'Got a feeling in your guts, Sergeant?'
He's right. Police instinct. There's something wrong. Don't know what, don't know how. Just a feeling, but there's so much work done on the back of feelings like this. Something in your stomach; the hairs on the back of your neck; that extra sense that stops you walking into the unexpected, stops you getting a knife in the belly.
'You want me to kick the door down again? That'll keep our arrival a secret.'
He gives me his Chief Inspector look, reaches out, tries the door handle. The door, in mockery of my dramatic suggestion, clicks open.
Give each other a right, keep your gob shut look, and walk into the house. Close the door silently behind and stop and listen.
Nothing.
Lights are on in the hall. Door to the lounge is open and we can see the faint red of the Christmas lights, although the tree is out of sight. He gestures to me to check out the rooms on the other side of the hall and I start tentatively looking in the first one, as he goes into the lounge.
A library, the sort of room that normal people just don't have in the house. Rows of books that will remain forever unread; a writing desk untouched by human hand; an old-fashioned globe from a time when the Far East was just a vague mass, and Manhattan was a swamp; a small lamp burns in the corner, for whatever reason. To aid the investigating officer, perhaps.
Walk through the room to the door at the far end. Gently. Open it, into the next. In the dim light cast by the small lamp in the library I can see the outline of the billiards table. The overhanging light above the board dominates the room in its shady darkness. Nothing to look at here. Through the room and into the one behind — the room at the back of the house.
It's dark in here, the dim light from the library not penetrating. Looks like a sitting room, the large TV in the corner. 46” screen. This will be where Frank comes to watch the Rangers on those rare occasions he can't make it to the game. Through the room to the door on the other side, after a cursory glance. We're looking for Charlotte, not carrying out a close scrutiny of the place.
Back out into the hall. Taylor already coming out of the kitchen. Shakes his head, indicates up the stairs with his thumb as he walks past.
It's a big hall, allowing a large sweeping staircase to run up the right hand side; elaborate balustrade, which includes a figurehead at the top of the stairs. You'd think it might be a composer or something pretentious like that. But it's even worse — it's some old Rangers player from the forties or fifties. George Young, or someone like that. Christ but Frank's a sad bastard. I nearly laughed the first time I saw it. Decided that he deserved to have had me sleep with his wife. Walk up behind Taylor — not a creaking floorboard to be heard — and he stops for a look at the small figure. Not a word, shakes his head, walks on.
He stops on the landing and we stand and listen. Nothing again, the house still silent. Don't know exactly what it is we're looking for. The sound of someone being murdered? The screaming sounds of sex? Can't be that — I was the one lined up for the job.
'Bedroom?' he says very quietly to me.
Point along the hall. Feel a tingle of excitement at the very mention of it. The thought that Charlotte will be lying in there waiting for me. Don't think she's going to be too impressed with me turning up with company. Can hear her saying, 'Think you couldn't cope, Sergeant?' Can also hear her losing her temper and telling us where to go. Begin to have my doubts about just walking into the house unannounced. The gut feeling is still there, but Charlotte Miller is the boss after all, and she's about to have two comedians standing on the threshold of her bedroom. Uninvited.
'You sure about this?' I say to him, voice as low as I can get it. 'Think we should go back and ring the bell.'
'Don't be a girl, Sergeant,' he says.
Stand outside the door. Look at Taylor. For all his hard words, can see he's not quite as sure as he wants to be. Not a sound from within. What if we just barge in there and all she's doing is sleeping? We're going to look like idiots. And I'm definitely killing off any chance that I've got; although my brief infatuation has already burned at its brightest and is waning.
'What are you expecting to find?' I whisper.
Looks at me. Can see he's definitely not as sure as he wants to be. But still, the guy's wife has only recently left him, and we're all at our most reckless when that happens. Just looking for something else to go wrong.
Shrugs the shoulders. This is it. He opens the door, hand to the light switch, steps into the room. I blunder in behind, and the two of us stand there like a couple of Action Men in the middle of the room.
Except there is no Action Man outfit for making a complete arse of yourself.
Charlotte stirs in her bed, raises her head. Her eyes blink the sleep away and she sits up. Looks at us like she can't quite comprehend what it is we represent. The sheets fall away from her and she's wearing the same top she wore the first night I came here. Can see the wonderful outline of her breasts, but embarrassment prevents me from getting too excited.
We stand there like a couple of great puddings waiting for her to say something, even though the onus really ought to be on us.
'Chief Inspector?' she says eventually. The look on her face is moving slowly from surprise to lack of understanding, on its way to outrage. Taylor better make this good, 'cause I'm keeping my mouth shut.
He hesitates, but knows he has to say something.
'We've got to speak to you about Bloonsbury,' he says.
Interesting.
She stares at him; the withering, reduces constables to jelly stare. Taylor's got an in-built force field against it, and I'm just trying to hide behind him, like Ron and Hermione squeezing under Harry's invisibility cloak.
She pushes the sheets away and stands up out the bed. The top slithers down her thighs, but not before she's allowed us the briefest glimpse of pubic hair; smooth and sensual thigh. Get that weird feeling at the back of my throat. Right place, wrong time.
Shakes her head, eyes still squinting into the light.
'What the fuck are you doing, Dan? What time is it?'
'About two,' he says. Good command in the voice. The guy is not a bit intimidated. Balls of steel.
She gives me the same withering look — obviously unaware that I'm protected by Taylor's balls of steel force field — then turns back to Taylor.
'And you couldn't phone?'
Doesn't bat an eyelid, Taylor. Very impressive.
'Thought we should see you in person.'
She stares at him again. Giving it her best, but she must know it doesn't work with him.
'The doorbell?'
He doesn't immediately answer. Come on, Dan, think of a good one. Have no idea what he's going to say, and then he does the obvious and completely ignores the question.
'We found Ian Healy,' he says.
The eyes light up, the face does a variety of different things. Takes a step forward.
'Where?' she says.
'Bloonsbury's house.'
Brow furrows. Don't blame her.
'What?'
'Bloonsbury had him prisoner in his house. Had him there for a few days by the looks of things.'
She stares at him for a while, a different kind of stare now. Sits down on the bed, shaking her head. Then the hand goes to the forehead and she starts rubbing. Stress. The bane of our times. This is a reasonable time to be stressed, however. Can hear all that this piece of information entails running through her head. Or maybe she's already thinking of her own position. How she's going to explain it to the media, to the Chief Constable; how much will she have to bear the burden of responsibility?
If she already knows that Healy's been imprisoned at Bloonsbury's house, as one of our theories went, this is a command performance.
Looks up after a while. Can see the complete lack of assuredness in her eyes.