‘I’ll work on the DCI,’ Sara said.
Keith smiled back at her but said nothing. What he wanted to say would have broken every rule in the book of political correctness. He was certain she would get permission.
***
‘If it’s vital,’ Bob Marshall said. As usual everyone, including Sean and Keith, was in the office late. It was past nine, and Sara needed two more hours before she had completed all the paperwork. The one unfortunate aspect of policing was the need for reporting. It wasn’t that she was not good at it, as she was, but there was a murder enquiry, and sitting in the office filling in reports for senior management to survey briefly, and then file in the box of disinterest, did not excite her.
However, a deranged woman interested them more than usual. It was not the first time that a psychotic individual had been on the loose, and each time it raised interest in the media. Their interest ebbed and flowed depending on local and international events – a terrorist attack in the Middle East, an election somewhere else – but the death of Gregory Chalmers continued to appear on the internet and the television news programmes.
Bob had been asked to bring in additional help, but he was still holding firm against a recommendation from Detective Superintendent Rowsome to do it now.
‘On your head,’ he had said. ‘I’ve made my recommendation. If this goes pear-shaped, then it will protect me. If you don’t follow through, don’t blame me if you find yourself back on the street in uniform.’
Bob Marshall recognised the threat. He had had little respect for Rowsome before; now, he had none. As far as he was concerned, Sara was doing fine, even Keith Greenstreet had admitted that to him, and he was not a man known for his benevolence to a fellow police officer.
The detective chief inspector had argued the case with his detective superintendent, put him off for the present, but he could only afford to give Sara another week at most. Then, girlfriend or not, he was going to have to pull her off the case, or at least, out of the senior officer’s chair. He considered Keith Greenstreet, but he was slowing down. It would have to be someone from another station. If Sara wanted Keith up north, then she would have his permission.
‘You’ve got your permission,’ Sara said. Keith was wrapping up for the evening; more likely falling asleep in his chair.
‘Don’t expect me in the office tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Surprised he gave in so quickly.’
‘DCI Marshall is under pressure for us to give him a result,’ Sara said.
‘Is that it?’ A grin spread across Keith Greenstreet’s face.
‘Keith, wash your mouth out.’
‘Late night bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘I’ll forgive you if you come back with a result. What’s the plan?’
‘Check with a DI there, my age.’
‘Retirement age, is that it?’ Sara touched on a sensitive subject. He had had some humour at her expense; she was only returning it.
He did not like being reminded of the subject but accepted her comment gracefully. ‘Put out to pasture, more like.’
Sean walked out with Keith. He still had another two hours’ study at home, part of the requirements for his Master’s degree. He was not being put out to pasture; he was only on the first rung of the promotion ladder. He had charted his course: DI in four years, DCI in six. After that, armed with a Master’s degree and the experience in Homicide, he knew he could make detective chief superintendent within ten.
Ambitious he realised, but he was determined, and failure was not part of his vocabulary.
Apart from the studying at home, his girlfriend was always supportive, but becoming tired of the lack of attention she was threatening to move out. Sean thought she wouldn’t, hoped she wouldn’t, but sacrifices had to be made. She wanted marriage, children, and a house in the suburbs, and that needed money, especially the house, as house prices in London were going through the roof. He could barely manage the payments on a two-bedroom apartment, and it was nothing special. Even a DI could not afford the house she wanted, and he only knew one way to circumvent the slow progress to senior management, and that was hard work, lots of it.
He knew that he was up to the challenge. He only hoped his girlfriend was as well.
Sara stayed for another hour, as did Bob. With no one else in the office, their approach to each other was less formal. Once, when everyone else had gone home, they had made love in his office.
Sara was feeling the tension of the case, as was Bob, and both realised there was every possibility of a zero result.
History of previous cases had shown that paranoid schizophrenics were unpredictable, especially if they were killers. Sometimes, for no explicable reason, they would snap, commit murder, calm down, and then regain their position in society. Nor did they fit the characteristic criminal mould. They could be council workers, lawyers, professionals, even police officers, although that seemed unlikely given the rigorous scrutiny that the police went through on joining and during their career.
Chapter 7
Keith met Detective Inspector Rory Hewitt in Newcastle as planned. They had worked together on a few cases in the past, and each regarded the other as a friend.
‘Good to see you, Keith. Nasty business,’ Hewitt said. He was a few years younger, but closing in on retirement, the same as Keith, although he relished the prospect. An ardent golfer, he intended to try out the best courses around the world, courtesy of a substantial bequest from a favourite aunt on her passing.
‘Not the first time, is it?’ Keith said. It had been a hard
