He smiles -
I don’t -
I say: ‘OK, so who the fuck was it told
‘Ronnie Allen,’ he whispers, glancing at the door.
‘There’s a fucking surprise.’
Douglas shrugs.
‘And you’re sure Ronnie didn’t give you any other names?’
‘I swear.’
‘He never said who told him?’
‘No.’
‘Never said who tipped them?’
‘No.’
‘Not the Ronnie Allen I know.’
Douglas shrugs again.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, according to Ronnie fucking Allen, how is it that I’m supposed to be dirty?’
He’s back looking down at the carpet. ‘Mr Douglas?’
‘No specifics,’ he says. ‘Just business.’
‘Just business?’
He doesn’t look up.
‘And this is just me and Dawson?’
He nods.
‘To put me in my place?’
‘That’s what Ronnie said.’
‘Why? Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who hates me that much, Bob?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’
‘You?’
He looks up: ‘Me? I don’t know you.’
‘Right. So don’t be talking about people you don’t know.’
He looks right at me, but says nothing.
I stand up. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Douglas.’
He’s still sitting in his chair.
I walk over to the lounge door and then I stop and I say: ‘And if I was you Mr Douglas, I’d be careful.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘You don’t want to be going about giving folk the impression you know more than you do.’
He stands up: ‘Is that a threat, Mr Hunter?’
‘Just a bit of advice, that’s all,’ I say and open the door.
His wife and daughter are in the hall, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her holding the tiny little lass tight around her waist.
No-one says anything.
I open the front door and step outside, turning to say goodbye -
But Douglas strides out into the hall and slams the front door.
I stand in their drive, the rain and their door in my face, everything bad, everything sad, everything dead -
Raised voices inside.
I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the place empty and deserted on a wet and bloody Sunday before Christmas, the lights out.
I turn into the car park at Headquarters and that car’s back, there in my space -
Two men inside.
I pull in next to it, get out and tap on the glass.
The driver winds down his window -
I tell him: ‘This space is reserved.’
‘Sorry,’ he says and winds the window back up -
I start to knock on the glass again, saying: ‘Can I ask you…’
But the car reverses and pulls away -
I take down the license plate:
PHD 666K .
Upstairs, I dial the Chief Constable -
He’s back home:
‘What the bloody hell happened to you last night,’ he’s saying. ‘One minute you were there, next minute…’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.’
‘Is this bloody work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘I won’t be here, I have to go back to Leeds.’
‘You’re at the office now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Talk.’
‘Not on the phone, sir.’
A pause, then: ‘What’s this about?’
‘I think you know.’
He’s angry: ‘No I don’t or I wouldn’t ask you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s about Roger Hook’s investigation into Richard Dawson.’
Silence, then: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I hang up and look at my watch:
It’s gone noon, but already night outside.
At one-thirty Chief Constable Clement Smith telephones and asks me to step across the hall to his office.
I knock once and am told to come.
Clement Smith is behind his desk in a sports jacket, writing; Roger Hook across from him with his back to the door, waiting.
‘Afternoon,’ I say.
Roger turns and smiles: ‘Afternoon, Pete.’
I sit down in the chair next to him, facing Smith -
Smith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, continuing to write -
Roger Hook sat there, just waiting -
Until, after two minutes of this, Smith looks up and says: ‘Go on then.’
I swallow, angry: ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation that would seem to be involving me on a personal level,’
‘So go on.’
I glance at Detective Chief Inspector Hook and back to Smith: ‘Now?’
‘That’s why you dragged us all the way in, wasn’t it?’
I say: ‘I would prefer to have the conversation in private.’
‘Stuff what you’d prefer Pete; it’s Sunday bloody afternoon.’
Hook stands up.
‘Sit down,’ says Smith.
‘Sir, I don’t mind…’ says Hook.
