That was a pity. After the office meeting, Reg Parker had managed to install an update that had allowed them to play the CCTV they had retrieved from the hospital. With nothing more constructive to do, Jack had stood over his shoulder as he forwarded through it to make sure it all played oaky. He had seen most of the compilation footage that Reggie had burned off for Susie Sergeant to play the getaway driver, Mullings, during the interview, and he had noticed that the woman either had her back to the camera or her mask on in all the close-range shots. Although there was some footage of her facing towards the camera from afar, it was a bit grainy, and he wasn’t overly confident that anyone would to be able to identify her from it.
“I hope you completed first description booklets for each suspect while you were there,” Tyler said.
Bull made a point of tutting loudly to demonstrate his disappointment that Tyler had felt the need to ask such a stupid question. “WELL…DUH!” he said indignantly, and Jack grinned as he pictured him rolling his eyes theatrically.
“And I don’t mind telling you that I had to risk life and limb to get them,” Bull said pointedly. “Honestly, the ward sister was a right old dragon. She only allowed me fifteen minutes with Myers, but I hadn’t filled the forms in by that point so I refused to leave until I had. She threw a proper tantrum, and at one point I thought she was going to drag me out by the scruff of my neck.”
Tyler laughed. “She sounds pretty scary,” he agreed.
“Scary? I’m not kidding you, if Errol Heston had gone after her yesterday, instead of Melissa Smails, she would probably have ripped both of his arms off and then beaten him to death with them!”
“I’m sure you were very brave in the face of great adversity,” Jack said with a chuckle, “but I don’t think it quite merits a Commissioner’s Commendation, do you?”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d seen her,” Bull said, also laughing.
As soon as the call finished, Tyler grabbed the brief notes he’d taken and made his way along the corridor to Andy Quinlan’s office.
Arbour Square was virtually deserted now that all the other teams had migrated to their new base of operations at Hertford House, a building within a gated complex in Barking that was formerly owned by the Gas Board. It was to be the new home of the Homicide Command’s East London satellite, or SO1(3) to use its departmental title. Placing homicide investigations under the purview of Specialist Operations, and making them a pan London Command instead of area-based, as Area Major Investigation Pools were, had come about following the recommendations of the MacPherson Report published the previous year. The budgeted workforce total – or BWT – for the command was also being drastically increased and recruitment had already begun to strengthen the teams.
Jack had already visited his new office on the building’s first floor; it was modern and spacious, and it even had air conditioning. He had no doubts that it would be a great place from which to run major enquiries.
As bastions of the old guard, his and Andy Quinlan’s teams had been left behind to man the fort until the new facility was up and running. All things being equal, they were due to join their colleagues at Hertford House before the end of the month, at which point Arbour Square, with all its magnificent history, would be closed down.
Rumour had it that the site was to be sold off for development and that the cells that had once held the infamous Kray twins and suspected Provisional Irish Republican Army terrorists would be turned into trendy flats for yuppies.
He gave a quick rap on Andy’s door and walked in without waiting for an invite. “Fancy popping out to grab a bite to eat?” he asked. It was almost one o’clock and he was starving.
Quinlan was hunched over his desk, pen scribbling frantically as he added the latest entry to his decision log. The room was so stifling hot and stuffy that Jack was surprised Andy’s glasses hadn’t started to steam up.
“Greetings!” Quinlan said, lowering his pen. Although in his late forties, his boyish smile made him appear much younger. Running a hand through the mop of black curly hair atop his head, he stood up and strode over to a percolator on the filing cabinet next to the door.
“Haven’t got time, I’m afraid, but let me make you a cup of coffee instead.”
“Go on then. White, two sugars,” Jack told him, taking a seat opposite his desk. “It’s like a bloody sauna in here,” he complained. “You need to open a window.”
“Can’t,” Quinlan explained ruefully. “It’s stuck, and as we’re moving out shortly, maintenance won’t send anyone along to fix it.”
While Andy did the honours, preparing the coffee, Jack updated him on the news from Newham General.
“That’s very interesting indeed,” Quinlan said, returning to his desk and handing Jack a freshly prepared brew. “I’ll get the Intel Cell straight onto it.”
“Hopefully, there’ll be a clear connection to Winston and his nephew on the system,” Jack said. “And this Rodent character has to be local. With a bit of luck, he’ll be easy to identify.”
“Let’s hope so,” Quinlan said. “Actually, I’ve had a positive development, too.” He reached into his second drawer and pulled out a prepacked sandwich. “You don’t mind if I stuff this down my neck as we speak, do you? Only I’m Hank Marvin!”
Jack smiled inwardly. Like Dick Jarvis, Andy Quinlan was terribly well-spoken, and expressions like Hank Marvin – Cockney rhyming slang for starving – just didn’t sound natural coming from him.
“Knock yourself out,” he said. He knew what it was like when you were in the early stages of a job and had to eat what you could when you could. He watched as Quinlan eagerly tore
