I need to see it like he saw it.’
‘Feel what he felt?’ Sally asked accusingly.
‘I want to analyse the scene as the suspect would have seen it, that’s all,’ he lied.
‘Fine,’ she gave in.
‘Don’t worry about me so much,’ he told her as he brushed past on his way out. ‘Worry about finding whoever we’re after before he kills again. I’ll text you later,’ he promised, then headed off across the main office and through the exit.
Dave Donnelly sat alone in the Lord Clyde pub in Clenham Street just around the corner from the Mint Street crime scene, sipping a pint – not his first – and nibbling on a sandwich. He’d long ago abandoned the idea of eating the chunky chips that had accompanied it. The pleasant effects of the alcohol came all the quicker on an empty stomach, but they couldn’t stop the images of Jeremy Goldsboro, better known to the public as the Jackdaw, racing through his mind: Goldsboro pointing the shotgun at Sean until a bullet from Donnelly’s gun smashed him backwards. That should have been enough, but the Jackdaw had raised his shotgun again, leaving Donnelly no choice but to pump two more shots into his chest to end the stand-off. The memories brought bile flooding into his mouth. He swallowed it down with another mouthful of beer just as DCI Ryan Ramsay entered the sparsely populated pub. Spotting Donnelly, he made his way across the room and took the vacant seat across the table.
‘Drink?’ Donnelly offered.
‘No,’ Ramsay told him. ‘I won’t be staying long.’
‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead,’ Ramsay replied, uninterested.
‘So what d’you want to talk about?’ Donnelly cut to the chase. ‘Why did you ask to meet me?’
‘Thought we should have a chat,’ Ramsay said, as if it was nothing. ‘It’s been quite a while since we last talked.’
‘You mean when you asked me to pass you insider information about SIU cases?’ Donnelly reminded him. ‘When you asked me to give you information about Sean Corrigan?’
‘Information that you never gave me,’ Ramsay countered.
‘I’m not in the habit of talking out of school,’ Donnelly warned him.
‘You wouldn’t be talking out of school.’ Ramsay’s voice took on a persuasive tone. ‘I’m a DCI, remember? I can get the information I need from the same places you do.’
‘Then what do you need me for?’ Donnelly asked.
‘Details,’ Ramsay told him, leaning in closer. ‘Those little extras Corrigan might be holding back and perhaps a few details about Corrigan himself.’
‘And why would I tell you?’ Donnelly demanded.
‘Because we’re both getting close to retirement, Dave,’ Ramsay reminded him. ‘You want to try surviving on a sergeant’s pension? Got any kids at university?’ Donnelly said nothing. ‘Listen. I can get us both a very nice gig in our retirement. All you have to do is work with me on this, give me what I need.’
‘Oh aye,’ Donnelly stared at him with deep suspicion. ‘And what would this gig be?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Ramsay insisted. ‘Not yet. But it’s not working as an investigator for some shitty company or as a glorified security guard. It’ll be good work and not too taxing. You won’t do better.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Donnelly told him.
‘You do that,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘I hear the whispers about you and Corrigan. You owe him nothing.’
‘I said I’ll think about it,’ Donnelly repeated, irritated.
‘Well, don’t take too long,’ Ramsay warned him. ‘There are other detectives on the SIU.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Donnelly asked, though he knew exactly what was meant.
Ramsay ignored the question and got to his feet. ‘Stay in touch,’ he told him.
Donnelly watched him make his way to the exit. No sooner had he passed through the door than DC Zukov entered. Seeing Donnelly, he made straight for him, sliding next to him on the bench and eyeing his food and drink jealously.
‘You all right, Dave?’ he asked unpleasantly.
‘You want something to eat or drink?’ Donnelly replied, ignoring Zukov’s sarcasm.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Still got work to do, you know. I’ll get something later – when I’m finished.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Was that DCI Ramsay?’ Zukov asked with suspicion.
‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered warily. ‘Didn’t know you knew him.’
‘Our paths have crossed a couple of times,’ Zukov shrugged. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘Same as most people in here,’ Donnelly tried to dismiss it. ‘Having a drink.’
‘Why not use a pub nearer to London Bridge?’ Zukov pushed.
‘Too busy, maybe. How the fuck should I know?’
‘Only asking, Sarge. Only asking.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly moved on. ‘Never mind. How’s the door-to-door going?’
‘Maybe if you helped knock on a few doors yourself, you’d know,’ Zukov told him.
Donnelly stared at him in contemptuous silence for a while. ‘I’m here to supervise, remember? Not wear the soles of my shoes out. That’s your job.’
Zukov scowled. ‘You’ll be needing a lift back to the Yard then?’
‘Don’t worry yourself,’ Donnelly told him. ‘I’ll walk to London Bridge when we’re done and get the rattler home from there. Anyway, you were about to tell me how the door-to-door’s going.’
Zukov shrugged. ‘Plenty people have seen Dalton around over the last few weeks. Plenty people know of him, but no one really knew him. We’re not getting anything about the night he was killed, other than one of the night staff at Borough Underground says he recognized him from the photo. Says the victim came home most nights between ten and eleven and is pretty sure the night he was killed was no different.’
‘So it looks a sure thing he used the tube and not the bus,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Thank God for small mercies. CCTV from the stations and the route he used will be easy enough to track. If he’d been jumping on and off buses it would be a nightmare.’
‘The Underground staff have been told to preserve the CCTV footage for the last week,’ Zukov assured him.
‘Good,’ Donnelly replied, taking another sip of his beer. ‘Keep at it.
