, the street hosted a dozen identikit starter homes for yuppies. Each
boasted UPVC DG throughout, GCH, patio doors opening onto a terrace just big
enough for a gas-fired barbecue, and a garage too small for a small car but big
enough for garden tools, unwanted wedding presents and unsellable junk. Each
sported meter boxes on the exterior walls so that contact with the
meter-reading classes could be minimised. Each was detached by just enough
distance from its neighbour to claim an outrageous mark-up.

Harkness
had telephoned Fitch, Brown & Jennings and been informed by an unctuous
automated message that their offices were closed at present but he should
direct the police to contact the duty solicitor should he find himself in
custody and refuse to say anything until he’d spoken to them. He thought better
of leaving a voicemail message. Instead, he rang A&E reception – a handy
number to have on speed-dial - and, to a chorus of screaming, sobbing and what
sounded like vomiting,  a clerk who knew his name and who was too harassed to
argue the toss over data protection gave him the Jennings family’s discharge
address.

He
parked the Mondeo out of number three’s line of sight, then jammed the
rear-view mirror onto the dashboard and used it to straightened his tie and
polish a few flakes of dead skin off his nose and cheeks. He fished out his
leather warrant card holder and clipped it onto his belt with the enamelled
crest displayed. His battered notebook slid into a leather valise. First
impressions hopefully counted just enough to get him through the door.

He
found himself avoiding the gravelled drive as if he had some reason for
stealth. Pausing, he made a mental note: Why had the Murphys’ attacker audibly
walked across gravel when they were clearly doing something illicit? Could the
door be accessed without crossing gravel? Did the question matter? It might not
be important but Firth would know better. He would check Slowey’s notes again
later.

Folding
away his notes again, something caught his attention, a flickering presence
behind the sun’s glare on the front window, a sound like a scraper being
dragged across wet glass. Stooping and shielding his eyes, he saw a hand waving
at him manically, then an index finger jabbing at the inside of the pane.
Before he reached the front door, it was dragged open by an inch then held by
its chain.

“Ma!
SJ! SJ! Come see, a man. Tall dark handsome stranger danger. Don’t say nothing
and seek bona fides.” The voice boomed out thick, lisping and permanently
amused. Slowey had mentioned something about a disabled son and an ailing
father. Through the crack in the door, squabbling female voices contended with
the whine of a washing machine hitting its spin cycle.

“What
is it now, Jeremy?” A brusque, female voice approached, correct and authoritative
but diminished by the quaver of age or some less certain weakness. That must be
Marjorie, pegged by Slowey as matronly, a bustling mother hen.

“Stranger
danger. One must not open the door to stranger danger. Demand bona fide
identification. I want to call the policeman.”

The
door opened a few inches and jerked again on its chain.

“He’s
put the chain on. You’re a good lad, Jeremy. Just a minute, whoever you are.
Jeremy, go and help your dad.”

“Demand
credentials and sundry forms of bona fide identification!”

“Mum!”
Another voice, younger and well spoken. “This is my house, you know. I can
manage. You take Jeremy. I’ll answer the door.”

“But
it could be anyone dear. You just never know.”

“If
it’s an axe-wielding psychopath, mother, I’ll let him do me in outside so you
don’t have to shampoo the carpet again.”

“I’m
just saying.”

“And
you keep ‘just saying’. What’s he done to this wretched chain?” A flurry of
rattling and tutting ended with the door swung wide and Harkness pinned by
gleaming grey eyes under lowered brows, leaving him in no doubt that he was
very much part of the problem. “Yes, what?”

Resisting
the impulse to flinch and take a step back, Harkness offered up his warrant
card to the young woman.

“Detective
Sergeant Harkness from down the road. And you’ll be Sharon then?”

“Hmm.”
The young woman’s gaze flickered between his card and his features repeatedly
before she nodded minutely. “We’re not on first name terms yet, officer.
Presume you’re here about the fire.”

“My
apologies. Ms Jennings. And yes.”

“
Ms
Jennings? Now I feel old. Or guilty.”

She’d
raised her gaze, allowing her brow to unknot and her eyes to soften as she
brushed her hair from her temples, platinum strands stark against lustrous red
nails. Tall as he was, the jut of her chin suggested she was often elevated by
formal clothing and high heels when she dealt with hulking police-men, rather
than her current ensemble of baggy t-shirt, paint-speckled jeans and bare feet.

“Alright,
Sharon it is then. You’d better come in.”

“Yes.
Good.” He missed a beat while he jolted himself away from the glimpse of pale
breast and lilac lace the woman’s baggy t-shirt had afforded him. “Actually I’m
glad I caught you.”