Tim Golding?’
Carol tipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘The one he called you in on. Thanks for telling me, Tony,’ she added ironically.
He looked embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, I was afraid of muddying the waters while you were considering coming back to Bradfield. I didn’t want to influence your decision one way or the other.’
Carol smiled. ‘Oh, you think your presence in Bradfield would have been such a draw?’
He put down the pakora that was halfway to his lips. ‘The truth, Carol? I was afraid if you knew I was here, it would be the last place on earth you’d want to be.’
Don Merrick stared glumly into his pint of Newcastle Brown Ale, his Labrador eyes sad and brooding. ‘Stop looking on the fucking bright side, Paula,’ he grumbled. ‘Because there isn’t a fucking bright side, all right?’
Paula ran her finger down the condensation on her bottle of Smirnoff Ice. They were the last survivors of the bonding session the team had decided on after DCI Jordan had called it a day. There hadn’t been much of a celebratory atmosphere, truth to tell. Stacey and Sam had excused themselves after the first round, and Kevin had been sucked into a drawn-out game of pool in the pub’s ratty back room. Neither Paula nor Merrick minded. They’d worked together long enough to slip the bonds of rank once they were on their own time. ‘Please yourself, Don.’
‘That photo…I can’t help thinking about what that lad went through before he died. And don’t try to contradict me,’ he continued, holding up a hand to fend Paula off. ‘We both know that the kind of scum who’d do that to a kid wouldn’t leave a witness. Tim Golding’s dead. But he was alive long enough to be taken off somewhere in the middle of nowhere and subjected to Christ knows what. That picture was taken in daylight, which means he was still alive the next morning. And that’s what I’m having trouble with. If I’d done my job, we’d have found him.’
Paula reached across the table and helped herself to one of Merrick’s cigarettes. ‘If you’re getting maudlin, I need a smoke.’
‘Thought you’d stopped.’
‘I have.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘That’s bullshit, what you were just saying. We worked that case into the ground. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up like this, Don. Apart from anything else, we need you not to be fucked up. We’ve already got a fucked-up DCI. The last thing we need is a fucked-up DI as well.’
Merrick looked at her in surprise. ‘You think Carol Jordan’s fucked up?’
‘Of course she is. She was raped, Don. And it happened because a bunch of suits thought so little of her they staked her out like a Judas goat. However you cut it, she’s not playing with a full deck right now. Her judgement’s compromised.’
Merrick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Paula. She seemed pretty much on her game to me.’
‘It’s easy to talk the talk when there’s no pressure. But I’m not sure she’ll be able to walk the walk any more.’
Merrick looked doubtful. ‘It’s far too soon to be talking like that. Carol Jordan’s the best guvnor I ever worked for.’
‘I thought so once too. But now…?’ Paula swigged the rest of her drink. ‘Let’s see if you’re saying that in six months’ time. So what do you make of the newbies?’
‘Early days.’ Merrick shrugged. ‘That Stacey knows her way round the machines, that’s for sure.’
‘I keep catching myself wondering if she is a machine,’ Paula giggled. ‘She’s not one of the girls, that’s for sure. I keep trying to get her talking, but she’s definitely not one for idle chit-chat.’
Merrick grinned. ‘Yeah, somehow I can’t see her gossiping about men and make-up in the toilets. But she’s quick enough to weigh in when somebody needs a bit of help with the computers.’
‘What about Sam? What’s your take on him?’ Paula asked.
‘Seems all right. He doesn’t have much to say for himself.’
‘I’m not sure about him. There’s something a bit creepy there,’ Paula confided. ‘One of my mates used to work with him over at Downton, and she said he was slimy. Never said much, but never missed a chance to put one over on everybody else. And always incredibly well informed about what everybody else was up to. Apparently, he likes to look good to the bosses, does our Sam.’
‘Well, we all like to make a good impression,’ Merrick said.
‘Yeah, but not necessarily at the expense of our colleagues. Oh, and she said he was never at ease with her or the other women on the squad. She thought he was a bit of a secret sexist.’
Merrick laughed. ‘Paula, these days we’re only allowed to be sexist in secret or else you and the sisters come down on us like a ton of bricks.’
She punched him affectionately on the arm. ‘You know what I mean.’ She contemplated her empty bottle. ‘You ready for another?’
‘I should be getting home,’ Merrick said reluctantly.
Paula got to her feet, grinning. ‘That’ll be another brown ale, then?’
He knows these streets like the inside of his pocket. He’s walked them, worked them since he was a kid. He knows the faces, he knows the places where certain people can be found at particular times of the day and night. He never thought anything of it before, it was just the way the world turned. But the Voice has made him understand that knowledge is power, that what he knows makes him king of the streets.
He shambles along in his usual fashion, trying his very best to look like he would on any other night. He does a bit of business, just to cover himself, just to make it look like any other night. The Voice said he should do that. So that when the questions come, people will place him in the usual haunts, doing the usual things.
But soon it’s time. He knows where to find her. It’s where she always is between punters. He clears his throat and walks up to her. He tells her what he wants. She looks amused, as if she can’t quite believe it’s him asking for it. ‘No discounts for mates, mind,’ she says. He blushes and squirms. It makes him uncomfortable that she calls him a mate. Because what he’s about to do to her is nothing like the things that mates do to each other, no way. But she doesn’t see what’s in his mind. She sees what she expects to see: a punter who feels awkward because he’s a fish out of water.
He tells her he wants to go back to her room. He knew about the room even before the Voice. He knows much more about what goes on round here than anybody gives him credit for. He follows her round the corner into the ginnel where her room is, giving a quick glance over his shoulder. Nobody is paying any attention. Even if they wanted to, it’s too dark round here; the dealers smash the streetlights so often the council’s given up replacing them. And even if they had eyes like a cat, they’d assume it was him working, not getting her to work for him.
Up the stairs she goes, her arse tight in her short skirt. It’s amazing, but he feels himself getting hard at the sight of it. He’s seen these girls a million times before, they’re just part of the landscape, they don’t normally register any more. But tonight, watching Sandie’s gyrating hips, he’s turned on. He remembers dimly what he’s
