'Okay, okay,' Ramsden said, animated. 'I'll tell you this. I'd been a kid back then, I'd likely've been living in some crummy two-up, two-down with no bathroom and an outside loo, running round with the arse out me trousers. Left school at what? Fourteen, fifteen? Some boring fart-arse job, if I was lucky, for sod-all money.'
'Yes,' Karen said, laughing. 'But you weren't were you? Your gran might have had a toilet out in the backyard, but I bet you didn't. And you didn't leave school at fourteen, either.'
'No, all right. You're right, you're right. I went to the local comprehensive, okay? Scraped an education, waltzed into the Met, got promotion, good job, decent money-could be more, but it's decent-nice house, grade-one motor, wife and kid-least I did, before they buggered off to bloody Hartlepool-and everything's better, right? Better than it was. Yeah?'
'Yes.'
'Then why's it like this?'
'Like what?'
'Up shit creek without a paddle.' He walked across to the window and stared out. 'Whole fuckin' country. Doesn't even rain like it used to. Bloody deluge, that's what that is. Fuckin' flood.'
Karen laughed. 'That's it. Exaggerate a bit, why don't you?'
'What? You think I'm kidding? Flood warnings on the radio this morning. Seventeen of them.'
'You're right, Mike. The whole world's coming to an end. Just not before you've got time to buy me another drink, okay?'
Ramsden groaned and headed for the bar.
Thirty-six
At first glance, Detective Chief Inspector Graeme Dixon was as anonymous as the concrete-and-glass building in which his office was housed. Dark suit, pale shirt, plain tie, hair neither too long nor too short, no beard, no moustache, no tattoos or other distinguishing marks, his only adornment the gold band on the third finger on his left hand. The kind of man, seen up close on the tube, or behind the wheel of the car alongside at the traffic lights, who would be briefly noticed and then immediately forgotten. One of the reasons, perhaps, when he had spent more time on the streets, he'd been so effective at his job.
Karen had come down to London on her own, leaving Mike Ramsden with the squad; her meeting at the Central Task Force aside, it had given her the chance to go back to her flat and check her mail, pick up some new clothes.
'Karen.' Dixon held out a hand. 'Graeme. Come on in. Sorry to keep you kicking your heels.'
There was a recognisable Essex edge to his voice, a brisk professionalism in his manner; his handshake quick and firm and dry.
He waited until she'd settled into a chair.
'Out on loan, aren't you? Wild and woolly provinces?'
'Something like that.'
'Going okay?'
'Not too bad.'
'Did that once,' Dixon said. 'When I was a DI. Manchester. Spent as much time watching my back as anything else.'
Karen smiled.
'Murder investigation, isn't it? One of ours?'
'Yes.'
'Nasty.'
Karen nodded.
Dixon said, 'Anyway, what can I do for you? Something to do with that north London operation, your bagman said.'
'Stuart Daines, he was one of Customs and Excise people involved?'
'Stuart, yes. SOCA now. Why d'you ask?
Karen smiled again, almost apologetically this time. 'I'm fishing around a bit here, and of course you don't have to answer, but was there ever any suggestion he was less than kosher? Anything about him that gave you any doubts, made you stop and think?'
'Whoa!' Dixon said, and raised both hands. 'Wait up, wait up. Just what are we getting into here? This isn't the time or the place.'
'Bear with me,' Karen said. 'Let me try and explain.'
Dixon listened patiently and, for a moment, when she'd finished, he was quiet.
'Seems to me whatever you've got linking Daines to your enquiry is limited, at best. In fact, I'd say you had jackshit and were pretty frantically flailing around trying to stop yourself from drowning.'
Karen continued regardless. 'As I understand it, one of the traffickers arrested walked free without being charged.'
'That's right.'
'One of Daines's informants?'
Dixon ventured a quick smile. 'You don't expect me to answer that.'
'So, what then? Daines put in a word on his behalf? Maybe something more than that? Some piece of evidence against him getting contaminated, lost?'
'It happens.'
'Doesn't make it right.'
'Look.' Dixon pushed his chair back from the desk. 'Don't get sanctimonious with me, okay? We got a good result. Several dozen weapons taken out of commission, practically a thousand rounds of ammunition. The men arrested went down for a good thirty years between them.'
'And that justifies-'
'You know it fucking does!'
Karen slowly released a breath before rising to her feet. 'Thanks for your time. Anything I've said-implied- about any impropriety-I know it won't leave this room.'
She moved away from her chair.
Dixon hesitated before he spoke. 'You may know this or not. From your questions, I'll assume that you do. There's an operation SOCA and ourselves are currently running together, down here and up in Nottingham. Daines is involved. The whole thing's on a bit of a knife edge at the moment. Eighteen months watching and waiting, keeping the lines open between ourselves and our colleagues in the Baltic. We think there might be as many as three hundred, three hundred and fifty weapons, several thousand rounds of ammunition. Move at the right time, and we get the goods, the suppliers, the middlemen, the whole kit and caboodle. Get it wrong and we stand to lose pretty much everything. All those hours of police work down the drain and another batch of guns out on the open market. A month from now, and they could be in the hands of some serious villain taking down a security van on the Ruislip bypass or a pumped-up fifteen-year-old in south London or Manchester who wants to earn a little respect by putting a bullet in some other kid's head. You know what I'm saying?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'It seems to me, as far as your murder investigation's concerned, anything regarding Daines is just so much whistling in the wind. But if things change, if you feel impelled to act in any way that might throw this current operation off course, I'd ask you let me know first. Give us fair warning.'
'And after?'
'After's a different matter.' He held out his hand. 'You know where to find me.'
As soon as she'd left the building she called Ramsden on her mobile phone. 'Mike? Any luck, I'll be back around seven. Meet me, okay? The office will be fine.'
