Reluctantly she pulled the sheet of paper out of the pad and stood up, stopping by the door, nodding a congratulations to herself for being honourable and giving up the information so quickly. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Outside a uniformed copper was chatting lightly to a plain clothed DC showing him something in the paper. Night shift. Hard graft but there was a kindness about it. Everyone moaned about it but they missed it when they were promoted and went days only. There was a closeness in being sleepy together, in minding the drowsy city.
MacKechnie was still in, the light from his office spilling into the corridor. Morrow stood at the door and nodded politely. ‘Sir?’
‘Come!’ He always said that, not knowing it had another meaning and that they laughed at him. Morrow looked in and found him squinting at something on his computer. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, I was listening to the 999 calls just now.’
MacKechnie frowned at her, one eyebrow arched accusingly. ‘Why?’
‘In case there was something on them.’
MacKechnie sighed at his clasped hands and sucked his teeth. ‘Sergeant Morrow.’ He had a way of pronouncing her name that made her flinch. ‘I have asked you to work with Bannerman on this.’
‘Bannerman told me to listen to the tapes, sir.’
‘Bannerman told you to listen to the tapes?’
She stepped into his office and held up a hand to fend him off. ‘OK, that aside, they’ve all said the gunmen were asking for “Rob”. On the 999s they’re avoiding it but I think the son said “Bob”.’
‘OK.’ He looked confused.
‘He’s interviewing Omar now, shall I send him up a note? Get him to ask about it?’
Confusion gave way to certainty. ‘Yes.’
She withdrew and stood in the corridor a moment. She’d expected a bit more of a reaction. It was something concrete after all, and she’d discovered it. Disappointed, she went back to her office and wrote out the details, marked that the note was from her and caught a DC lingering by the board in the incident room.
‘DC…?’
‘Wilder.’ He stood to attention and she appreciated that he knew who she was.
‘Wilder, take this up to Bannerman in Three right away.’
He took it from her and set off quickly, leaving the door to slam shut behind him. At least someone was taking it seriously.
Deflated, she went back to her office, dragging her eye and her pen across incident forms. The warm glow of her discovery was fading, swamped with tiredness and the mundane job. She broke off from the admin task to listen to the section of Meeshra and Billal’s emergency calls several times, her certainty paling a little each time.
She was about to do it again when Bannerman opened the door and leaned against the door jamb like a louche lover coming back from the bathroom. ‘All right, Morrow?’
‘Fine.’
‘How are you getting on?’
Morrow blinked hard, her eyes were burning. ‘Just… paperwork. ’ He slouched into the room. ‘Did you get my note?’
He had to think about it. ‘The note? About Bob. Yeah, the note. God, great, thanks for that. Great.’ He dropped into his seat and unlocked his drawer, pulling out a grain bar and ripping the wrapper open with his teeth.
‘And?’
He shrugged without looking at her.
She wanted to get up and go over and kick his shins. ‘What did Omar say about it?’
‘Well, I’d actually finished interviewing him by that point, so we’ll ask him next time.’
They looked at each other across the office and Bannerman smiled. He hadn’t asked Omar about it because it came from her. He’d been unprofessional and she should let it go, win some, lose some, but the point wasn’t about her and Bannerman: a small man was sitting in a cold van somewhere, surrounded by armed malevolent strangers and the information could be material.
‘You didn’t ask?’
Bannerman refreshed his smile.
‘Look, come over here.’ She held up the headphones.
Bannerman looked wary, didn’t budge from his seat and instead swung his feet up on the edge of his desk, crossing them, stubbornly chewing his health bar. The interview had been a disappointment, viewed by the entire squad. She understood how foolish he would have felt if the only significant question was on a note from her but she was sure she was right. She called up the audio file of Meeshra’s phone call, a tiny box on her screen with a jagged visual of her speech. She pulled the earphones out of the hard drive, double clicked and Meeshra’s voice burst into the office, weaving through the crackle of switchboard operators.
‘She’s dodging the question,’ she said. ‘And Billal said “Bob” instead of “Rob”.’
Bannerman didn’t react.
Morrow tutted and held her hands up. ‘Well, I’ve told you. MacKechnie knows I did, Wilder’s a witness I sent the note, so if it goes tits up because of you it’s nothing to do with me.’
He narrowed his eyes at her.
‘OK?’ She leaned across the desk towards him. ‘You can’t say I haven’t told ye.’
‘OK,’ he said slowly, as if trying to calm her down. ‘Thanks.’
‘If you want to fuck it all up, that’s up to you.’
Bannerman smiled condescendingly at his health bar, peeling the wrapper off the end and popping it in his mouth. He would tell MacKechnie that she’d said that, tell it as a funny story about what a character she was, knowing MacKechnie would hear it as confirmation that she was impossible, mad, no team-player.
‘This animosity,’ he was muttering, ‘you and me, professional jealousy, you know, I’m sure we can work around it.’ He was turning it around, making it about her and him, not Aamir Anwar’s safety.
‘Not if you’re going to act like a cunt, we can’t.’
She was too angry, almost dizzy and the words fell out of her before she could catch them. A hot blush ran up her neck. MacKechnie would hear that comment too.
A perfunctory rap at the door was followed by Harris looking in. ‘Ma’am?’
‘What!’
He paused, looked frightened and addressed himself to Bannerman. ‘Just looked the DVD of the interview over. Omar says they were looking for Bob, not Rob.’
Without a word Bannerman swung his feet to the floor, stood up and left the office, shutting the door behind him, leaving her alone in the rancorous silence. Outside some guys were talking in another room, having a laugh and she listened jealously for his voice, suspecting, as always, that everyone had more allies than her.
She was filling out the forms, cooling down to a cold rage when she heard excited footsteps in the corridor, an exclamation and a scurry.
Bannerman threw her door open. ‘Found the van.’
They took a car from the yard and Bannerman drove. All the cars in good condition were out and they had an old Ford with an engine so noisy that idle chat was impossible.
Bannerman concentrated on the road, uncomfortable at the silence, but Morrow was glad to be let alone, her face slack as the warm orange lights of the motorway clicked past on the quiet road. The drive was long and effortless, all the way to Harthill on a smooth and empty road.
Bannerman didn’t know the area they were going to and made a big production of looking for road signs, muttering inaudibly to himself about turns and directions, winding himself up. Morrow said nothing. They took a roundabout, a side road and finally a rough road down the side of open fields with intermittent hedgerows. It had been tarmacked at one time, but a decade or so of harsh winters and tractors had churned the ground uneven. They pulled up outside the perimeter tape.
Blue and white was strung up between some of the hedges, blocking the roadway, and a fat copper was standing next to it, a local plod, warming his hands by rubbing them together and stamping his feet. He wasn’t acting it either; his nose was red and his top lip looked damp.