The trouble with that sort of stance is that your boss would relish any opportunity to get one back on you. Sooner or later they’d get even. And that time was now, Stafford suspected as he sat in the chair before Maloney’s desk facing a stern-faced Superintendent with a full reservoir of words dammed up behind his lips that he just couldn’t wait to spill out in a torrent. There was a moment’s silence then Maloney let the dam burst.
‘What the fuck do you think you are doing, Stafford?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t give me fucking sir! What the hell are you doing chasing all around Derbyshire with this?’ He slammed the copy of True Crimes onto his desk and a pile of paper fluttered at the edges as if nervous and prepared to fly. Not satisfied with this he pushed the book derisively over towards Stafford.
Superintendent Maloney was a slim man, not very tall, not very broad, white hair clipped real short, like his words, the sort of man who would have been at home in the army if he hadn’t joined the police force. Everything by the book, the rules sacrosanct, a visible displeasure at those who strayed out of line, a pathological hatred of sycophants and men with opinions alike. He told Stafford on meeting him that he encouraged freedom of thought, just not the freedom to express it. That said a lot about him. He was a slight but very tough cookie. A man who was born filled to the brim with naked ambition and looking for something to use it on. Woe betide anyone who stood in the way of that. Stafford had obviously put himself very much in the way, judging from the Super’s puce cheeks. Another one of the reasons he couldn’t wait to finish with the business and climb aboard his camper van.
‘You know why,’ Stafford said. ‘The Rayne case in there and the murdered Polish woman — ‘
‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Stafford,’ he said. ‘Tell it like it is, like a man. You’ve run out of ideas. You’re grasping at straws. Do you know how all that’s going to look if word gets out that we’re chasing a detective story from an old book?’
‘It’s relevant, sir.’
‘Not to me it isn’t.’
‘I have a duty — ‘
‘Your duty, Stafford, is to find the man who murdered that woman, not to go off on wild goose chases that threaten to bring the good name of this place into disrepute, make it a laughing stock.’
‘With respect, sir,’ he said, feeling he’d choke on the word respect. ‘You know as well as I that it is not a wild goose chase. There is a valid connection. We have the deaths of two other men — ‘
‘The historians? One of them a suicide, another a heart attack. You’re beginning to see things, Stafford.’
‘The murder in the book is a dead ringer for the murder of the woman.’
‘A bizarre coincidence, no more. Anyhow, we’re finished with this debacle. The case is over. We have our murderer.’
Stafford’s mouth hung open slightly. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite get that.’
‘You heard me OK. We have our man. Whilst you’ve been running around chasing smoke and mirrors people here have been doing real police work. We have him banged up.’
‘Who?’
‘Heniek Pawlowski.’
‘Her boyfriend? That’s absurd. We had him in already. He’s in the clear. His alibis stack up.’
‘He lied, and everyone lied on his behalf; they pulled the wool over your eyes and your checks simply weren’t robust enough to see through his little game. He’s got the motive, too. He got jealous and possessive all at once, got angry, killed her. End of story.’
Stafford shook his head. ‘The murder was ritualised, not carried out in a fit of anger. The charge won’t stick, it has too many holes.’
‘Watertight. We have a full confession,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. He took the book and dropped it into the waste paper bin. ‘You’re off the case, Stafford. Thankfully it will all be over and done with before you can do any more harm.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I’m never anything but serious.’ His face twisted into what Stafford presumed was an attempt at compassion, something that didn’t sit too well on his features, as if alien to them and he needed the practice. ‘Look, man, you’re what — two, three months away from retirement? You don’t need this aggro. Let’s call it succession planning for continuity’s sake. Time for a gradual slide into retirement, not thrust into something that’s clearly too much for you at this stage in your career. You’ve had a good innings, Stafford; do you really want to go out with a miserable failure as your last outing? Quit whilst you’re still ahead.’
‘Bollocks!’ he said. ‘I’m not taking that crap!’
‘You haven’t got a choice.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so! Let’s face it, Stafford, you’re an old warhorse that’s past its prime and ready to be put out to pasture. Let the thing go before you do anything foolish.’ He looked down to his papers. ‘You’re off the case. I’ve put Morley onto it to wrap it up.’
‘That wanker? I don’t believe it. You can’t do this.’
‘You’re speaking about a fellow officer, I have to remind you! And you’d better believe it, because I just did. Conversation over, Stafford. We’ll sort things out later.’
‘I have to protest…’
‘I don’t have to hear you.’
Stafford stormed out of the office. He saw Style standing with a number of other colleagues. They all looked at him like he was a broken piece of glass, the edge flying their way. They knew him well enough to be able to read his temper like a weatherman predicts a hurricane.
‘You know about this?’ he fired shotgun-like at the group of officers. One or two looked away. ‘Styles, you in on this too?’
‘Sorry, sir, in on what?’
‘They’ve pulled in Pawlowski and slapped a murder charge on him. Full confession, apparently.’ He could tell by the vacant expression that he appeared as much in the dark as anyone. ‘OK, so where the fuck is he?’ he blasted. The men remained tight-lipped. He was told Holding Room 3. Stafford let the men wither under one of his trademark glowers then dashed away, swirling through the office like a grey tornado. Styles followed quickly on his heels.
‘When?’ he asked, trying to keep up with him.
‘This morning. They got a tip-off. Conveniently forgot to tell me. He’s put Morley on the case to wrap it up.’
‘He can’t do that.’
‘He just did.’
Stafford bounded down the corridors, pile-driving through doors, muttering under his breath, getting more worked up along the way.
‘Let me in the fucking room!’ Stafford badgered the reluctant duty officer, who resisted bravely but eventually unlocked the door and stood aside. A man was sat on a chair, his head down. He lifted it on hearing the door open. His left eye was swollen, a cheek bruised, lip split. ‘A full confession…’ Stafford said.
‘He resisted arrest,’ said the officer. ‘Put up a fight. Broke an officer’s nose.’
‘Bollocks!’ said Stafford with a contemptible snort down his nose. ‘He resisted making a confession, more like.’
‘Jesus!’ said Styles.
‘You OK?’ Stafford asked of the man. His reply was to spit on the ground at Stafford’s feet.
‘This isn’t the 1970s,’ Styles mouthed incredulously. ‘They can’t do this and get away with it. Not unless they had good cause to believe he is the murderer.’
‘And my name’s Andy Pandy!’ he said.
‘Andy who, sir? Wait a minute, where are you going?’
‘To get pissed’ he retorted.
Styles found the man sat outside in his car in the car park, his forehead resting on a bridge made up of his fingers, Bon Jovi blasting out of the stereo. He knocked on the glass of the door. Stafford, without looking up, hit the button and the window crawled down.
‘What?’ she said.
‘You never drink on duty. Never have, never will.’
‘Bollocks!’ he said. ‘What do you know?’
‘The men back there know you better than they know their own wives. They respect you, cantankerous old sod that you are. Not my words, theirs. They said you’d be in the car park listening to Bon Jovi on full blast.’