‘Satisfaction, Tom,’ said the DCC quietly. ‘Evidence that my wife died because the car had been sabotaged in an attempt to get me. Either that or the peace of mind of knowing that I’m completely wrong.’
Whatling nodded, and drained his mug. ‘Okay. Come on with me.’ He stood up and led the way out of the busy pub, Skinner and Masters following at his heels.
Next door to the Travellers’ Inn was a small shop, with an array of lavishly framed wedding photographs displayed in its single window. Whatling produced keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, disabled the alarm, and stepped inside. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to three high, grey, roll-down storage cabinets. ‘Everything’s in there.’
He stepped across to the cabinet on the left, knelt, and rolled up the front. Inside, negatives were suspended row upon row. ‘Eighteen years ago, you said. If I’ve got them, they’ll be somewhere in the lower half of this cabinet.’ He reached in and drew out a metal bar, from which hung a dozen strips of negative, each with twelve frames. ‘That’s how they’re stored,’ he said, holding it up to the light. ‘At the top of each strip you’ll find a number. That’s the file number of each incident, and that’s how you identify the negs without looking at them. Not the most helpful system in the world, but that’s the way they did it.’
Skinner sighed. ‘Oh bugger! I’ve left the report at home, and I’ve no idea what the number was. We’ll need to look at the lot.’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Whatling. ‘It’s not quite that bad. Each reference includes a series of letters telling you what sort of incident it was, like HB means house-breaking, ASS means assault and FA means fatal accident.’
He opened a door beside the filing cabinets and, beckoning them to follow, stepped through to another room. It was bigger than the shop, and full of equipment. ‘This is my processing room. What you should do is sort out all the FA negatives, then feed them through this viewer. Look.’ He took one of the strips from the rack which he held and fed it into a slot at the side of the machine. He threw a switch and an image of a negative frame appeared on a small flat screen above, magnified around twelve times.
‘It’s difficult to make out detail in negative,’ said Whatling, ‘but with luck you should be able to tell when you’ve found what you’re after . . . if it’s there.’
He withdrew the negative strip, leaving the screen shining silver, stepped through to the shop and replaced the metal bar in the cabinet.
From behind the shop counter, he picked up a huge canvas bag. ‘I’ve got to get to the old Kirk in Upper Largo to set up for my christening, so I’ll leave you here to get on with it.
‘I’ll be back at five. If you’ve found what you’re after by then, I’ll do you some prints. There’s the key, in case you need to step out for some air.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘Tell you one thing,’ he said, with a grim smile. ‘I’d rather have my afternoon than yours, any day.’
As the door closed behind Whatling, Masters looked up at her boss. ‘What did he mean by that?’
Skinner’s eyebrows rose. ‘He meant, Sergeant,’ he said, unsmiling, with nerves clutching at the pit of his stomach, ‘that looking through photographs of fatal accident scenes, even in negative form, is no-one’s idea of a fun time.’
He looked down at her. ‘I should have thought of that, Pamela. Look, you don’t have to do this. It’s above and beyond the call. If you like, you can go for a walk; or wait in the car, or in the pub.’
She smiled up at him, dropped her bag to the floor, slipped off her blazer and threw it across the counter of ex-Sergeant Whatnot’s shop. She shook her head, the neon tubes above picking out highlights in her hair.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to it.’
52
‘I have to tell you, lads,’ said Andy Martin, ‘that I’m not finding all this very funny.’
The Head of CID was renowned as the least flappable man on the force. His qualities complemented those of Bob Skinner and made them into what contemporaries in their constabulary and in others regarded as the perfect team. Where Skinner was mercurial, and volatile, Martin was even-tempered and invariably cool-headed. No-one with whom he worked could recall ever hearing him raise his voice.
With that in mind, Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire, sat at the conference table in the DCS’s office, each read his remark as a savage reproof.
‘Your tip about the Birmingham team was reliable, all right,’ he said, quietly. ‘Too bad it wasn’t exclusive.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘I take it that you’ve been raising hell with your oppo in Birmingham, Mario.’
The swarthy Inspector nodded. ‘All kinds of hell and damnation, sir.’
‘Have they given you any excuses, or theories?’
McGuire shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘They think that there must be a second informant in the team, working either for Charles or for one of his criminal pals in London.’
‘That’s pretty bloody obvious.’ Martin shook his head and laughed softly. ‘Christ, can you imagine if we’d all turned up in the same place at the same time, all of us armed! It would have been like Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.’
‘Little chance of that,’ said Brian Mackie. ‘Jackie wouldn’t have wanted them taken out right in his driveway.’
‘I don’t know, we were within sight of the buggers. Still, I suppose that was as far away as they could risk.’ Martin sighed. ‘I wish I’d thought to charge straight up to Jackie’s door last night. I’ll bet he had a back-up team in the house, just in case the roadblock didn’t work.’
He glanced at Mackie. ‘No word, I take it, on the missing men?’
The DCI shook his shiny head.
‘Maybe they’ll just give them a good talking to and send them home on the bus,’ said Martin, his voice even, but heavy with irony.
Dave Donaldson’s chuckle was silenced by a glance from the Chief Superintendent. ‘Don’t think that I’m amused by you two either.’ Neil McIlhenny shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘It’s been four days since Carole Charles went up in flames, our only lead’s been butchered under our noses, our prime suspect for that murder is alibi-ed by two of our own patrolmen - and incidentally, Dave, if you do press assault charges against Heenan, you’re going to look a right fucking Charlie if he pleads Not Guilty and the case goes to trial - and it takes the Boss’s new PA to find out that Carole might have had a bit on the side.’
He paused. ‘Could do better, gentlemen, or am I being . . .’ the telephone on his desk rang, ‘. . . unkind?’ He stepped across the room and picked up the receiver.
‘Martin. Yes? Excellent.’ The four detectives saw a smile spread across his face. ‘Yes, hold them there, please. I’ll be down to pick them up myself.’ He put the phone down.
‘Game on, lads, at last. Ricky McCartney’s been arrested in Northumberland. He’s being held at Alnwick police station. His car was spotted by a patrol coming out of Haggerston Castle Caravan Park. He did a runner when he saw the blue light, but the chasers radioed in and there was a roadblock waiting a few miles down the road. They ran right into it. We got a bonus prize too. McCartney had a pal with him, one Willie Kirkbride, one of the three that Maggie told me about when she called from Peterhead.
‘At least one line of investigation is going well. With any luck, we’ll be able to arrest Dougie Terry within the next couple of days.’ He waved his four colleagues to their feet.
‘Let’s get moving. Neil, you come with me down to Alnwick, to pick up McCartney. Dave, you work on picking up the other two Willies. Brian, Mario, you concentrate on plugging the hole in your network.’
Donaldson, Mackie and McGuire each nodded and left the room, without a word.
‘Give me a second, Neil,’ said the Chief Superintendent, as they went. ‘I’d better give Alex a call. D’you want to phone Olive, and tell her you’ll be late again?’
McIlhenney smiled, grimly. ‘I think not, sir. You can, if you like.’
‘Hah!’ Martin picked up the phone again and dialled Alex’s number. He waited for a dozen rings, before hanging up.
‘Not in,’ he said, as he slipped on his jacket. ‘Let’s get going. I’m looking forward to a chat with Mr McCartney.’
