‘What the fuck just happened here?’ Fenwick’s voice low, angry.
Phil shook his head.
‘Where was the risk assessment? Why wasn’t this flagged up? Why didn’t you do that?’
Anger was still swirling around inside Phil, looking for an outlet. It had just found it. ‘Me? This is all my fault, is it?’
‘You interviewed him.’
‘You observed.’
‘Yes,’ said Fenwick, finger jabbing in Phil’s face. ‘And I said you didn’t look up to it. You were off your game in there, not thinking for yourself, doing whatever she told you too.’
Phil’s anger jumped up a gear. ‘Don’t make out this is my fault. Don’t you try and make me take the blame for this.’
‘Whose fault is it, then? That profiler’s?’ Fenwick sneered. ‘We all know you do whatever a profiler tells you, don’t we? She the next in line?’
Phil couldn’t stop himself. His fist was coming towards Fenwick’s face before his brain had a chance to stop it.
It connected. Fenwick’s head snapped back and round, taking his body with it. His legs went too, tangling and tripping over each other, taking Fenwick to the floor.
He lay there, looking up at Phil who just stared down at his superior officer. Shocked, stunned and amazed at what he had just done. His mouth was open, flapping with words that wouldn’t emerge.
Fenwick’s hand went to his mouth where Phil’s fist had broken the skin, blood pooling there. He stared upwards, as shocked as Phil was.
Anni appeared in the hall behind Phil. ‘Boss-’ She stopped dead at the scene before her.
Phil, aware that she was there, put his arm out to help Fenwick to his feet. Fenwick accepted.
‘It’s all right, Anni,’ said Phil. ‘Everything’s OK.’
Fenwick made it to his feet, staggering slightly. Phil couldn’t meet his gaze, turned to Anni.
‘Yes.’
‘I, uh, just wanted to tell you that the Super’s on his way. From Chelmsford. Said he wants to speak to you.’
‘Thanks, Anni.’
She looked between the two men, wide-eyed, then turned and rejoined the rest of the team in front of the cell door.
Phil looked at Fenwick. ‘Sorry,’ he said, eyes hitting the floor.
Fenwick nodded.
‘I’ll go.’ Phil turned to walk away.
‘Wait.’
Phil turned. Fenwick was still rubbing his jaw. Mouth working, trying to find words that wouldn’t come easily.
‘Go and lead your team. We’ll deal with this later.’
Phil nodded, turned, walked away.
He rounded the corner, back to where everyone else was. The paramedics were taking Anthony Howe out on a stretcher. Fiona Welch was still staring, fascinated, as his body went past her.
‘Fiona,’ said Phil, ‘geographic victim profile. Can you do that?’
She looked up at him. ‘Of course I can.’
‘Then do it, please.’ He looked at the rest of the team. ‘Right, upstairs. Back to work. It’s our job to make sure there aren’t any more deaths. Come on, excitement over.’
He turned, walked away. Thinking about what Fenwick had said, that this mess was all his fault.
Thinking that he might be right.
59
Phil was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Mickey walked back up the stairs to the bar along with the rest of the team. With a day of looking through vehicle registrations to come, that phrase went doubly for him.
He bumped into Anni. She looked up, startled.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘miles away.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Mickey. ‘What just happened…’
She looked sharply at him. ‘You saw-’ Her features changed. ‘Oh. Right. Yeah.’
They walked together in silence.
‘Look,’ said Mickey.
A ghost of a smile played round Anni’s lips. ‘Is this going to be an “about last night” thing? Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’ Even as he spoke he felt himself reddening. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
She gave him a quick look, eyes mischievous. ‘What way did you mean it, then?’
He glanced round, seeing who was listening. Jane Gosling was right behind him, behind her Rose Martin and Ben Fenwick, deep in conversation, Rose’s face angry.
‘Not here,’ he said.
‘Man of mystery,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Giving me a key to your house of secrets then, are you?’
Mickey sighed, shook his head. He thought he could trust Anni. Out of all of the team she seemed the most approachable, the one with less of an agenda, the most honest.
They reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner. Anni put a hand on his arm. He stopped, turned.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just winding you up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go out, follow up those client list leads of Suzanne and Zoe’s from the hospital. But I’ll be around later.’ She smiled again. ‘Or you could phone me.’
Fiona Welch came past, walking double time, self-importantly, like she was in an episode of
‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said and turned, went back to the bar.
Hoping he wasn’t blushing too much.
He reached his desk, sat down. Sighed. Looked round. Fiona Welch was at her desk on the other side of the room, looking at her screen, energised, lips moving in a dialogue only she could hear.
He just might give Anni a ring.
He looked at his own screen, at the scrolling numbers, the lists. Knowing in theory why his work was so important but wishing there was a more exciting way to do it.
Fiona Welch laughed to herself, went on staring at the screen.
He hoped the thing he wanted to talk to Anni about would keep, hoped he was right.
But hoped more that he wasn’t.
60
Anni stood on the doorstep and rang the bell.
The house was way out in Coggeshall, one of the most photogenic villages on Essex. Anni had always had a problem with the place and others like it, though. Because its main street and offshoots consisted of the kind of old, beamed, uneven houses, thatched roofs, Regency-windowed pubs and quaint, red-brick cottages that spoke of a certain kind of intractable tradition and held a natural attraction to a certain kind of reactionary mindset, being black, female and a non-
