Dillon had stood down the TSU signal detector van and the SO19 SFO team. Without a location for the suspects, or at least an idea of the general area they were in, both were redundant.
Kelly was going to spend the night at Jack’s, and Dillon had offered to drop them off and pick them up again in the morning to save tying up two pool cars. As they settled in for the journey home, Jack seemed unusually morose.
“Cheer up mate, it might never happen,” Dillon said.
Jack’s face said that it already had.
“I really thought we’d get them tonight,” he said miserably. He was silent for a few moments as he stewed the situation over in his mind. “Do you think that girl who rang in deliberately sold us duff info to buy them time?” Tyler asked, referring to Jenna Marsh’s phone call.
Dillon shook his head. “No, I think she was genuine,” he said.
When he spoke, Jack sounded deflated. “Me too, so why did they leave so early? I just don’t understand it.”
“Me neither,” Dillon admitted, “but it is what it is and we just have to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”
“Even if Winston does get away,” Kelly said, reaching forward from the back seat to squeeze Tyler’s right shoulder consolingly, “we’ve still got enough evidence to charge Garston and Marley with a joint enterprise murder, and this Rodney boy with assisting an offender.”
“Kelly, darling, that really doesn’t feel like much of a consolation at this moment in time, if I’m honest,” Jack said, placing his left hand over her right.
“I know,” she soothed, “but wherever Winston eventually ends up, we can always apply for an extradition warrant, so I’m sure we’ll get him before the court eventually.”
Jack twisted around and smiled. “That’s one of the many things I like about you, you’re ever the optimist.”
Dillon tried to lighten the mood by talking about football. “I can get us tickets if you fancy a trip to Highbury this weekend,” he said enthusiastically. The Gunners were due to play Sunderland. “Maybe you could bring young Kelly here along and broaden her horizons.”
Kelly grimaced. “You must be kidding, Tony. I’d rather watch paint dry.”
“Let’s take a quick drive past Star Lane on the way home,” Tyler said on a whim.
“What?” Dillon and Kelly blurted out in perfect unison.
“I said, let’s –”
“I bloody well heard what you said,” Dillon interrupted him. “But why would you want to do that? It’s getting on for twenty past eleven now, and we’ve got to be back in for an eight o’clock meeting, which means you’ll want to be at the office by seven-thirty, which means I’ve got to get up at stupid o’clock to collect you, and you’re going to be in a shit awful mood, and –”
“Dill,” Jack said firmly. “The quicker you get us there, the quicker we get home.”
Dillon looked at Kelly in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t just sit there,” he pleaded, “tell him it’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Don’t drag me into this,” she said quickly. Like everyone else on the team, she knew that when these two started arguing like an old married couple, as they were prone to do from time to time, the best thing to do was stay out of it.
“Fine,” Dillon snapped, swinging the wheel around to set them on a new course, “but I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve, other than making us all feel even more tired and cranky than we already do.”
Jack said nothing. He didn’t have a clue what he was hoping to achieve by taking a detour to Star Lane either, but he felt compelled to do so. Quite often, Tyler liked to spend a few minutes alone at a scene, just soaking up the atmosphere. It didn’t always work, but sometimes it gave him a sense of what had happened and a feeling for the killer. It was almost as if he was subliminally tuning into his quarry’s mind, or perhaps it was more akin to a hunter getting a scent. Maybe, he admitted to himself, that was why he was being drawn to the flat now, because of some weird primal urge. He knew that if he tried to explain that to Dillon, the big man would say it was all poppycock, and that he was just a tired man grasping at straws. Maybe he was right?
They drove in silence, which was a sure sign that Dillon was sulking; he was never that quiet for that long. As they came off the A13 at the Barking flyover, they caught a red light. Dillon pulled up the handbrake with a huff and turned to address Jack for the first time in ages. “This is such a waste of time,” he said belligerently. “If he was on a promise tonight,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Kelly, “I really hope that you’ll tell him that ship has well and truly sailed.”
“Dill!” Jack exclaimed, but Kelly just laughed.
A battered red car pulled up next to them, screeching to a halt in typical boy racer style. A dreadful racket was coming from its sound system and, almost immediately, the Astra’s chassis began to pulse in time to the bass.
“For fuck sake!” Dillon said, glaring angrily at the hatchback. He couldn’t see inside due to a combination of tinted windows and condensation, but he figured there had to be at least four people in it.
“Turn that bloody racket down,” he yelled, not that there was the slightest chance of them hearing him over the blare of the garage music that was being pumped out.
As soon as the lights started to change, the red car accelerated away with a wheelspin, leaving a frustrated Dillon staring at a plume of exhaust fumes.
“Er, boys,” Kelly
