from Colchester, have they?’
‘Well…’ Phil told him about Adele Harrison. Watched the expression on his face change, the smile disappear. Concern – or something like it – crept into his eyes.
‘Oh. Shit.’
‘Indeed. Does that change things?’
‘John Farrell doesn’t think so.’
‘John Farrell’s an arsehole.’ Fenwick stared at him. ‘Sir.’
Fenwick seemed happy with that.
‘I just think we should be aware. If Adele Harrison’s body turns up and we haven’t done all we could have done…’ Phil left the threat hanging in the air. Fenwick stared at him, deciding whether Phil was trying to start a fight.
There was animosity between himself and his superior. Phil thought Fenwick insincere, two-faced. Paying lip service to progressive ideas, hiding his reactionary soul in management-speak so he could advance up the political police ladder. Mostly they managed to work together but occasionally there was conflict. Sometimes huge.
‘Just covering ourselves, sir,’ said Phil, using a phrase Fenwick would understand.
Fenwick nodded. ‘Covering. Yes. In case it does, you know…’ He made what Phil assumed was a thoughtful face. ‘Perhaps we should call in a profiler.’
‘Marina’s on maternity leave.’
‘Of course. Congratulations, by the way.’
Was there relief in Fenwick’s features? Phil had met Marina when she had been brought in to work a case with him as a profiler. Fenwick had shouted her down, humiliated her, derided her input. Then gone crawling to her afterwards when he realised that her help had been invaluable in bringing the case to a successful conclusion.
Fenwick then frowned, spoke as if arguing with himself. ‘But the expense… Budgets are already being cut, overtime slashed… Plus we don’t know for certain that this is a serial. Not yet.’
Phil said nothing, waited to see how Fenwick’s dialogue with himself played out.
He sighed, nodded. ‘I’ll make some calls,’ he said. ‘See what we can get. Still got contacts at the university. The hospital. And a lot of incoming officers are of the new breed, Phil. Trained in behavioural science and profiling. Much better able to make informed judgements. Might not be as expensive as we think, eh?’
‘Well, if you’re getting one we need them to start as soon as possible. And be good.’ Fenwick was still looking at him. ‘And cheap, of course. Sir.’
Fenwick narrowed his eyes, wary. Was Phil being cheeky again?
‘Covering ourselves, sir, remember?’
Fenwick, sensing no threat this time, agreed. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, time to be off. Early start tomorrow, briefing eight thirty. No overtime for now, but let’s see if the powers that be upgrade this case.’
They will if there’s another murder, thought Phil, but again didn’t voice it.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Fenwick, a slight glint in his eye,
‘what d’you think of your new team, Phil? Working out all right?’
Phil again kept his face blank. ‘OK so far. We’ll see.’
‘DS Martin comes highly recommended.’
‘You’d know more about that than me, sir.’
Fenwick reddened immediately, his mouth opened, about to say something, but he was too late.
Phil had already left the office.
27
Rose’s temper was flaming.
It was bad enough that Phil Brennan was punishing her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, but spending over a quarter of an hour driving up and down Greenstead Road trying to find a parking space just made it worse.
If it wasn’t permit parking it was double yellow lines. She could have just parked anywhere, flashed her warrant card and claimed official police business if hassled. Fine in theory, but it still didn’t make a space appear.
She eventually found one at the far end from where she wanted to be. Took a quick look at the notes, familiarised herself with the case, and, still fuming, set off to walk.
The houses on Greenstead Road were small. Red-brick terraces with minuscule gardens slabbed over for car parking. The only remaining greenery weeds poking between the cracks. From the lack of both upkeep and pride in the exteriors, most of the houses looked rented. Those that weren’t seemed to belong to people who were either starting out on the property ladder or whose progression had stalled.
Rose walked along to the far end of the road, the second to last house before a Chinese takeaway and a patch of waste ground. The day still held residual warmth as she pulled her top away from her chest, checked the address. The brickwork had been plastered over and painted a pale herb green, now darkened from road dirt. The windows were white casement, paint peeling, panes dirty. The front door, dark-stained with flaking varnish, led directly on to the pavement.
She raised her hand to knock but stopped as a sound ripped through the air. Like a car or burglar alarm turned up to eleven. The level crossing at the side of the road. The houses backed on to the main line to London. Lovely, thought Rose. And wished she wasn’t there.
Rose Martin was ambitious. She had made no secret of it. Married for two years to a solicitor and with a comfortable-sized Edwardian house in the Old Heath area of town, they had a good life. No kids – she was adamant – or at least not until her career had gone as far as she felt it could.
Her husband, Tim, was a good man. Dependable, honest, stoical. Taciturn, even. All manly traits she admired. And, yes, she loved him, sure. But that hadn’t stopped her having an affair with Ben Fenwick.
It had started, the way these things often do, with a few drinks after work. All the gang together, then the pair of them had got talking, found a spark, started to see each other separately. Before too long they were both telling their spouses they had to work late and booking hotel rooms where they could indulge in levels of lust that Rose found surprisingly animalistic but very cathartic.
The affair wasn’t anything she had thought about greatly. Just a mutual attraction acted upon. Easily compartmentalised and coped with. Ben had something that Tim hadn’t, provided her with something Tim couldn’t. She couldn’t specifically say what it was but it was fun finding out. But nothing serious, at least not as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to leave Tim and she didn’t want Ben to leave his wife and kids. Just a bit of fun. Filthy, flirty, secret fun. Well, possibly career-related. Ben was a DCI, two steps above her. And it was always handy to have someone higher up to be able to put in a good word for her, to help with advancement. She certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of having an affair with anyone ranked lower than her.
But now Phil Brennan knew about it. A higher ranking officer who seemed to be developing a grudge against her. Not good. He had leverage against her now and that could make him a threat. An affair like this could halt her progress if it was discovered. And she didn’t want that. She would have to tread carefully. Do something about him, even get something on him if she could. Or get Ben to.
But that was for tomorrow. She cleared all that from her mind, concentrated on the job in hand. Waited for the noise of the level crossing and the train passing to subsist, then knocked on the door.
No reply. She knocked again.
Eventually she heard someone making their way to the door. It opened. A man stood there, tall, dark, greasy, messed-up hair, young. He wore a T-shirt with a logo on that Rose didn’t recognise or understand, jeans, glasses. His eyes behind the glasses were red-rimmed, like he had been staring at a screen for too long. He blinked at her. Said nothing. Like voice production involved a different part of the brain to the one he’d been using.
‘Mark Turner?’
He nodded.
She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Martin. Can I come in?’
Mark Turner blinked again. Eyes narrowing, focusing, as if understanding that something was catching up with him. ‘What?’
