Drury scribbles something in his notebook. “So you reported the break-in and then noticed the guy in the car.”
“He seemed out of place.”
“Out of place?”
“Yes.”
“When you approached him, did you show him your badge?”
“No. I don't have my badge with me.”
“Did you announce yourself as a police officer?”
“No.”
“What
“I tried to open the passenger door.”
“So this guy was just sitting in a car, minding his own business, and you appeared from nowhere and tried to break into his car?”
“It wasn't like that.”
Drury is playing devil's advocate. “He didn't know you were police officers. You must have scared the shit out of him. No wonder he took off—”
“He had a gun. He pointed it at my partner.”
“Partner? I was under the impression that DC Barba worked for the Diplomatic Protection Group and is currently on holiday leave . . .” He consults his notebook. “And according to my information, you were suspended from all duties yesterday and are now the subject of an investigation by the Independent Police Complaints Commission.”
I'm getting pretty pissed off with this guy. It's not just him—it's the whole attitude. Forty-three years on the force and I'm being treated as if I'm Charles Bronson making
In the old days there would have been sixty officers crawling all over this place—searching for the car, interviewing witnesses. Instead, I have to put up with this crap. Maybe Campbell's right and I should have retired three years ago. Everything I do nowadays is either against the rules or treading on someone's toes. Well, contrary to popular opinion, I haven't lost my edge. I'm still smarter than most scrotes and a damn sight cleverer than this prick.
“Ali can answer the rest of your questions. I have better things to do.”
“You'll have to wait. I haven't finished,” says Drury.
“Are you carrying a gun, DS?”
“No.”
“What about handcuffs?”
“No.”
“Well, if you can't shoot me and you can't shackle me—you can't keep me here.”
15
The Professor lives in Primrose Hill, at the poor end of a leafy street where every house is worth seven figures and every car is covered in bird shit. The perverse symmetry appeals to me.
Joe answers the door on the second ring, dressed in corduroy trousers and an open-neck shirt.
“You look awful.”
“Tell me about it! People keep wanting to shoot me.”
Julianne appears behind him, looking like a woman plucked off a film poster. High cheekbones, blue eyes, perfect skin . . . In a soft voice, she announces, “You look terrible.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
She kisses me on the cheek and I follow her down the hall toward the kitchen. A toddler sits in a high chair, holding a spoon. Pureed apple is stuck to her cheeks and forehead. Charlie, aged eleven, is home from school and in charge of feeding.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper to Julianne, suddenly embarrassed to barge in. “I didn't realize . . . you're all here.”
“Yes, we have children remember?”
Joe wants to ask me what happened but he holds off for the sake of Charlie, who has a fascination with police stories—the more gruesome the better.
“Have you arrested anyone today?” she asks me.
“Why? Have you done something wrong?”
She looks horrified. “
“Keep it that way.”
Julianne hands me coffee. She notices my missing finger. “I guess it's official then—you're not the marrying kind.”
Charlie is equally fascinated, leaning closer to examine the blunt stump where pink skin has puckered at the join.
“What happened?”
“I ate a hamburger too quickly.”
“That's gross.”
“I didn't taste a thing.”
Julianne admonishes me. “Shush, you'll give her nightmares. Come on, Charlie, you have homework.”
“But it's Friday. You said you'd take me shopping for new boots.”
“We'll go tomorrow.”
Her spirits soar. “Can I get heels?”
“Only if they're this high.” She holds her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Sick.”
Charlie lifts the baby onto her hip, dips her head and tosses the bangs out of her eyes. Christ she looks like her mother!
Joe suggests we go to his study. I follow him up the stairs into a small room, overlooking the garden. A desk takes up most of the available space, squeezed between bookshelves and a filing cabinet. To the right on the wall is a corkboard, covered in notes, postcards and family photographs.
This is Joe's bolt-hole. If I lived with three women I'd want one, too, although mine would come with a bar fridge and a TV.
Joe scoops files off a chair and tidies his desk. I get the impression he's not so organized anymore. Maybe it's the Parkinson's.
“You've stopped using the walking stick,” he observes.
“I broke it.”
“I can lend you another one.”
“That's OK. My leg is getting stronger.”
For the next hour we pick over the wreckage of my day. I tell him about Sir Douglas and the attack outside Kirsten's flat. His face gives nothing away. It's like a blank page on one of his notepads. He once told me about something called a Parkinson's mask. Maybe this is it.
Joe begins drawing lines on the pad. “I've been thinking about the ransom.”
“And what did you come up with?”
“There must have been an initial letter or an e-mail or a phone call. You mentioned DNA tests.”
“On strands of hair.”
“That first contact must have come as a tremendous shock. We have a dead girl, a man in prison for her murder, then suddenly a ransom demand arrives. What did you think?”
“I can't remember.”
“But you can imagine. You can put yourself in the same position. What are you going to think when the ransom letter arrives?”
