“I need urgent oral authority to commence covert surveillance on an address in Vicarage Lane, E15. It’s a squat where Angela Marley lives. She’s been identified as the suspect who was dressed as a nurse.” An image of her sailing across the hall to the theme of Superman flashed into his head unbidden.
“Why not just send an arrest team around to scoop her up?” Holland asked.
“The problem with doing that is that we don’t know if and when she’s going to be there. At the moment, she doesn’t know that we’ve identified her, but if we rock up and she’s not inside, word will spread like wildfire and she’ll go to ground, plus our mysterious doctor will undoubtedly hear about it and do likewise.”
Holland considered this. “Very well, but get the paperwork over to me ASAP, and in light of Andy being indisposed, I suppose you’d better join me for the press conference at Whitechapel.”
“Press conference?” That stopped Jack in his tracks. “What bloody press conference?”
“The one that starts at 6 p.m. You’ve just about got enough time to get here if you pull your finger out.”
◆◆◆
The interviews with Mullings were finally over; all the evidence had been put to him in the presence of his orange-faced solicitor. Predictably, the churlish getaway driver had mostly no commented every question they’d asked him, even the innocuous one about whether he’d enjoyed his MacDonald’s.
It had been decided that they would grant him technical bail in relation to the murder to avoid putting themselves under undue pressure. After conferring with Jack Tyler – it hadn’t been an easy conversation, what with the car’s two-tones blaring in the background as he was whisked across East London for a press conference that he was unlikely to make in time – Susie had broken the news to Mullings.
“So why can’t I go home then, if I’m being bailed?” he’d demanded.
“Oh, go on then, as you’ve asked so nicely,” Murray told him.
Gifford Mullings could hardly believe his ears. “Really?” he asked, suddenly all smiles.
“Of course not, you moron,” Murray said harshly. “We’ve already explained this to you several times. You’ve been charged with TDA and possession of Class A drugs with intent to supply. You have a nasty habit of skipping bail when it’s granted. You’re a flight risk and an idiot.”
“I’m pretty sure being an idiot isn’t a good reason to oppose bail,” the custody sergeant, who had been eavesdropping, chipped in.
“Exactly,” Mullings said triumphantly. “You can’t refuse me bail just cause I’m stupid, innit.”
Susie sighed in exasperation. “Gifford, your solicitor will explain it to you before he leaves, but the long and short of the story is you’re going to be staying here overnight and then you will be taken to the Magistrates Court tomorrow morning.”
“Where I’ll get bail?” he asked.
“No!” Murray snapped in exasperation.
“Why not?” Mullings demanded.
Murray looked like he was in danger of punching the prisoner.
Susie Sergeant placed a restraining hand on his scrawny arm and turned to Clarke. “As soon as a formal charging decision is made regarding the murder, we’ll let you know,” she said.
Clarke scowled at her. “Reading between the lines, it seems to me that you’ve already made up your minds to charge my client,” he said. “Even though it’s blatantly obvious that the only thing he’s guilty of is making some poor choices about who he befriends.”
Susie smiled, disarmingly. “Not my decision to make,” she said, although there was no doubt in her mind that he would be charged with the Joint Enterprise murder.
“He’s guilty of making a poor choice in solicitors too,” Murray whispered in Susie’s ear just loudly enough for Clarke to hear.
Leaving the solicitor to have a final consultation with his client, Susie and Murray retired to the small CID office they’d purloined and gathered up their belongings. Susie tried to call Tyler back, but his phone had been switched off. She was tired and hungry, and couldn’t wait to put her feet up for a few minutes. Not that there was any danger of that happening for a while. When they got back to Arbour Square, they still had all the custody paperwork to tidy up and submit to the MIR.
They returned to the custody suite fifteen minutes later in order to thank the custody sergeant for his assistance and leave a contact number in case there were any issues overnight.
“Is Mr Clarke still in with his client?” Susie asked.
The custody sergeant shook his head. “Left a few minutes ago. Couldn’t wait to get out of here from the look on his face. Mullings was still asking why he couldn’t have bail when he was taken down to the cells.”
They made their way out to the front office and were just about to leave when Oliver Clarke stormed through the door, holding his right hand out in front of him as though it were infected with something horribly contagious.
“Bastards,” he seethed. “Bloody animals!”
Susie walked over to him, curious. “Is anything the matter, Mr Clarke?” she asked, looking down at his hand, which was covered in a thick brown substance. And then she caught a whiff of it and recoiled. “Is that shit on your hand?” she asked, horrified.
“Yes, it bloody well is,” Clarke fumed, his face contorted with rage. “Some horrible little oik has smeared dog shit all over the door handle of my beautiful Jag. When I went to open it – well, look. It’s everywhere.”
Susie had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling. It was undoubtedly a prank by local yobs who were jealous of someone having a big flash car, but he was such a smug bastard that she couldn’t help but be pleased by his reaction.
“Do you want to make a report of criminal damage?” she asked. “I can get the station officer to take it if you do.”
“What’s the bloody point?”
