‘Don’t say anything about this thing with Carla Graham to anyone else,’ I told him, taking a bite of stale bread. ‘Capper got wind that I was getting the phone records off Hunsdon and he told me to leave it alone. I don’t want to give him any more ammo to fire at me. Not now he’s the boss.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.’ He spooned down a few dollops of chilli, then looked at me seriously. ‘You know, I thought it was bad them making him acting DI instead of you. You could do that job one hell of a lot better.’
‘It’s all politics, Asif. If you play the game, you go places.’
‘Then why don’t you play the game, Sarge? Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but you’re wasted at DS level. You should be running murder investigations, not just being a little cog in them.’
I forced down a fatty lump of ham, then pushed the plate away. I wouldn’t have enjoyed that meal if I hadn’t eaten for a week. ‘I play it,’ I said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I just don’t play it with the same enthusiasm any more, now that the rules are always changing.’
‘You can’t live in the past, Sarge. The world changes. Even the Met changes. The secret’s to adapt. Change with it. Learn the rules. You could still go places.’
‘They made you DS, didn’t they? Put you in Capper’s role.’
He looked surprised. ‘How did you know? Knox only phoned me last night. He said he wasn’t going to announce it until this afternoon.’
‘He hasn’t said a word. Not to me, anyway. I guessed. There was something on your mind this morning when we drove down here. You were quieter than usual. Also, you were the obvious choice.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yeah, I do. You’re a fuck sight more talented than any of the other DCs we’ve got. You’ll make a good DS. When’s it effective from?’
‘Monday, if it all gets sorted out.’ I took a drag on my cigarette but didn’t say anything. ‘You’re not pissed off are you, Sarge?’
I turned to him and smiled. ‘No. I’m glad it’s you and not anyone else. Congratulations. You deserve it. Unlike Capper.’
‘You know, I don’t want to sound clichéd or anything, but I’ve learned a lot working with you. It’s been a real education.’
‘Don’t overdo it. It’s me you’re talking to, not the DCI.’ But I was secretly pleased. I’m just like anyone else. I like compliments, even if they’re not entirely truthful.
‘Well, I mean it, anyway.’
He went back to eating and I went back to smoking, blowing my cancerous fumes up at the olde worlde beamed ceilings.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s appreciated.’
Ten minutes later we were back in the car, heading home.
18
We weren’t back in Islington until close to five o’clock. An accident on the M40 had caused massive tailbacks, and since neither of us had any idea of alternative routes, we were forced to crawl along at ludicrously slow speeds for hours along with thousands of other irate drivers.
I got Malik to drop me off near home. Somehow I couldn’t face going back to the station where the talk would doubtless be of promotions and terminal illnesses, and where I suddenly felt as much an outsider as I ever had. Welland had been an ally, a man who’d often stood up for me in the past. Now he was gone. As a replacement, Capper had to be what a media commentator would call ‘the nightmare scenario’.
When I got in I checked my messages. There were none on my home phone, but Raymond had left one on his mobile. He wanted to see me as soon as possible and gave me a number to call back on. He signed off by saying it was urgent, but nothing to worry about too much, whatever that was meant to mean. It was unlike Raymond to leave messages for me, unless it was important. I phoned the number he’d left but it too was on answerphone service, so I left a message for him saying I’d meet him at our usual spot at two the following afternoon unless I heard otherwise. I wanted to see him anyway. There was, it was fair to say, a lot to discuss.
After that, I tried Carla Graham, but she’d left Coleman House for the day and I didn’t want to risk calling her on her mobile. She might wonder where I’d got the number from. I told the woman on the other end of the phone that it was the police and asked when Carla was expected back. I was told she was on weekend day shifts and would be in the following morning. I said I’d call her then.
Outside it was raining, but I fancied a walk, and maybe a drink somewhere, so I strolled round the corner to the Hind’s Head, a quiet little place I frequent occasionally.
There was no-one in there and I didn’t recognize the lone barman. He was reading the paper when I came in. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Fosters, lighting a cigarette and removing my damp coat.
There was a slightly crumpled copy of the Standard next to me on the bar. Since the barman didn’t look too chatty and there was no-one else to talk to, I leaned over and picked it up.
The shock hit me right between the eyes like an express train.
The headline was in huge block capitals covering half the page: E-fit of Customs Killer. Facing it on the opposite side of the page was a detailed photofit picture of a thin-faced man, thirty-five to forty, with short dark hair and eyes that were just slightly too close together.
If I’d asked an artist to paint a quick picture of my face, he couldn’t have done a better job. The likeness was uncanny.
The whole world seemed to cave in on me as
