Brook looked Charlton in the eye.
‘Murdered?’ Brook said nothing. Charlton nodded. ‘You don’t know yet.’ The Chief Superintendent paused, hoping to increase the pressure. ‘I like to run a tight ship, Inspector, but with these swingeing cuts, I need people who are team players, people who play with a straight bat. What I don’t need are cowboys.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Brook quickly. ‘I’ve been working too hard. It’s affected my judgement. I’m sorry.’
Charlton was wrong-footed, the wind taken from his sails. His facial expression softened with vindication but inside, the disappointment of an opportunity lost was palpable. ‘Well, I dare say you made the call as you saw fit.’ His features darkened again. ‘But I won’t tolerate being lied to, especially in front of subordinates,’ he continued, with a nod to Noble outside the door.
‘Of course not,’ said Brook, now the model of contrition. ‘That was unforgivable.’ Charlton examined Brook’s face long and hard for any sign of insincerity. ‘Perhaps I should take a few days off, sir. I’ve got plenty of leave owing.’
Charlton continued to stare Brook down, not wanting to be rushed. He couldn’t escape the feeling that in some way he was being outflanked, but he didn’t know how. Eventually he sat back and looked at the table. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Brook?’
Brook couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘No, don’t bother. I already know. I’m a bean counter, aren’t I? And you’re a force of pure detection, a seeker of justice.’
‘Sir, I don’t-’
Charlton held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, Inspector. That’s my job. I expect to be disliked. If I wasn’t disliked, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly. And if I wasn’t doing it properly, you couldn’t do yours. But you probably don’t accept that, do you?’
Brook remained silent.
‘And though we had a few problems a couple of years ago, I had hoped that we could have moved forward.’
Brook looked down into Charlton’s face, this time with the feeling that
‘You see, Brook, I’ll be honest. I can’t do what you do. I can’t find the bad guy who doesn’t want to be found. I don’t have your skills. But by the same token, you can’t do what I do. Clear the decks and sign the cheques, as my old Chief Constable used to say. Someone has to do it.’ He paused. ‘Look, you don’t need to go on leave — and I no longer want you to resign. I made a mistake suggesting it. And one thing I learned from our. . difference of opinion was — well, I know you have integrity. Briefing the press behind my back. . you did the wrong thing but for reasons you believed were valid, and I should’ve acknowledged that.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘Forget it. Get your team back in here and finish the briefing. If you think this incident has mileage, I’ll back you. But I want to be kept in the loop. If you withhold information from me again, I’ll bury you.’
Charlton stood with his untouched coffee and stalked away.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ Charlton turned at the door. ‘Thank you,’ said Brook. ‘But I do have something I need to do. Three days’ leave should cover it.’
Charlton nodded and walked out.
Ten
DI Damen Brook stood in the gutter looking up at the heavens. If he’d been at home, in his cottage garden, he could have picked out odd stars and constellations, but in the neon glare of the city his vision was impaired. He straightened his stiff neck with some discomfort and massaged it with his grubby hand. He’d never take his soft pillow for granted again.
Scratching at his three-day beard, he resumed his weary trudge through the centre of Derby, feeling the earlier rain still squelching in his shoes. As he shuffled through the darkened shopping precincts, he closed his eyes for long periods to relieve the sting of broken sleep on his pupils — broken by the cold, broken by the noise of others snoring or swearing or just gibbering senselessly, broken by a rat on that one occasion he’d tried to spend a night in a squat.
His mobile phone vibrated in a pocket and he fumbled through his different layers to open it, looking around furtively to see he wasn’t being observed. Cheap though the phone was, a tramp talking on a mobile was an incongruous sight as well as an easy target for muggers.
Brook didn’t look at the display. Only Noble had the number. ‘You’re up late. Where were you tonight? You missed our meeting and I missed my burger.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘And what about cause of death?’
Brook saw a figure stir to look at him from a nearby doorway and moved further away.
Brook saw the man in the doorway looking at him and switched the phone to his other ear. ‘John, I can’t talk for long. But I’m not coming in for a few hours yet. I got a tip from a new face at Millstone House. Somebody at check-in this afternoon knew McTiernan and it seems Tommy was raving about some squat on Leopold Street.’
‘No, it’s just a derelict but this guy at the refuge, Mitch, says he can’t wait to get back there tomorrow. It seems there’s someone pretending to be from some agency calling round to drop off bottles of whisky.’
‘Exactly. I’m going to check it out now.’
‘That won’t help. Speak soon. Wait, John. What did you have to eat tonight?’
Brook ran his lower lip under his teeth. ‘Just wanted to know.’
He ended the call and put the phone on silent then squelched up St Peter’s Street, past Waterstone’s and the small clock-tower which showed two o’clock in the morning. The temperature had dropped and the cold hand of night was beginning to grip. Brook pulled his flimsy overcoat up round his neck, burrowed his hands deeper into his too-thin pockets then quickened his walk to get the blood moving. First order of business after he took a bath — get some decent boots, assuming his feet hadn’t already rotted away to stumps. He pulled out a damp handkerchief and sneezed mightily into the cloth. An inquisitive dog popped its head out of a shapeless pile of blankets in a shop doorway and monitored Brook’s laboured progress with a smooth turn of the head.
‘Good dog,’ breathed Brook as he walked on. The dog, placated, yawned and burrowed back down towards the heat of its owner.
Brook ran the back of his hand across his nose. All he needed — living rough with a cold. He came to a decision. He was exhausted. He couldn’t take another night. This would be his last. The previous two had been fruitless — fruitless, that is, if you excluded the insights he’d gained into a life without a home. Three days and two nights on the streets, and so much about the behaviour and condition of the dispossessed had begun to make sense to Brook. The adoption of a flea-bitten abandoned dog, like the one he’d just seen, was more than a play for
