– he didn’t even smoke – and he never would again. This lack of control was frightening. ‘Wha—?’
He felt the guy’s presence, close beside him. Felt his breath in his ear when he spoke.
‘Of course, in the dose we’ve given you, it goes a bit further than that. Becomes a paralytic. Stops your muscles from working. You can see, hear, smell, feel, but you can’t move. And soon, you won’t be able to breathe.’ He stood back. ‘Best get on, before we lose him. Wouldn’t want him to miss the fun, eh?’ He laughed and the other one joined in.
Panic filled Jerry’s mind as he felt his hand being placed around the wooden handle of the cheese wire. They were killing him. Slowly, so that he would feel every terrifying, agonising moment of it.
The bigger one placed a couple of big, fat candles on the ends of the wall-to-wall desk and lit them.
‘There,’ the one in charge said. ‘A bit of romance. Appropriate, or what?’
A lighter sounded. The candles were lit. Then a third one.
‘Josh, check the sitting room, would you? And turn the TV off while you’re there. You know what we need.’
Josh left the room.
Jerry tried to look away from the image on the screen in front of him, but even his eye muscles no longer worked. He heard a creak on the landing. ‘Ah, perfect.’
Josh came back into the room and dumped a pile of newspapers and magazines on the back of the desk, under the curtain. The top quarter or so of the stack was slid across a few inches and the third candle placed under it.
Jerry gasped. They were going to burn him alive! ‘Pwu . . . Nu . . . Hu . . .’
A hand clapped him hard on the back. He coughed, tried to get his breath and found it difficult. ‘We’ll be off, then, Jerry. Don’t worry. You probably won’t feel the flames. I dare say the Sux will have stopped your breathing by then.’
Frozen in place, Jerry stared at the stack of papers and magazines as his attackers walked calmly along the landing and down the stairs. The bottom one of the overhanging magazines and papers was already beginning to brown. Desperately, he tried to shift his body in the chair, but nothing happened. He drew a breath to try to shout, but his chest felt tight and restricted. ‘Hel—’ he croaked, then struggled to breathe in again. ‘He—’
‘Concealing evidence is a serious offence, Sergeant.’
DCI Adam Silverstone’s slim hands were flat on his desk as he stared at the man standing stiffly before him.
‘I haven’t concealed anything . . . sir. Tommy’s connection to Rosie Whitlock wasn’t relevant to the case. How could it have been? He’s been missing for six months, he hadn’t exchanged any messages with her since April and he’s thirteen years old. He wouldn’t have been driving the van. So I made a judgment call. As you know, every minute counts in cases like that. It was a question of either/or. Either I followed protocol or I gave Rosie Whitlock every chance of being recovered alive and well. I chose the latter. Was I wrong, sir?’ With difficulty, Detective Sergeant Pete Gayle kept his eyes on the wall above the station chief’s head.
‘Don’t push me, Sergeant. You’re on thin ice already. In fact, you’re a very small step away from being back on the beat. You’ve deliberately and blatantly flouted the most basic of rules. You cannot work a case involving a direct member of your family. But, knowing that, you hid your son’s connection to the victim and carried on regardless. Did you imagine there’d be no consequences to that?’
‘No, sir. I imagined there would be fatal consequences if I didn’t – for a thirteen-year-old girl whose case was all over the press at the time. And the girl’s own testimony suggests I was correct.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether he was a victim or a suspect, Sergeant. The fact that he was involved at all, and you knew it, is enough that you should have handed the case over instead of carrying on regardless. You are not the only competent officer in this nick.’
‘No, sir. But all the others were fully occupied on other cases and there wasn’t time for one of them to start again from scratch.’
‘That was not your call to make, Sergeant. It was mine or DI Underhill’s. And I distinctly remember telling you at the outset to keep DS Phillips up to speed so that he could take over if necessary.’
‘My understanding at the time was that he’d got to a critical stage in one of his own cases, sir. With all due respect to Simon, he couldn’t deal with that and take on Rosie Whitlock’s case at the same time, as urgent as it was. And any delay in our investigation would have meant the suspect getting away. To attack another victim. He’s already killed at least twice, sir.’
‘Which he blames on your son, Sergeant. With, at least in one case, the support of the pathologist’s report. And where’s he now, eh?’
‘I think that’s a question you should ask Simon Phillips, sir. He’s been trying to answer it for six months now.’
‘Enough!’ Silverstone’s hands slapped his desk as he came up out of his chair, face reddening. His dark eyes locked on Pete’s, jaw clenched as he pulled a deep breath in through his nose. He held it a beat, then slowly let it out. ‘I have been reminded by HR at Middlemoor that, before going back on active duty, you should have had a psych eval. Circumstances prevented it at the time, obviously, but that is no longer the case.’
‘Sir, I don’t . . .’
‘Do not presume on my patience, Peter,’ Silverstone snapped, overriding him. ‘You’ll find it severely lacking. This is not my decision and certainly not yours. You will attend Middlemoor HQ and report to the police psychologist at 0900 hours on Wednesday.’ He slapped a piece of paper down on his desk in front of Pete. ‘There are your orders. See that they’re obeyed.’
*
Silence descended as Pete walked back into the squad room. He ignored it, marching back to his desk, jaw clamped tight with the anger still seething inside him.
Bloody jumped-up clueless twat. How the hell did the brass ever imagine he was going to be any use to the force? Talk about piss-ups and breweries, as a manager he was as much use a chocolate teapot and there was no way he’d ever survive in a political environment. They’d wipe the floor with the arrogant, preening dick.
He sat down heavily, yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the file that he kept there. He slapped it open and stared at the page without focusing.
‘You all right, boss?’ DC Jane Bennett asked from the desk opposite.
Pete looked up and sighed. ‘I’m still here. For now.’
DC Dave Miles straightened up in his chair, next to Jane’s. ‘Even he’s not stupid enough to sack you while the press is still singing your praises.’
‘No, but you know what the press is like, Dave. News is only news for a day or three. Then they get bored and move on.’
‘Be back for the trial,
