‘Go,’ she said, giving him a gentle push in the middle of his chest.
Tallis looked into her face and found her impossible to read. He’d always worried that she’d go under when his father died, but he saw something else emergent, something strong. He thought it was hope, and envied her.
After picking up some basic supplies, Tallis got back home around noon. Jimmy next-door was still asleep. Apart from the fact the lad’s bedroom curtains were closed, neither property was being pulverised by sound.
Once inside, he picked up his mail, chucked it on a side table for later, stowed milk in the fridge, bread in the bread bin and made himself a pot of coffee. After that, he called Stu. They’d worked together as part of an elite group of undercover firearms officers. Stu had stayed on with the force after Tallis left, but after hitting the bottle had been returned to basic duties. Last time they’d spoken Stu had been in the process of kicking his addiction. He wasn’t finding it easy.
‘Hi, Stu, how are you doing?’
‘One hundred and twenty-one days and counting,’ Stu said morosely, his Glaswegian accent less pronounced since he’d packed in the booze.
‘That’s terrific.’
‘Fucking boring.’
Tallis let out a laugh. ‘You’ll just have to find some other addiction to float your boat.’
‘Yeah, but will it be legal?’
This was better. Even if everything was tits up, he could always rely on his mates to get him through. A sense of humour was essential to survival—especially in their line of work. ‘So what’s new on the old bush telegraph?’
‘Same old. Why?’
‘Ever have any contacts with the Serious and Organised Crime Agency?’
‘Must be joking. Wouldn’t sully themselves with the likes of us.’
‘So you’ve never come across a guy called Kevin Napier?’
‘Can’t say I have. Is he with SOCA?’
‘Recently promoted.’
‘No, it’s the Organised Crime lot SOCA have most contact with and even that’s carried out in darkened corridors.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘SOCA is extremely secretive. Have to be. They’re working against organised crime at the highest level. Most of us wouldn’t be able to get beyond a phone call to their press office.’
‘But I thought they worked closely with police on intelligence and operations at local level.’
‘They do. Every so often one of their officers swoop on Organised Crime, mix it up a bit then swoop back out again. We call them the free-range chickens of law enforcement agencies.’ Stu gave a low chuckle. ‘As you might imagine, their input isn’t always appreciated.’
An age-old problem, Tallis thought. Oh, he knew how it worked in theory: counter-terrorism was an amalgamation of police and security services, working side by side in a spirit of joint co-operation against a common foe, sharing intelligence, indivisible, one for all and all for one. However, the powers that be took little or no account of the frailty of human nature. When push came to shove, everyone ruthlessly guarded his or her own patch.
Stu was still banging on. ‘SOCA works at national level. They have the big picture. They know best, allegedly, patronising bastards.’
Add to that too many newly formed government agencies, too many new initiatives, way too many analysts, and nobody knowing what the hell they were doing, Tallis thought. More cynically, Tallis suspected the constant round of name changes was entirely deliberate. It was impossible to pinpoint who was running what. ‘So it’s a one-way street. SOCA gives the benefit of their expertise and fuck off. That right?’
Stu let out a raucous laugh. Tallis had no doubt that he’d pass that one on to a receptive ear. ‘I don’t suppose SOCA see it that way,’ Stu said, serious again. ‘I think they genuinely feel they’re doing their bit. In spite of some recent bad press, they are trying to get their act together. Problem was they were disadvantaged from the start.’
‘Because everyone had such high expectations?’ Tallis said.
‘That and because it takes time to build up intelligence. To be fair, they don’t openly trumpet success, but bearing in mind any local Organised Crime division knows its patch, exactly what’s going on, who’s doing what and where, it tends to have a bit of a pissing-off effect when the so-called elite muscle in.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d have a friendly contact whose ear I could bend?’
‘In Organised Crime?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nick Oxslade,’ Stu said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Great bloke. Came from the other side of the tracks same as me so I’ve got a lot of time for him. Can I ask why?’
‘You can ask,’ Tallis said enigmatically.
Stu gave another snort of mirth. ‘If they ever give that bloke playing Jason Bourne the chop…’
‘Matt Damon?’
‘That’s the one,’ Stu said. ‘I reckon you’d be a great replacement. After myself, of course.’
Tallis phoned the Proactive Crime Unit via the main number and then asked for an eight-digit extension. It had once been possible to contact an Organised Crime Officer direct via Lloyd House, the West Midlands Police Headquarters, but, since a number had received threatening phone calls from imprisoned villains they’d help put away, certain security measures had been put in place. Organised Crime Officers were no longer based there but at a number of secret addresses. Although Tallis wouldn’t be able to talk to Oxslade directly, he could leave a message for him to call back. On getting through, he was told that the entire department were busy on a major operation. He left a message anyway and then, undeterred, called another number, got straight through.
‘Bloody hell, the walking dead!’ There followed a cloudburst of coughing.
‘Waking dead,’ he corrected her, ‘and isn’t it time you packed in smoking?’ He imagined Crow sneaking out of her office, heading for a secret space not yet commandeered by the fag police. Their paths had crossed in his last investigation. Based in Camden, Detective Inspector Michelle Crow had proved an invaluable if slightly unconventional ally. She was big, butch looking and ballsy. She also had electric thinking.
‘And do what exactly?’ she scoffed, regaining her composure.
‘Breathe more easily?’
‘You sound like an advert for cough sweets. Look, you should be grateful. Once our merry little band have been exterminated, they’ll be turning the full spotlight on booze next…’
‘They already have. Don’t you read the newspapers?’
‘Try not to,’ she fired back, and returned to her main theme. ‘Then
