Jimmy Rangan would be the one who would be dealing closely with Harry Sanford.
To be fair to Hudson he didn’t react more than the puzzled frown. Which very soon cleared up as he understood the situation. “I see what you mean.” He said, and he did see. He knew who Jimmy was. He knew Jimmy represented the CPS. So he knew if, or when, Harry Sanford came to court he would be arriving as a witness for the prosecution, not a defendant. “I must say, Harry’s poor father will be very disappointed in him.”
“He’s dead.” Hazel said. “He’s been dead….how many years now?”
“I was talking metaphysically, Sergeant Vernon.” Hudson said, “As in spinning in his grave.”
“I thought he was cremated.” Hazel said, being deliberately obtuse. “Six years ago, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“He fell….” Hazel paused deliberately, “…..down stairs following an argument with his son. Died of head injuries at the scene.” Hazel had familiarised herself with the case. Such that it was. The pathologist of the time was Doctor Graeme Land, who had since retired. He’d signed the death certificate. Accidental causes, then the body had been released and cremated. The release order had been signed by Doctor Land and the cremation seemed to have been carried out quite quickly. “You were the family solicitor at the time.” Hazel said.
“Yes, I was.” Hudson said, “You were a detective constable in the vice squad, Sergeant Vernon. Spent all your working hours dressed as a tralk, That was before you were disciplined for unprofessional behaviour.”
Touché. You couldn’t’ accuse Hudson of not doing his homework. He wasn’t kicking up a storm about not being able to represent Harry Sanford either. Hazel had a bad feeling about that. It meant Hudson had expected, or at the very least, considered, this as a possibility. He’d be away very soon, she predicted, now he’d found out that, from Eddie Symes’ view, the worst was about to happen. Now he’d run back to Symes, not only to tell him Sanford had turned informer, but to discover what Harry knew, how damaging it would be, and what was the best way to counter the threat.
Hazel now began to think her little poke about Harry being involved in the death of his father was a very bad move. Hudson could, in theory, use that same theory to discredit Harry Sanford. She decided she should get used to the idea that some old pictures of her dressed as a prostitute would turn up suddenly. If not those illegally snapped pictures of her topless from around that same time.
“Well you have given me a lot to think about, Superintendent Church.” Dean Hudson said, his voice friendly and civil again, “Oh yes, and so have you, Sergeant Vernon. I better not take up any more of your time. I know you’ll both be very busy soon. Goodbye.” He favoured them both with an empty smile and left. While he didn’t exactly go skipping gaily out of the police station he walked with a quick and sure purpose.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Bill Church said, reassuringly, “It was bound to end like this anyway.”
Bernadette McLaren strode into Victors nightclub with the same purposeful determination Dean Hudson had strode out of the main police station.
The club was, of course, closed at this time of day and the cleaning staff, all women, all young, and for the most part, Polish, with a few Hungarians and Czechs thrown into the mix, went about their business as she entered. A few of them looked up. Bernadette didn’t recognise any of them and it must have been very strange for them to see a female vicar, complete with dog collar, enter a club such as this at any time of day.
“Cześć.” Bernadette said pleasantly. The women smiled faintly and said hello back in their own language, mostly Polish. No doubt they not only spoke English perfectly, but knew several other languages and had university degrees in business studies. But here, in England, they cleaned the floors and tables of night club owners.
Bernadette completely ignored the very existence of Blank Frank.
He’d been stationed by the door, no doubt having been told to stand there and allow no one except the cleaning staff in or out. But Blank Frank Addams knew exactly who and what Bernadette McLaren was. When she came through the main doors he quietly, surprisingly quietly for such a huge man, slunk into the corner and stood there, his arms loosely dangling, head looking at his big, metal capped working boots.
Unlike the rest of the staff, when they were here, Blank Frank didn’t wear the smart suits, the coloured shirts and fancy ties. He was in very baggy, loose fitting jeans and a T shirt under a denim jacket. It was probably a surprise that clothing came in his size, never mind the fact that the jeans were even capable of being baggy on someone as big as he was.
Blank Frank didn’t speak. He never spoke. You only had to look at him to know why. At some time in the past, and it must have been a very long time in the past judging by the healed scars, someone had taken a razor to his face. There were scars on the big meaty hammers that he had for fists. Scars as old as the facial ones. White and faded but still very clear. No one knew who had swung the razor so viciously and so many times but the story was that it was one wild, desperate, and ultimately failed, attempt, to prevent to stop Blank Frank from strangling the poor sod to death with his own, big meaty, and bleeding hands.
Blank Frank was huge, ugly, brutal and stupid. Anyone who had any common sense would be afraid of him.
As Bernadette McLaren passed by, the huge, scarred, misshapen head (it was also rumoured he suffered some kind of trauma at birth), was turned down but the heavy lidden, dull, dark eyes watched her and showed, if anyone were foolish enough to get that close, an emotion that approximated to fear.
Bernadette pushed her way through the door marked Private, Strictly No Entrance, behind the empty bar, and walked down to the office at the end of the narrow corridor.
She entered without knocking.
“Do you mind?” said Camilla Ruthven. She was sitting on the desk talking to a tall man in a smart dark suit and a goatee. His name was Martyn Westland and he was Victor Monk’s head of PR.
“Get out.” Bernadette said without looking in his direction. Then she continued to talk as if she imagined Westland would obey without question.
“I want to know what is happening with Eddie Symes.” She said as the door closed behind her. Westland had left without either questioning the order or saying anything.
“You heard about that did you.” Camilla Ruthven said. The women were oddly similar and strangely different. They were both red heads. Though Camilla’s red came out of a bottle while Bernadette’s was a fiery natural from North of the border. Her Scottish accent was only slightly noticeable. They both were deceptively expensive clothes. Though Camilla’s skirt was bordering on indecently short. Bernadette’s black designer jeans would have set a family on low income back about a month’s wage.
She glared at Camilla with intensely green eyes. She knew full well that red hair and green eyes, in centuries past, were considered a sign of a witch.
“Everyone has heard about it, or don’t you watch a programme called The News?” Bernadette said, “It’s on the internet. It’s national news. If the entire world wanted to find out about what happened they could.”
“I’ve seen the news.” Camilla said, “It shows your friend, Sergeant Vernon, using Harry Sanford as a football. Now, what can I do for you?” Camilla wasn’t as intimidated by Bernadette as she probably should have been.
