‘I stand corrected,’ Haddock chuckled. ‘So, are you saying that worldwide we can eliminate two out of every three men from our investigation?’
‘I’m saying more than that. All I was doing was putting it in context, saying that you cannot look at a man who’s had the procedure and say he’s Jewish, which is why I didn’t do that. But look at a man who’s been trimmed, and whose last meal, consumed a couple of hours before he died, was matzoh ball soup followed by geffilte fish, then that, Detective Constable, is the way to bet.’
Detective Inspector George Regan
It was a Thursday morning, and I was on duty in Dalkeith when the call came. I was asked to report to the chief constable’s office, twelve noon sharp, with no reason given, not even when I asked the man Crossley point blank what the hell it was about.
I ran through all sorts of possibilities in my mind. I wasn’t in any trouble that I knew of, I didn’t know anyone who was and I’m not the sort of man you’d ask to organise the force Christmas dinner dance, so I ruled all of them out. That left redundancy at the top of the list.
The country’s gone crazy over public spending cuts these days. Apart from the sacred cow that is our Notional Health Service, nobody seems to be exempt, not even the police force. Who would they pick first for the push? I asked myself. How about an emotionally damaged officer with twenty years in the job, but young enough to find a new career outside it? Oh, he’d be well up the pecking order.
Yes, I do consider myself emotionally damaged. I still haven’t got over my young son’s death. But I can function normally, as I like to think I’ve proved; my promotion to detective inspector a couple of years ago wasn’t out of sympathy. I earned it by performance, and by passing exams. Nevertheless, when I stepped into Crossley’s small room that morning, en route to the chief’s, I was fairly sure that I was going to be offered a package and shown the door.
I had half expected the Human Resources manager to be waiting with the boss, but he was alone. However in the current climate it was possible that HR was being phased out too, so her absence didn’t raise my hopes.
When we sat down at his meeting table and Mr Skinner got down to it, I was even more convinced about the outcome.
‘George,’ he said, ‘you’re a good officer, one hundred per cent reliable, you have no skeletons in your closet and I rate you very highly. I want to say that up front. Now, I want to ask you how you’d feel about stepping out of the front line; right out of it.’
That was it then; he was making the blow as soft as he could, but it was coming. I know a guy who left the force five years ago and became security manager for the Co-op. He must be due for retirement, I remember thinking, all in that couple of seconds. Maybe there would be a slot for me there.
‘If it’s in the public interest,’ I began.
He laughed. ‘It’s in the very private interest, DI Regan. I want you to consider taking charge of Special Branch.’
I wish he’d had CCTV in his room, for I’d love to see a video. My expression must have told him everything I’d been thinking. He read it right and laughed even louder. ‘You thought I was giving you the push, didn’t you? Jesus Christ, George, when the force starts laying off guys like you, the dark side will have won well and truly.’
I think I stopped breathing for a couple of seconds, because I found myself taking in air in a big gulp. ‘Special Branch,’ I repeated.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I’m not saying it’ll be a springboard but it’s a key position within the force, even more so in the modern era. Back in the old Cold War days it was relatively simple; there was one potential threat and even that was more imaginary than real, they say now. Even into the sixties, our predecessors checked on who went to Communist Party meetings and that was all, more or less. Then Ireland happened and since then it’s all been much more complicated. Tell me what you know about the Branch, George.’
I’d never been asked that question before, nor even put it to myself, but I did my best to answer. ‘It’s a unit within each police force,’ I began, ‘that deals with national security, terrorism, etc. Its main job is gathering intelligence on potential threats, but it can investigate too. It can also get involved with serious organised crime as well as subversion. Every force has a Special Branch, but they’re independent of each other.’
The chief smiled. ‘Dictionary definition,’ he said. ‘It also keeps contact with the security services, but it isn’t under their command. Some forces don’t use the name any more: in the Met it’s become part of SO15, the counter-terrorism command, and Strathclyde call it something different too. We still use the old name, but I don’t give a bugger what we call it, as long as the unit works effectively and doesn’t let anyone slip through the net that it should be catching. One other thing; it isn’t part of CID, although its officers use detective ranks. Its head reports directly to me, and my deputy. That doesn’t mean every day, but I like to be up to speed with everything that’s going on, so you will be seeing a lot of me,’ he paused, ‘assuming that you want the job. You may decline without any offence being taken on my part, as long as the fact of the offer remains within this room. What do you say?’
There wasn’t a chance of my turning it down. I was getting stale in CID; I knew it and it was only a matter of time before my line managers did as well. I needed a new challenge, so badly that I’d even been contemplating asking for a move to uniform. However, I didn’t want to give the impression of being too keen, so I let it appear for a few seconds that I was engaged in sombre thought.
When I decided I’d pondered enough, I looked back at him and said, gravely, ‘I’d like to do it, sir. I’m honoured even to be considered for the post.’
‘It’s gone beyond consideration,’ he retorted. ‘It’s yours. I’ve talked it through with DCI Leggat, and he’s onside with the idea.’
Fred Leggat was my immediate boss. I’d had to tell him about my meeting at HQ and the sod hadn’t given me a clue that he’d known what it was about. ‘When do I start, sir?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘You’re here. You might as well start now.’
‘But. .’ He’d stunned me again. ‘What about vetting?’
‘That’s all been done; you’re cleared. You’ll be replacing DI Dorothy Shannon. It’s time for her to move back to CID. I’m doing a straight swap; she’s going to your job in Dalkeith. The pair of you can spend the rest of the week doing a handover to each other.’ He looked at me. ‘How’s Jen?’
The sudden switch of topic threw me off balance. In the middle of giving me a career-changing move he was asking me about my wife?
‘She’s okay, sir,’ I replied. ‘She’s a full-time housewife these days.’ I was going to leave it at that, but I realised that his question had come from genuine concern, not casual curiosity.
‘By which I really mean,’ I continued, ‘that she doesn’t go out any more unless she really has to. She’s never got over losing the wee fella, and I don’t believe that she ever will. She’s withdrawn from all her circle of friends. I’m told that’s not unusual in these circumstances, but she hasn’t made any new ones. Our house is like a builder’s show home, and the garden’s like a Chelsea Flower Show exhibit, because she has nothing else in her life. When I say she doesn’t go out, I am not kidding. She does all the shopping, food, everything, on the internet. If you ever run short of double A batteries, just call by our place. Jen buys them by the box.’