Derek Barton prided himself on being tough. But this was well outside what he was capable of taking in his stride. He cried out, staggering backwards. The hideous image seemed to sear itself in his brain, still as vivid even after he covered his eyes with his hands.
He pivoted on the balls of his feet and sprinted for the safety of his car. His tyres screamed as he dragged his car through a five-point U-turn. He was five miles down the road when it dawned on him that he couldn’t just ignore what he’d seen. He pulled into the next lay-by and sat with his head on the steering wheel, his breathing shallow and his hands shaking. He daren’t use his mobile, he was sure the police would be able to trace it. Then he’d be in the frame for . . . that. He shuddered. The image flashed behind his eyes again. He barely got out of the car in time before his stomach emptied in a long hot spew that splattered his boots and trousers.
‘Get a fucking grip,’ he told himself in a shaky voice. He’d have to find a payphone. A payphone a long way away from where he lived. Barton wiped his mouth and collapsed back into the car. A payphone and then a very big drink.
For once, Derek Barton was quite happy to let a customer down.
It hadn’t been easy, but Tony had persuaded Carol to leave Tim Parker to him. Tony left her in her office and crossed the squad room to where Tim sat, face set stubborn as a jammed door. As soon as Tony was close enough, Tim spoke savagely but quietly. ‘You’re got no right to barge in here. This is my case. You’ve got no standing here. You’re not a police officer, you’re not an official consultant. You shouldn’t even be in this room.’
‘Are you done?’ Tony said, his tone somewhere between condescension and sympathy. He pulled up a chair and set Tim’s profile down ostentatiously on the desk between them.
Tim snatched the profile. ‘How dare . . . That’s confidential. It’s a breach of official protocol, showing that to someone who’s not an accredited member of the investigative team. And you’re not. If I report this, you and DCI Jordan are going to be in deep shit.’
Tony’s smile was pitying, the shake of his head sorrowful. ‘Tim, Tim, Tim,’ he said sweetly. ‘You don’t get it, do you? The only person round here heading for deep shit is you.’ He leaned over and patted Tim’s arm. ‘I understand how scary your first live case is. The knowledge that more people are going to die if you and your team don’t get it right. So you play safe. You stick to what you think you know and don’t take chances. I get that.’
‘I stand by my profile,’ he said, his jaw jutting but his eyes frightened.
‘That would be a very silly thing to do,’ Tony said. ‘Given that it’s wrong in pretty much every respect except the probable age range.’
‘You can’t know that unless Carol Jordan has given you confidential information,’ Tim said. ‘She’s not God around here, you know. There are people she has to answer to and I’ll make sure they know how she’s tried to undermine me.’
He couldn’t have known he was sticking his head into the lion’s jaws by threatening Carol so directly. Tony’s mood shifted from amused willingness to help to cold anger. ‘Don’t be a prat. The reason I know you’re wrong is not because DCI Jordan shared information with me. The reason I know is because Daniel Morrison isn’t the first victim.’ He didn’t like himself for it, but he enjoyed the look of shock on Tim’s face.
‘What do you mean?’ Now he looked scared. Wondering, Tony thought, what he’d missed and how he’d missed it.
Tony fished around in the plastic carrier bag he’d brought with him. He pulled out a copy of his Jennifer Maidment profile. ‘I’m not trying to screw you over, Tim. At least, not unless you think it’s clever to go after Carol Jordan.’ He gave him a long, level stare. ‘You do that, and I will make sure you spend the rest of your career regretting it.’ He stopped abruptly, frowned and shook his head. ‘No, that won’t be nearly long enough for you to suffer . . .’ He placed the papers in front of Tim. ‘This is my profile of a case I’ve been working down in Worcester. If you look at the last page, you’ll see ten key points. Compare them to what you’ve got here, revise your profile to include some of them. Submit it to DCI Jordan and bugger off back to the faculty before anybody asks you any hard questions.’
Tim looked suspicious. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Why am I not routinely shafting you, do you mean?’
A long pause. ‘Something like that.’
‘Because you’re the future. I can’t stop James Blake and his kind choosing cheap over good. What I can do is try to make cheap better. So go back to the faculty and think about this case and learn something from it.’ Tony stood up. ‘You’ve got a long way to go, Tim, but you’re not completely useless. Go away and get better. Because next time, chances are I won’t be here to hold your hand. And you don’t want to have to live with the knowledge that people have died because you couldn’t be arsed to learn how to do a proper job.’ Tony’s eyes narrowed in remembered pain. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to do that.’
According to Kevin, who was always plugged into gossip central, Blake hadn’t moved his family up from Devon yet. Both of his teenage daughters were on the verge of key exams and his wife had categorically refused to allow them to move schools before the end of the academic year. ‘We’re paying his rent till they come up here in the summer,’ Kevin had said when Carol called her.
‘I bet it’s not a bedsit in Temple Fields,’ Carol said drily.
‘It’s one of those converted warehouse jobs that overlooks the canal.’
A moment of nostalgia grabbed Carol. She’d shared one of those lofts with her brother when she’d first moved to Bradfield. It felt like a past-life experience now. She wondered what it would be like to live somewhere like that again. She had tenants in her Barbican flat in London, but their lease would be up soon. She could sell that at a tidy profit, even with the state of the housing market right now. That would give her more than enough to afford a warehouse flat by herself. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got an address?’
It had taken Kevin seven minutes to get back to her with Blake’s address. Carol had his mobile number, but this was one conversation she wanted to have face to face. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, noting that Tony had left but Tim Parker was still there, looking faintly flushed. She wondered what had passed between them. ‘Ma’am,’ he called out plaintively. ‘We need to talk about my profile.’
His self-confidence was unshakeable, she thought. He’d seen Tony arrive, he’d seen them closeted together, and he’d had to listen to whatever piece of his mind Tony had chosen to give him. At no point had they asked him to contribute to their discussion. And still he didn’t get it. ‘No, we don’t,’ Carol said as she opened the door. ‘They’ve got the football on in the canteen.’
Blake’s flat wasn’t far. She’d be quicker walking, Carol decided, enjoying the afternoon sun warming the brick of the tall mills and warehouses that lined the old Duke of Waterford canal. It reflected off the high windows, making them look like black panels set against the weathered red and ox-blood bricks. She turned into his building, running up worn stone steps that led into an ornate Victorian lobby. Anyone would think this had been a merchant bank or a town hall rather than a warehouse for woven woollen fabrics, she thought, taking in the marble and elaborate tilework.
Unlike most of the flat conversions, this building actually had a doorman in a discreet dark suit rather than an intercom. ‘How can I help you?’ he said as she approached.
‘I’m here to see James Blake.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ He ran a finger down a ledger open in front of him.