Charlie gave him a stern look out of the corner of his eye that seemed to say: don’t ask her questions like that in case she changes her mind.
Charlie needn’t have worried. True to her word, Sandra co-operated fully, telling them everything she knew and everything that she suspected about Claude Winston and his illegal activities. She gave them a detailed description of his car, of the various places he frequented and the people he mixed with. Unfortunately, she didn’t know where he lived, which was a minor disappointment but not an insurmountable hurdle. They were confident that a man like Winston would be in the system somewhere. At least they had a name and a description to work with.
Having obtained the Duty Officer’s authority to deal with the drugs by way of an adult caution, they escorted Sandra Dawson out of the station just as dawn was breaking.
The sky was battleship grey, which didn’t bode well for the coming day. Despite a biting wind, the birds in the park opposite were chirping away happily.
With nothing left to say, the three endured an awkward silence together until Dawson’s mini-cab arrived and they waved her off.
As they crossed the rear yard to their car a few minutes later, Charlie White turned to Bull, a satisfied look on his bent-nosed face. “You do realise that when the boss finds out what we’ve achieved by nicking her we’ll both be heroes. Less than a day into the job and we’ve already identified the killer. Not bad going, eh, Stevie?” Charlie was feeling immensely pleased with himself.
“We?” Steve said icily. “Let’s have less of the ‘we’ if you don’t mind, Whitey. I nicked her, not ‘we’. You said so yourself, remember?” Steve Bull gave him a bittersweet smile while thinking, up yours an’ all mate!
“Cheers very much,” Charlie said as his shoulders sagged. “I guess I had that coming.”
“Yep. Felt good too.”
CHAPTER 8
Monday 1st November 1999
The sky above Arbour Square was grey and foreboding and heavy showers were forecast to arrive by mid-morning as an easterly wind blew the storm front ever closer.
It was day two of the enquiry, and the office was already buzzing when Tyler and Dillon walked in, just after half seven that morning. Jack, clean shaven today, felt like shit, but five hours of sleep had fully recharged Dillon, and he was being annoyingly loud.
Tyler nodded at a steady stream of familiar faces as they passed through the main office.
Staff from his Major Incident Room staff fussed over an untidy assortment of statements, messages, and actions that had been brought back the day before, trying to put them into some semblance of order so that they could be inputted onto HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System that was used nationally to run all murders – after the meeting. DC Evans was booking in the CCTV he had seized the previous day. Kelly Flowers sat alone, frantically writing up her FLO log. Charlie White looked dog tired; he had managed to doze at his desk for an hour or so after getting back from Whitechapel, and his shirt – the same one he’d had on yesterday – was now criss-crossed with creases.
Nick Bartholomew and Terry Grier were also there, the latter looking uncomfortable in plain clothes. The two local officers stood up respectfully as he approached. Jack nodded a tired acknowledgement and told them to help themselves to coffee.
Dillon glared malevolently at Kevin Murray, who did his best to avoid eye contact.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot. There was bad blood between the two, stemming from an investigation that had gone sour when Dillon had been Murray’s supervisor back on division. Papers relating to a six-figure fraud that potentially implicated a prominent local businessman and several councillors had mysteriously disappeared, and although he had never been able to prove it, Dillon suspected that Murray had been offered a financial incentive to misplace them. Complaints had tried their hardest to find someone – anyone – to blame, but nothing had ever been proven.
Jack shrugged. “He was on the HAT car when it responded to the call. He’s here for the formal handover, I guess,” he said as they entered his office.
“Jack, I know you’ve asked Holland for some troops from other teams, but please tell me you didn’t ask for him,” Dillon said.
“No way,” Tyler reassured his friend. But it occurred to him that he hadn’t specifically said he didn’t want Murray either.
There was a rap on the glass door, and Bull stepped in without waiting to be invited. “I’ve got an important update from last night,” he told them, but, before he could give it, Tyler’s phone went. He held up his hand, indicating for Steve to be quiet while he answered it. After a brief conversation, which from the tone of his voice the other two realised was with Holland, Jack hung up, looking thoughtful. “It’ll have to wait a little while, Steve. I’ve just been summoned to the boss’s office. Spread the word that the meeting will have to be put back half hour or so.”
◆◆◆
Although DCS Holland was primarily based at the Yard, he also kept an office at Arbour Square.
Jack knocked on the door, which was ajar, and waited to be called in. Holland was standing behind his desk putting his tie on as Jack entered. He indicated a percolator on the window ledge. “Pour me a brew while I sort myself out, please, Jack. Have one yourself if you want.”
Tyler declined the offer, but poured one for his boss and then sat quietly while the older man scribbled a few notes in a day book.
When Holland finished writing he took a sip of the fresh Columbian coffee. “I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner on the phone this morning. Needless to say, he wants a quick result. Have you seen the papers yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“They haven’t made too much out
