As Langton’s breakfast tray was cleared Mike sat opposite him and got the singing-off-the-same-hymn-sheet discussion. Mike listened and agreed, but he was nevertheless nervous. He asked if there was going to be an inquisition and Langton laughed.
‘Too bloody right – don’t know about inquisition, but we’re going to have the top brass breathing all over us, so better to be prepared and show a united front.’
Mike said he would get onto it straight away, and took the remainder of his coffee with him, leaving a surly-looking Langton still in the canteen.
Anna was at her desk when Mike told her that Langton was up in the canteen. She was surprised; it wasn’t even eight-thirty yet.
‘I think he was in my office, stinks of cigarettes, and by the look of him he was there all night.’
‘Old habits die hard,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yeah, maybe they do, but it’s my office.’
‘You see how many calls came in last night?’ she asked.
Mike nodded, but none had given them any information they could use, most of them were time-wasters, but any remotely likely ones had to be checked out. Henry Oates had been ‘seen’ in Waitrose, at a petrol station, and at a variety of Tube stations, and every location had to be visited, enquiries made and any CCTV viewed.
Mike said he would give a briefing to the team as soon as everyone was gathered.
‘Make sure we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet?’ Anna laughed, but Mike wasn’t amused – it just confirmed that Langton had already discussed it with her previously.
Langton was having a shave in the Gents. He splashed cold water over his face and dabbed it dry with a rather seedy grey towel. His opened briefcase revealed some cologne and a laundered tie; he always kept a spare one in case he spilt food down himself. By the time he walked into the incident room, Mike was winding down his briefing.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Langton bellowed as he banged open the double doors, tossed his briefcase onto Barbara’s desk and clapped his hands, making his way to join Mike at the front.
‘Right, let’s make this a day to remember. He’s out there somewhere and I want him tracked down.’
Langton pointed to the slew of calls and possible sightings and turned back to the expectant faces.
‘I don’t believe Oates is out and about living off the land. I think he is hiding and it’s either in a fucking squat in some derelict house or he’s homed in on some poor bastard. Now, what have we got? Who did he know? Who would be mad enough to let him lie low? We know he’s got no money, he escaped wearing a police-issue grey tracksuit, and although he left his rain protective suit in the stolen police car, he would have still been wearing the boots we so helpfully provided. He’ll want a change of clothes, new footwear – does he steal them? What reports have we got in from clothes shops that he may have been seen in, or thefts from clothes lines, and remember we’ve got petrol stations selling everything from underwear to Reeboks. What have we got?’
He took a look at the likeliest possible sightings, dismissed them bullishly and then gestured to Travis.
‘These two known associates, what about them?’
Anna went to the board to read the reports from officers who had visited both addresses. Ira Zacks’ elegant flat had been investigated. The information they now had on Zacks was that he had been picked up for drug dealing and was being held at Brixton Police Station. The flat was empty and there was no sign of a break-in or that anyone had been living there recently. Mr and Mrs Murphy, who lived opposite the squat in Hackney, had also been visited but they had not seen Oates. The three houses earmarked for demolition remained under surveillance in case Oates attempted to return to his basement flat. There had been no sightings of him at his old sports centre. Lastly, they had a report from the address where Timmy Bradford was living with his mother. The officers had not spoken to Bradford’s mother, but Timmy had said he hadn’t seen Oates and promised that should he make contact he would alert the police. Also up on the board was the number for DCI McBride in Glasgow, who had reported back that Oates had not attempted to seek help from his ex-wife. This was easily confirmed as Eileen was now under police protection, having given evidence against her so-called boyfriend.
Langton sighed as the room went quiet.
‘Well we appear to be up fucking shit creek, don’t we?’
Anna was still at the board. She turned.
‘Can I just ask if the officers who went to Timmy Bradford’s place searched it?’
A young DC stepped forwards to say that Bradford had been very civil, and had said that his mother was in the bath, that it was inconvenient, but if they wanted to come back they were welcome to take a look around.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, ma’am, we went back about half an hour later and he let us in, we looked over the flat and left.’
‘Did you look in the bedroom cupboards, under the beds?’
‘We had a good look round, yes.’
‘What about his mother, Mrs Douglas – did you speak to her?’
‘No, ma’am, he said she had just gone to the corner shop.’
‘How did Mr Bradford seem to you?’
‘Like I said, ma’am, he was very civil and suggested if we wanted to wait we could.’
‘So he didn’t seem nervous or agitated in any way?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Anna returned to her desk, tapping a pencil up and down as phones carried on ringing. Langton came over.
‘Do you have a charger I can use? Battery’s low.’
Anna opened her desk, where she kept various chargers, and he rooted through them, bending close to her.
‘This is a total fuck-up,’ he muttered.
She leaned closer to him.
‘What’s that cologne you’ve got on?’
‘Don’t ask me, Christmas present from Kitty. I just chuck ’em into my briefcase – you like it?’
The ground felt as if it was opening up beneath her. She knew exactly what it was: ‘Happy’ by Clinique – it was the same one that Ken Hudson had used.
‘What is it?’ Langton could see she had turned pale and had started shaking.
‘Christ, it’s not that bad, is it?’
‘Excuse me.’
Anna had to get out of the room. She was finding it hard to catch her breath and her head felt as if it would explode. Langton watched her go and Mike had noticed her as well.
‘What’s up?’
Langton shrugged as he fixed the charger to his mobile, plugged it in and sat at her desk. On a notepad he could see she had scribbled ‘mother’ then underlined it twice.
Anna clung onto the washbasin rim, taking short sharp gasps of breath, not wanting to faint. It had hit her so hard and so unexpectedly. Langton wearing the same cologne was unbelievable, and would be funny if it didn’t rip her heart in two.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ she said to herself like a mantra, but she was too dizzy to release her hold of the washbasin. Her stomach lurched, and she almost bounced off the walls as she stumbled into the lavatory, where she was violently sick. Now her body felt cold, but at least she had stopped shaking and was eventually able to stand upright.
It was another ten minutes before she was capable of washing her face and hands and another few moments before she managed to walk out and back into the corridor.
Langton was leaning against the wall, waiting.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes, must have been the Chinese I ate last night.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean you went off and got a takeaway after we finished up here?’
‘YES!’
He gestured for her to calm down and they walked along the corridor together.
‘You’ve written the word “mother” on your notepad.’
‘Yes.’
‘You going to tell me why or do you want me to guess?’
She stopped and folded her arms.
‘I met Mrs Douglas, Timmy Bradford’s mother. She’s neat and tidy and very house-proud. They have the first visit to her flat recorded at eleven-thirty in the morning, and it doesn’t ring true to me that she would be having a bath at that time. I would think she’s got her twinset and pearls on by seven, fully dressed and dusting.’