he called the PCU’s Crime Scene Manager with their location. “What the hell could he have done to make someone want to saw his head off? It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
“He might have surprised a burglary in progress,” suggested Longbright.
“You’re joking, aren’t you? Take a look at this place, Janice.” He pointed up at the peeling stucco and dirt- crusted windows. “Can you see the signs of wealth that would attract a burglar to a dump like this? Besides, what kind of burglar arranges everything on the floor in neat little piles?”
“Maybe he did that because he didn’t want to make a noise. You heard what she said about the floorboards.”
“You’re not suggesting Delaney did it himself?”
“Perhaps he lost something and was desperate to find it.”
“So he slashes open his own sofa cushions and even empties out the kitchen flour jar? I thought you PCUers were supposed to come up with stuff that would never cross the minds of us lowly Metropolitan plods.”
Janice smiled. “You’re PCU too now, remember.”
“Yeah, and you were Met once. You know what we’re like. Fair-minded, decent, but not always the sharpest knives in the drawer. And rough as guts, as you’re so fond of reminding us.”
Longbright remembered. If the Met coppers were blunt-edged it was because they had to be. You could only clean vomit off your trousers and return a runaway kid to its drugged-up parents so many times before you started wanting to smack someone or throw them in prison. And when you found yourself arresting the grandchildren of the men and women you were arresting at the start of your career, it was time to get out.
Renfield shot her a sly look. “Of course, I only switched sides because I thought it might give me a chance with you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Don’t use a double positive to suggest a negative – it makes you sound like a teenager.”
Longbright raised an eyebrow. If there was one thing everyone knew about Renfield, it was that he had no sense of humour. Had he just made a joke? Wonders would never cease. “If you’re going to keep flirting with me, Jack,” she cautioned him, “you’d damn well better mean it.”
“Oh, I mean it all right.” He caught her gaze and held it until she broke away.
“We used to make fun of you all the time. I mean, when you were with the Met.” She always felt it was best to be honest. “We thought being a desk sergeant all those years had got to you. We knew we could tease you about your name, because you’d never read Bram Stoker’s
“Yeah, well, I’ve read it now. I don’t think I’m quite the same bloke anymore. The Met feels a long way behind me.”
“I know what you mean.” Longbright smiled at the thought. “I think of those long nights collating records, avoiding male attention, doing my fitness training for postings on the Territorial Support Group, then drinking bottles of whisky left in the CID offices. I did a lot of ops for TSG, surveillance jobs lying on my stomach among the corpses of pigeons on the flat roof of some windy council block, peeping over the side of what seemed to be a cliff, looking down on some estate agent’s about to be robbed or watching some dozy drug dealer do business from his house. Not the best way to spend your life. The smell of bird shit cleared my sinuses, though. I never had a problem staying detached – I think we all had a good sense of black humour – but the work got to me at times. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed being operational. I still love pulling down a long shift. But John and Mr Bryant were my salvation.”
“Some of the riots were bad,” said Renfield. “I remember a lot of West End officers got hurt after an anti- capitalist clash in Oxford Street – they were sitting around the yard in bloody bandages, deathly quiet; it was like a field hospital. And the commissioner came round in plainclothes with his Personal Protection Officers, like some general inspecting the troops. I think one of the PPOs told him they wouldn’t be able to protect him, ‘cause they all turned tail and walked out in the street. The Met took the fall for that particular outbreak of civil unrest, but it was really the economy that was the cause. I don’t want to see that happen again.”
It was the longest speech she had ever heard from Renfield. The sergeant had made an error of judgement in the course of his duty that had ultimately cost a life, and knew he would have to live with the mistake forever. He had been appointed a therapist, and although he had only recently started attending sessions, Longbright could already see he was changing.
“Anyway, we talked about you as well,” he told Longbright. “We had a nickname for you at the station.”
“You did? What was it?”
“Frostyknickers.”
“Oh, cheers.”
“But I always liked you.”
“I can’t think why.”
“You’re strong. There’s something real about you, sort of sturdy – ” Renfield broke off.
“
“Solid, then.”
“You’re digging a hole for yourself.”
“You know –
“If you’re going to call me a rough diamond I’ll clout you.”
“No. You’re more of a pearl than a diamond.” Renfield did not realise that he was almost endearing when he was being honest. “There’s a soft lustre about you.” He looked embarrassed now.
Longbright broke the awkwardness between them. “Jack, listen, one of us should stay here and wait for Dan.”
“Why, where’s the other one going?”
Longbright held up the laminated ID card. “Highbury. Got a coin?”
Renfield flicked the ten-pence piece and slapped it on his wrist. “You call.”
“Tails.”
“Tails it is.”
“I’ll go. I could do with the exercise.” Longbright turned up her collar and stepped out into gently sifting rain.
? Bryant & May on the Loose ?
22
Ghosts of Violence
As soon as Longbright was on her way, Renfield called Leslie Faraday to inform him of the day’s events. He was ashamed about having to sneak behind the Detective Sergeant’s back, and wondered how many days he would manage to avoid giving the Home Office any useful information.
Renfield struggled with his conscience. He knew how much trouble he could make for the PCU, but was
