‘So who is going to take her place?’
‘I reckon that Mary Chambers will carry on, for a while at least; they might bring Alastair Grant up from CID in the Borders, or they might even look outside our force. Time will tell. The only thing that’s certain is that it won’t be you or me.’
‘Maybe it’ll be Griff Montell,’ Wilding muttered.
Steele smiled. ‘Somehow, I don’t think so.’
‘Why do you say that? Is he in bother over that run-in with Special Branch?’
‘Not at all. Forget it, Ray, I didn’t mean anything by that. Griff’s okay; he just needs a crash course in tact and diplomacy, and I think he has one coming.’
The two officers sat back in the spacious cab, enjoying the view as the driver took them on a tourist route that led round Marble Arch and down Park Lane, past Buckingham Palace, then up the Mall towards Trafalgar Square. Their destination was Agar Street, just off the Strand. When they arrived they were both taken by surprise: Charing Cross police station was a fine white building with a pillared entrance.
‘Holy shit!’ Wilding exclaimed, as Steele paid the driver. ‘This isn’t like any nick I’ve ever seen. It looks more like a fucking bank.’
However, inside it was very much a working police office. They stepped through the high double doors into a public reception hall. The inspector walked up to a divider behind which a sergeant and a constable were on duty. ‘Morning, sir,’ the senior officer, a black woman, greeted him. ‘How can I help you?’
‘DI Steele and DS Wilding, from Edinburgh,’ he glanced at the name-tag on her tunic, ‘Sergeant Baptiste. We’re here to interview a prisoner.’
‘Yessir,’ she replied smartly. ‘I was told to expect you. Hold on and I’ll buzz DI Stallings.’ She walked back to her desk, picked up an intercom and spoke into it. ‘She’ll be right down,’ she called out.
Steele thanked her. They glanced around the entrance space as they waited. ‘Probably goes all the way back to Sherlock Holmes,’ Wilding murmured. ‘Maybe even before him.’
‘I don’t recall Sherlock being a serving officer,’ the inspector commented quietly.
As he spoke a door opened: a dark-suited, dark-haired woman appeared and headed in their direction. She looked at the visitors appraisingly, until her eye settled on Steele. ‘Inspector,’ she guessed correctly, offering a handshake. ‘Becky Stallings; good to meet you.’ She nodded to Wilding. ‘You too, Sergeant. Welcome to Charing Cross. Come on, our guest will soon be ready for you.’
There was a stairway behind the door; Wilding took in his surroundings as they climbed. ‘This beats Queen Charlotte Street,’ he said, as they reached the top. ‘Must be a cushy number being posted here.’
‘Come and join us,’ said Stallings, ‘when there’s a big demo in Trafalgar Square, and the place is full of anarchists, or even when there’s a celebration there and we get more pickpockets than we can process.’
‘I’ll do that,’ the sergeant replied, ‘if you come and join us when Rangers play at Easter Road.’
She smiled at his comeback as she opened a door and showed them into her office. ‘We’re going to have to wait for a bit,’ she told them. ‘Barker wants his lawyer present when you see him, and he’s not here yet. Saturday morning, too: he’ll be pissed off.’
‘We’ll be sure to apologise,’ said Wilding, cheerfully. As he spoke, he glanced casually at Stallings’s hands and saw no jewellery. ‘You must be pissed off too, Becky,’ he continued. ‘It’s Saturday for you as well.’
She shot him a severe look. ‘Yes, it’s ruined my whole weekend,’ she said drily.
‘Maybe we could all go and grab some lunch when we’re done here.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘and then we could go shopping in the West End. You could buy a present for your wife.’
His expression turned mournful. ‘I don’t have one. I used to, but she left me for some bastard of a car salesman. She said she couldn’t stand my working hours, but he works every bloody Saturday.’
‘Ah, that’s too bad,’ said the Londoner; she seemed to loosen up slightly. ‘It’s not just the lawyer,’ she said. ‘Home Office security division want to sit in too.’
‘Why?’ asked Steele.
‘Because of the civil-service involvement, or so they say. So far, Barker hasn’t named anyone else he might have corrupted, but they want to be around if he does.’
‘I don’t actually give a damn about civil-service corruption,’ the Scot confessed. ‘We’re after a multiple murderer, and so, it seems, is Barker. Has he said anything so far?’
‘No. Hamilton, his lawyer, won’t let him. He’s waiting to see how much of a supporting case we can compile, to back up Dailey’s confession.’
‘How are you doing on that front?’
‘Not too bad. We found some photocopies of DTI documents in Barker’s office at Continental IT: they definitely should not have been there. We also found details at his home of a bank account in the name of Jack Frost. The balance is very healthy. . it’s several grand in credit … and there’s a record of cash withdrawals. Some of the dates match up roughly with the DTI papers that we found. There was three grand withdrawn on Thursday; we found that in an envelope in Barker’s desk. We’re sure that it was destined for Dailey, only he didn’t deliver the goods.
‘The account was set up by Barker, not long after he left ITN to work for Davor Boras. The initial deposit was made by a cheque for twenty thousand pounds drawn on Barker’s personal account. That received a cash injection for the same amount the day before. Since then it’s been topped up a couple of times, in the same way.’
‘Have you put this to Barker yet?’ asked Steele. ‘Have you pressed him about the money?’
‘No, but when we do, you know what he’ll say.’
‘Sure. He’ll tell us that he’s a gambler and that sometimes he wins big. At least, that’s what they all tell us at first.’
‘You think you can crack him?’
‘I’ve met the man; I think I can. I’ve been taught by experts. . my wife among them.’
Out of the blue, Wilding chuckled. ‘That’s pretty good.’
Stallings stared at him. ‘What is?’
‘The bank account. Somebody’s got a sense of humour. Jack Frost. . It’s a slush fund, isn’t it?’
For the second time she smiled at him. ‘Ray, you might not be as dumb as you look. Maybe we will go for lunch after all.’ Before the sergeant could reply, her phone rang. She picked it up. ‘Thanks,’ she said, nodding across her desk. ‘We’re on.’
She led the way along the corridor and round a corner to a room that Steele judged, even before he was ushered inside, had to be at the back of the building, but there was nothing to confirm this, since its two windows were shuttered.
Barker was waiting for them, immaculate in a pale blue open-necked shirt and tan slacks. As before, his hair was perfectly groomed. He looked like a man who had spent the night in a five-star hotel room, rather than in a police holding cell. He was flanked by a fat man in a business suit.
There were four seats on the other side of the long table at which they sat. One of them was occupied by a woman who rose as they entered. She was small and very slim, bespectacled, and with hair so red that at once Steele pictured Maggie standing in her place. ‘This is Rhonda Weiss,’ Stallings announced, ‘from the Home Office. Mr Barker, you know; the other gentleman is Lancelot Hamilton, his legal adviser.’ She introduced the two officers.
‘I’ll be sitting in,’ said Weiss. ‘I reserve the right to ask questions as I see fit.’
The Scottish inspector looked at her; she returned his gaze, unsmiling. ‘Can I see your warrant card?’ he asked politely.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me.’
‘You mean do I have identification?’ she spluttered. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘No. I asked if I might see your warrant card. In other words, I’m asking if you’re a police officer.’