Dillon dry washed his face and swallowed hard. He was starting to feel sick with anticipation. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Pat,” he confessed. He was aware of Cummings and Reed standing close beside him, their faces etched with worry.
“Yeah, me too,” Connors said quietly. “What did your gov’nor say when you called him?”
“Jack? I haven’t been able to reach him yet.”
Both men stared at the radio in the Trojan officer’s hand, willing it to end the painful suspense and put them out of their misery.
“Come on, come on…” Dillon whispered under his breath. Not for the first time, he prayed that no one else would get hurt today.
Chapter 10
Detective Chief Superintendent George Holland stood in the doorway of the hospital room, looking down at the unmoving form on the bed with great sadness. He was a middle-aged man with fair hair and a craggy, unreadable face. Underneath the white coveralls, he wore his customary dark suit and red braces, and his burgundy tie and pocket handkerchief matched perfectly.
After a quick word with Steve Bull and the Crime Scene Manager, a petite blonde called Juliet Kennedy, he emerged from the room and walked a short distance over to where Ray Speed stood. Speed was engaged in a subdued conversation with a uniformed colleague whose face appeared numb with shock.
The newcomer’s name was Russel Percival, and he was the operations Chief Inspector from Forest Gate division, where the deceased officer had been based. Percival was a weak chinned man in his early fifties, and he had the soft-centred look of someone who had spent most of his career avoiding any form of confrontation.
Holland knew the type only too well, and he suspected that Percival was a shiny arse who had spent most of his career hopping from one administrative role to another, polishing a succession of comfy chairs with his posterior. To Holland’s surprise, he asked to be admitted to the room so that he could see Winston’s butchery for himself, but this was a crime scene now, so Holland refused him access.
“How well did you know PC Morrison?” Holland asked as he slipped out of the plastic overshoes to reveal a pair of black Oxfords that were so shiny, they would have impressed a drill sergeant.
“Not well, sir,” Percival replied, “but, by all accounts, he was a very good officer.”
Percival’s proximity to the murder scene was clearly making him uncomfortable, so as soon as Holland removed the white Tyvek coveralls, he steered the man further along the corridor to spare him from having to listen to the Crime Scene Manager and Steve Bull discussing the logistics of body removal and the timescales for getting the special post mortem arranged.
On first impressions, Percival seemed far too timid to be a cop, but Holland cut him some slack as this was clearly the first murder scene he had ever attended. He knew the man would be going through inner turmoil, battling against intense emotions that hampered the ability to remain calm and process information with detached professionalism.
It was never easy to separate oneself from the inevitable anger and frustration that occurred after a colleague had been killed, or to banish the overwhelming desire for revenge and focus purely on getting the job done. This was especially true when the perpetrator had escaped and was still free, seemingly laughing in the face of justice and decency.
Inevitably, Holland found himself wondering about the people that Morrison was leaving behind, the people he had loved and shared experiences with.
Was he married?
Did he have children?
Regardless, he was still a mother’s son, and a grieving family would now have to cope with the unimaginable pain and loss of a sudden bereavement. Holland had attended so many similar scenes over the years that he had become all but immune to them, although he still remembered his first murder scene, when he had reacted in much the same way that Percival was reacting now. The main difference between them was that he had been a probationer at the time, not a Chief bloody Inspector.
Holland placed a gentle hand on Percival’s shoulder and was surprised to feel the man flinch at the contact. “Look, Russ, there’s nothing more you can do here,” he said. “The two PCs who were with Morrison are still out for the count, so you might as well head back over to Forest Gate.”
Percival stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before nodding slowly, and it was obvious that he was struggling to get a grip. “Yes, yes, I think you’re probably right,” he said, sounding a little punch-drunk.
The cynic in Holland suspected that Percival couldn’t wait to get away from the ugly chaos of the hospital and return to the safe familiarity of his cosy office.
“I’ll need to arrange for Occupational Health to be called out.”
“Why would you want OH called out?” Holland asked, staring at him quizzically.
Percival started to get flustered. “W-well…” he stammered, and then ran a finger around the inside of his collar, as if it had suddenly become too tight, “I - er – I think the officers on Morrison’s relief ought to be given an opportunity to speak to an OH advisor before coming on duty tomorrow, don’t you?”
Holland’s lips compressed into a thin angry line. In his day, people just got on with life; nowadays, they couldn’t even tie their bloody shoelaces without receiving input from some quack spouting a load of meaningless psychobabble. When he spoke, Holland’s tone was harsh. “Russell, before you get yourself too caught up in all that OH crap, can I trouble you to make the necessary arrangements to inform PC Morrison’s next of kin?”
Percival’s already harried face blanched. “Of course, sir,” he said, somewhat hesitantly, “unless you’d rather have one of your chaps do it?” There was an imploring look in his eyes as he asked the question.
“I wouldn’t,” Holland said, staring
