‘What?’
Gilchrist flicked a look at Connolly, White and Finch. They were all staring at the table.
‘I thought it was a weapon at first but after I wasn’t sure.’
‘You didn’t examine it when he had been shot?’
‘It fell from his hand and – well – ma’am – I couldn’t immediately locate it without contaminating the crime scene.’
‘I’ll make a note for the scene of crime officers. Thank you, Detective Sergeant.’
Hewitt turned to Foster.
‘We don’t know who any of these people are? Do we at least know if one of them is Bernard Grimes?’
‘Not yet, ma’am,’ Foster said.
‘Only two of them were carrying identification,’ Potter said. ‘We have their names and OPS1 is having them traced. But none are known to us, that’s correct, ma’am.’
OPS1 was the designated title for whichever high-ranking officer was on shift in charge of the Operations Room. The Operations Room was the focal point of police operations each day and night.
‘Where’s DC Edwards?’ Macklin said. ‘He should be here. It was his informant who started this off.’
Nobody answered. Macklin shuffled papers whilst Foster stumbled through the remaining questions on his sheet.
The ‘hot debrief’ petered out ten minutes later.
‘All of you are off-duty as of now,’ Hewitt said, rising.
‘Suspended, ma’am?’ Foster said.
‘Pending an enquiry, it’s inappropriate for any of you to continue with your duties. But hold yourself available for questioning from tomorrow by the investigating officers from the Hampshire police force.’ She looked round the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is about as bad as it gets. It does you no credit to avoid saying what exactly happened in that house.’
She looked at Macklin.
‘Philip, perhaps we could use your room for our meeting?’
He nodded, his face grim. He’d rather be anywhere but here. Hewitt nodded at the room and followed Macklin out. Those who remained avoided each other’s eyes. As Connolly, the big man, rose, Sarah leant over. She could smell his aftershave. Sweet. Noxious.
‘Excuse me.’
He ignored her. She reached out and gripped his bicep.
‘Excuse me.’
He looked at her hand on his arm.
‘I’m spoken for but I’m sure you’ll find one of the other lads willing.’ He sniggered. ‘Try Finch – he isn’t too fussy, I hear.’
They both looked over at Finch shambling out of the room with Darren White, the other Haywards Heath officer, stretching up to whisper in his ear.
‘Did you remove evidence from the kitchen?’
‘What evidence?’
‘Whatever it was he’d had in his hand. Judging from the footprints in the blood, it looked as if someone had been moving about in the kitchen.’
He picked up her hand as if it were a dead thing and removed it from his arm.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, turning for the door.
‘He had something in his hand.’
Connolly put his hand in his pocket and continued walking.
‘So have I. D’you want to hold it?’
‘I saw it,’ Sarah said.
‘Big, isn’t it?’
‘In the man’s hand.’
‘Well, I didn’t.’ He nodded at Finch’s retreating back. ‘And nor did Finch. Or White.’ He looked back at her. ‘So there’s only your word for it.’
I’m not a pessimistic man, rather the reverse. My optimism used to anger my wife, Molly, especially when she herself was plumbing the depths. She would call me Pollyanna, her voice cold and jeering.
‘Only people with no imaginations are optimists,’ she snarled at me more than once.
Getting through the days after the shooting at Milldean tested my optimism. These were probably the worst days of my life. Worse than when Molly and I later split up – I leave you to decide what that says about me.
That night Phil, my driver, dropped off Jack Lawrence, my press officer, back in Brighton then drove me over the Downs to the little hamlet where Molly and I had settled four years before. I always liked the idea of leaving Brighton behind. Although my remit covered all Sussex, there was something about Brighton that seemed to stand for the venality and the criminality of the whole region.
Leaving it, coming over into the pure country air of the Downs, allowed me to leave the job behind more effectively than anything. When I got home Molly was already asleep. I tiptoed up the stairs, put my head round our bedroom door and listened to her heavy breathing. I could smell the alcohol.
I went back down the stairs, poured myself a brandy and went out on to the terrace. I could see the nimbus of the city’s light pollution across the top of the Downs. I imagined it getting brighter and brighter as Brighton’s pollutants threatened to spill over the South Downs into the countryside beyond.
I wondered if there was any way I could save my job. I thought about phoning Simpson again. I wondered how bad tomorrow would be.
The new area police headquarters were on the border between Brighton and Hove, down on the seafront. Given the traffic along the seafront, it was a ridiculous place for any kind of rapid response policing but I enjoyed the view from my window. I preferred bad weather days to good – watching the waves crashing over the groynes and spilling on to the promenade energized me.
I love Brighton. OK, I know the city is officially Brighton and Hove since the councils merged but that’s just a sop to Hove civic pride. Although there are restaurants and bars springing up in Hove, Brighton is the engine that drives the city.
I love Brighton for its energy and for its odd mix of people – a mix that, frankly, is a big policing headache. The students from Brighton and Sussex Universities clubbing until dawn, and the gays and lesbians who live in the city or come to visit in droves – all prey for any local gang, mugger or rapist. The unemployed kids on the estates around the city. The druggies, a danger to themselves and others. The crooks who come down from London at the weekends to have a lavish time on a strictly cash-only basis. The prostitutes. And, of course, the local crime families. There were two main ones – the Cuthberts and the Donaldsons – although a man called John Hathaway was rumoured to be the town’s crime kingpin.
There was tension in the air when I strode through reception and the open-plan ground-floor office. I clocked covert and overt glances as I passed. At the rear of the building I jogged up the stairs to my office.
Winston Hart, the chair of the Police Authority, had been phoning my mobile during my journey but I’d ignored his calls. He was a pompous prat of a local councillor from Lewes, one of many academics from the local universities involved in local politics. He’d left four messages with Rachael, my secretary.
I eased behind my desk and looked across at the painting on the opposite wall. I’d bought it ten years ago when I could little afford the expense. I loved the mystery of it – a man and a woman sitting at a table, both gazing at a flower she was holding in her hand. A pot of the same flowers behind them on the window sill. The colours were bright – a yellow wall, red chairs, the man’s green coat, her black hair. But what was its story? That was the mystery.
I sighed and called Hart. Our conversation was brief.
‘I have utter faith in my officers,’ I said. ‘Whatever happened was, I’m sure, justified. I’ve asked Hampshire Police Authority to carry out a full investigation but I’m confident it will confirm my belief.’
Hart had a spindly voice and always sounded tetchy.
‘Do you know exactly what happened?’ he said.
‘I know enough about my officers to stand by them.’
When Hart and I had finished speaking I buzzed through to Macklin.
