his arms, his sides. He flexed, stretched again. Took a deep breath, let it go. Relaxed again.
He hated paperwork. Loathed it. Despised it. Some people, Milhouse for one, were natural-born desk jockeys. They loved nothing better than sitting in front of a computer screen, trawling through virtual facts and figures in an unreal world, emerging with something real and concrete at the end. Mickey couldn’t do that. He was built for action. He hated to admit it, knew the admission made him sound like some musclebound thug, the kind that volunteered for riot-squad work, but it was the truth. Not the riot-squad stuff; he couldn’t stand the kind of officers that arm of the job attracted. Just the action element. Thief-taking. Catching criminals. That kind of thing. Proper police work. Not sitting here in front of a screen, getting eye strain.
But he had found out some interesting things. He had to admit that. The time hadn’t been wasted.
So that was something.
And the office felt better when Glass wasn’t there. Mickey had had reservations about him before the chat outside. An instinctive distrust of the man. Or a dislike. For Mickey, the two things were often the same.
But Glass’s words kept running around his mind. Was the DCI right? Had he allied himself too closely with Phil? Would it impact on his career? He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about things like that.
He rubbed his eyes, looked again at the screen. Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky. Hadn’t been so clever about hiding his paper trail as he thought he had. Certainly not if Mickey could find it.
He rubbed his eyes again. Couldn’t stand another second looking at this screen. He needed to get out.
Mickey smiled to himself, took his phone out. Perfect, he thought. Just the excuse.
‘I want to meet,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Now.’
Fifteen minutes later, he was on the footbridge overlooking Balkerne Hill. On one side was the old Roman wall bordering the town centre. The Hole in the Wall pub built into the corner. On the opposite side, the upmarket suburb of St Mary’s. Beneath him, traffic roared down the dual carriage-ways in and out of the town.
‘Hello, Stuart,’ he said.
Stuart was already there, staring down at the road. He looked up as Mickey approached.
‘You know I don’t like meeting in broad daylight,’ he said, eyes darting round, checking for spies. ‘Especially not somewhere like this.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Perfect place, Stuart. Beats hanging round in some back alley or the corner of a dodgy boozer. Up here… no one’s looking. You’re ignored. You’re safe.’
Stuart, Mickey could tell, didn’t look convinced.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ he said, a sigh of resignation in his voice.
Mickey looked at him. Stuart had been an informant longer than Mickey had been in Colchester. He had provided information for the previous DS in MIS and had seemed perfectly happy to let the arrangement continue with his successor. Today he looked rough. But then, Mickey thought, he always looked rough.
Stuart was tall and thin, and his black Cuban-heeled suede boots had seen much better days. Probably when John Lennon was divorcing Cynthia. His jeans were also black, drainpipe-cut, barely clinging to his drainpipe legs. A once-black T-shirt now gone grey, proclaiming the name of some band Stuart was keeping the faith for. One that had split up, re-formed, split up again and had three of its founder members die through various forms of self abuse. A black waistcoat and the same black leather jacket he always wore, so old it had come back into fashion at least three times without him noticing it. And his hair was a filthy nest of artificially blackened spikes. He looked old enough to have been a mod, but dressed as if the last tribe he had followed had been punk, and seemed to have lost the energy to reinvent himself since.
He claimed to be a poet. Although Mickey had never heard of him having anything published. He claimed he used to be a rock star. Although no one could ever remember him doing any gigs or releasing any records. He had always endorsed the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Well, the drugs at any rate, thought Mickey. Still, he seemed to know everyone in the area, some good, most bad, and had a knack of finding things out from circles Mickey could never get into.
‘Tricky Dicky Shaw,’ said Mickey.
Stuart frowned. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw… there’s a blast from the past… ’
‘His son’s been in town,’ said Mickey. ‘Calling himself Adam Weaver. Just been killed at the Halstead Manor Hotel.’
‘Heard about that,’ said Stuart. ‘Any idea who did it?’
‘I was going to ask you that.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw… well I never… ’
‘D’you think you could have a bit of a nose-around? Find something out for me?’
Stuart shrugged. ‘Sure. See what I can do.’ He screwed up his face again. Concentrating. ‘Adam Weaver… that name rings a bell.’
‘Good. Give you something to go on.’
‘When d’you want to hear something?’
‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Sooner rather than later would be good, though.’
‘Right you are, Mr Philips.’
‘OK. Call me when you’ve got something.’ Mickey turned to walk away. Stuart stopped him. Mickey turned.
‘Couldn’t give me a bit in advance, could you? On account?’
Mickey sighed. He had been expecting this and come prepared, but it was a ritual he had to go through. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a tenner. ‘Here you go.’
‘Much appreciated, Mr Philips. Hey, have I ever told you you’ve got the same name as the guy who discovered Elvis and Johnny Cash?’
‘Only every time we meet, Stuart,’ said Mickey with a weary smile. ‘And it’s only the surname, as you know. Ring me when you’ve got something.’
‘Right you are.’
Mickey walked off. It wasn’t a car chase, he reasoned, but it beat doing paperwork.
67
The Minories cafe was tucked away at the back of the art gallery of the same name at the top of East Hill, opposite the castle, in a sprawling Georgian building. With its stripped wooden floors and mismatched furniture, not to mention the huge cakes and quiches, it was a favourite lunch haunt of Marina’s. Now she was there with Don, because it was the place where they were least likely to come across police officers.
They had taken a seat at one of the outdoor tables, the weather being just warm enough to allow it. They had sat as far away as possible from anyone else, mindful that they didn’t want anyone overhearing their conversation.
Marina stared at her empty coffee mug, the dregs drying round the rim like geological strata, dating the time they had sat there. She blinked as if coming out of a trance, leaned back, looked round.
The garden, with its odd assortment of architectural features, its archways and vaults dotted about seemingly at random, always reminded her of a mini Portmeirion. But she wasn’t noticing that now. She was taking in what Don had said, letting the words settle.
‘Oh my God… ’
What he had told her had made the day fall away. It had been like hearing the most unreal and unfamiliar things in the most real and familiar of settings. That had just heightened the effect of what he had said.
‘Oh my God… ’ she said again. There were no other words to express what she had just heard.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear it like this,’ Don said, eyes on his own coffee mug. Not empty like Marina’s, since he had been doing most of the talking, but cold. Unwanted. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear it at all, really.’
‘No, no, it’s… ’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Phil… ’
‘I always knew I’d have to tell him one day. Well, I thought I would. But I hoped it would never come to it.’ He leaned forward, placed his hand on hers. She left it there. ‘I certainly never imagined it would all come out this way. Never in a million years.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘I thought all that was over. In the past.’ He sighed. ‘I wished it was.’ Shook his head. ‘I really… ’ Sighed
