Instead when he fumbled the door open he found a uniformed constable waiting impatiently on his doorstep.
“Mr McCarron, is it?” the policeman asked. “Ray McCarron?”
“Yes. Why, what’s happened?”
McCarron noted the policeman’s eyes track over the obvious bruising on his face, the broken arm and the slow careful movements his injuries forced him to make. “Looks like I should be asking you that sir.”
“I was mugged at work a few days ago,” McCarron dismissed stonily. “There’ll be a report somewhere I’m sure.”
Any trace of humour disappeared from the policeman’s face. “Yes, well we’re looking for one of your employees—Kelly Jacks. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why sir. If she’s here you’d do well to say so now.”
McCarron kept his expression flat. Not difficult when the majority of his face was too stiff and too tender to display much emotion anyway. “Why on earth would you think she’d be here?
“That, sir.” The policeman stepped sideways and pointed. McCarron glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw at once Kelly’s old Mini parked on the other side of the road. It was surrounded by crime-scene tape and being guarded by two more uniforms while a flutter of neighbours gathered to gawk at the show.
Bloody busybodies.
And just as that thought struck, another followed along almost instantly.
Where’s my car?
90
“OK—got it thanks,” DC Dempsey said and dropped the phone back on its cradle. He glanced across at O’Neill. “Looks like Jacks might have lifted her boss’s car—a Vauxhall Omega estate. McCarron’s just given one of the uniforms some cock and bull story about it being at his office but it’s bloody convenient that Jacks’s car turns up outside his house and his wheels are nowhere to be seen.”
“Check it out,” O’Neill said. “We’ve also—”
“Detective Inspector O’Neill!” The voice from the doorway was loud enough to make the DC jump, the tone chopping through what O’Neill had been about to say like a chisel. Heads snapped round and froze as if hoping to avoid the baleful glare now sweeping the room.
“My office,” Chief Superintendent Quinlan ground out. “Now.”
He didn’t wait to see if the order was obeyed, just spun and stalked out. From back view his anger was all the more apparent in the bulging compression of his neck.
O’Neill rose with a sinking feeling, marshalled his expression into one of neutral unconcern and followed at a more relaxed pace.
“Good luck,” Dempsey muttered as he passed. “If you don’t come back can I have first dibs on your swivel chair?”
O’Neill forced a smile. “If I don’t come back you can probably have first dibs on my job.”
That caused a few answering grins. O’Neill held onto his until he was in the corridor and making for the stairs. Quinlan had disappeared. Christ, how does someone his age move so fast?
O’Neill lengthened his stride. The door to Quinlan’s office was still open when he reached it. O’Neill knocked as he stepped through.
“You wanted to see me sir?”
The chief super hadn’t quite reached his chair and he completed the manoeuvre before glancing up. O’Neill forestalled his next move by coming fully into the office and closing the door behind him. He did not make the mistake of taking a seat.
Something hovered around the corner of Quinlan’s mouth. He sat upright, leaning his arms on the desk and linking his fingers together very precisely in front of his computer keyboard.
“The boys you put on former Detective Chief Inspector Allardice,” he began with surprising mildness, “still wet behind the ears were they? Still in short trousers with the mittens their mummies knitted for them on strings down their sleeves?”
“It was my understanding they’re experienced lads sir.”
“Are they really? So how is it that a man who is now a glorified bartender was able not only to spot these covert surveillance experts but photograph the pair of them inside the first day?”
It was phrased as a question and O’Neill foolishly thought he was expected to answer. “Well sir—”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m giving you a bollocking.”
“Sorry sir,” O’Neill said.
Quinlan regarded him bleakly for a moment. To the right-hand corner of the desk was a flatscreen monitor mounted on a swivelling bracket. The chief super leaned forwards and nudged it round to face O’Neill. Two jpeg files were open on screen, both taken at a distance and not entirely sharp but the faces of the men were still clear enough. The captions “Pinky” and “Perky” had been added to them.
“The arrogant sod emailed them for my attention, courtesy of the Press Office.” Quinlan’s face twisted into a sour smile. “He’s playing with us, Vince,” he said at last. “He was infuriating enough before but now he’s bloody insufferable. And this—” he flicked his fingers towards the screen, “—this is just showing off, rubbing our noses in it.”
O’Neill gave a faint nod. “He knows we can’t touch him,” he agreed. “Or we’d have done it already.”
Quinlan regarded him bleakly for a moment. Then he rose with a sigh, turned his back on the inspector and stepped to the window. O’Neill waited for him to speak. His mind inevitably slid to Kelly Jacks. Had she stolen Ray McCarron’s car or had he willingly given her access?
He didn’t need to ask why. After all, he’d shown her the picture of Brian Stubbs, told her Stubbs had easy access to the drug that had been found in her system and pointed her in the right direction. After that it didn’t take a detective to work out where she was most likely headed.
Still, no reports of any bodies yet.
“I’ve always hated this view,” Quinlan said out of nowhere, catching O’Neill unawares. “I won’t be sorry to leave this office behind.”
That rocked O’Neill. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in here sir.”
Quinlan glanced back at him. “Better the devil you know, hmm?”
O’Neill allowed the barest hint of a smile to lurk around his mouth. “Something like that sir, yes.”
“I’ve been trying not to slacken off and watch the clock tick down to the inevitable ‘surprise’ retirement party and the gold clock,” he said, “but the closer it gets the more on tenterhooks I find myself. I don’t kid myself that I’ll go out in a blaze of glory but I’ve no desire to go out in a shower of shit either.”