you to be rekindled.
‘So how is he with your working late this week?’ continued Grey on a related theme. ‘Brough, I mean?’
‘He’s fine with it, or so he says. I don’t know; perhaps I sometimes detect a hint of something in his comments.’
‘Frustration?’
‘No, not frustration. More a… disappointment perhaps, that I actually went through with it, with what I promised myself I would do, and kept my job; and that having children didn’t make me want to change, to be home more. Does that make sense?’
‘I think I understand,’ hesitating on what was for him shaky ground.
‘Well, best to make a move then,’ she started after a pause, standing and straightened her back, before shuffling Nash’s file into some kind of order. ‘A lot to do tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ he concurred, ‘and after reading that newspaper, we might to be lucky to get one day’s grace before the whole town erupts.’
They passed back through the now empty outer office, even the uber-efficient secretary having a home of some description to go to it seemed. At least they saw a bit of life in the main reception — in the form of the same smattering of blue uniforms, dead-eyed drunks, and angry youngsters (sitting with their social workers) that populated police stations up and down the nation of a weekday evening.
The roads were empty now, the sky above them clear and dark and star-shot; and as they drove through the outskirts of this friendly city, Grey thought: she’s out there somewhere, this girl we have been looking for for all these months. Out there somewhere in this city, under this sky, under one of these rooftops, sat by one of these windows, lit by one of these lights. And he too perhaps, the boy missing just this week, who case hadn’t yet built up such mystery, yet gathered her mystique. Was he here too, somewhere beneath this darkening sky, lost across this mass of suburbs, this backing-up of roofs?
And then the phone rang.
Chapter 18 — The Stakeout
Shaken from his rooftop reverie, Grey fumbled for the mobile and killed the quite horrible ringtone he hadn’t the technical nous nor time to learn to change.
‘Inspector.’ It was Nash, though with none of the joviality of earlier, indeed Grey thought he sounded worried. ‘I called my office first, I hoped you might have still been there. I wonder, are you yet very far out of town?’
Grey scanned for signs of direction. ‘It looks as though we’re coming upon the motorway interchange now.’
‘Good, so I’ve caught you just in time.’
‘Do you want us to turn back?’ asked Grey (Cori quickly indicating and turning the car around upon his nod.) ‘We’ll be back at the station in ten minutes.’
By now she had the car pulled up at the grass verge at the opposite side of the road.
‘No, don’t come into the station,’ instructed Nash. ‘Do you have a Sat Nav?’
‘Yes,’ answered Grey and put the phone onto speaker.
‘Then look for Paul Street, and enter it from the Lean Street end, go carefully once you get there, no blue lights or tyre screeching. Just drive slowly and someone will meet you.’
With that Grey signed off, Cori beside him tapping at her little screen.
‘Well, we won’t be getting back for Newsnight,’ he said resignedly.
‘Found it, here we go,’ she said, the car, like most modern ones, firing up with a barely perceptible rumble from somewhere beneath the plush upholstery.
‘Used to be like starting a biplane,’ he said absently, hardly expecting her to listen.
‘Sorry?’
‘I was babbling — about how when I was young, starting a car you’d be jamming the key, the little motor whinnying, it might have taken three or four goes. Half the time you’d need a jump start, or someone’d have to get out and push.’
‘Oh, right,’ she said half-listening, polite even with her attention on the Sat Nav, its whispered voice directing her along unfamiliar roads.
He couldn’t do that, Grey considered as he watched her, his thought drifting off topic a moment, give someone his attention while focusing on something else. He felt tired now — going back into town like this was a mistake; working so late was a mistake. And yet he knew it was only the soothing rumble of the road and the comfort of the ultra-soft seats lulling him into this state — he would be fine as soon as they got wherever Nash was bidding them.
Cori turned a corner, as the small directional machine showed a pattern of interconnecting roads upon its flashing screen. A ladies voice — so soft and gentle as to be able to offer the most frustrating traffic updates without incurring the driver’s wrath — advised them they had reached their destination. Satellite navigation, Grey mused, looking up at the sky for the twinkling star that would guide them along the next stage of their investigation.
‘I think we’re at the junction he mentioned,’ said Cori.
Grey perked up. ‘Nash said to go slow when we near.’
‘Well, one more corner to turn and we’re on Paul Street.’
So close to sleep a moment ago, Grey felt as though he had just woken. He now peered around the corner as the car moved slowly round it, and onto a narrow straight road of terraces. Dignified, Victorian, he thought of the buildings, even while scanning the pavements for some sign of where to stop and not go too far.
And then suddenly — was that a figure? Something like a shadow ran up beside them, emerging from they knew not where, to tap upon the driver’s-side window as gently as if wearing velvet gloves. The window slid down electronically, and a young woman’s face became clear beneath a hood. Before Grey could say, Not interested, thank you, and bid Cori re-raise the window, the woman asked,
‘Inspector Rase?’
He hardly nodded before she continued,
‘Sergeant Pullman, Drugs Squad. Pull up quietly, and come with me.’ They exited, closing the doors softly, and joined her on the barely lit pavement. It was so dark they could hardly make out their guide against the brick wall.
‘Could we find a better place to park?’ asked Cori, less car-proud than mindful of needing a vehicle to get home in that evening.
‘Don’t worry, there’s not many kids along this street at night. They know to stay away,’ said Sergeant Pullman mysteriously. ‘And those suits aren’t the best.’ She joked, ‘People will think you’re tax inspectors, or maybe Vernon’s pools?’
‘You don’t look old enough to remember the pools,’ answered Grey perhaps a bit too loudly.
‘My dad used to play them every Saturday. Come on, stay close, there’s no street lamp here.’
‘Why not?’ asked Cori to no response, as they followed her through a narrow arch-roofed alleyway built through the terrace block.
Come.’ They emerged into an unkempt back garden, hardly more than a paved square with some bins and a short washing line. Through a gate almost off its hinges, they came into a service road that ran along behind the houses. They turned to walk along it, a barren strip of tarmac between rows of similar little yards on either side. At one back gate a woman lifted the lid off her bin with a clang, to empty into it the charred remnants of her frying pan. As they passed she glared at the strangers — perhaps the glare, Grey surmised, of someone used to strange characters and odd goings on after dark, but which she tolerated and had learnt not to ask questions of.
‘Don’t worry about the locals,’ said Sergeant Pullman as they turned to enter another yard, on the same side but much further along than the one they had emerged through, ‘they don’t like coppers in the neighbourhood, but they like having a dealer even less. I think we make them feel safe, although they’d never admit it,’ she added with a grin.
‘So,’ Grey looked down at her hooded top and combat trousers, ‘they know that you’re a..?’
