he’d borrowed with a crunch that deadened all other sound,
leaving both cars skewed across the narrow residential street. A slick of
glossy fluid formed beneath the Renault’s engine and at the mouth of the cat,
which thrashed madly on either side of a hot tyre-mark, body trying and failing
to obey a dying impulse to flee.
Harkness backed into the
shadows to gnaw his knuckles and form a new plan as the chorus of childish
sobbing began. Not for the first time, he pondered the gulf that lay between
causing a thing and taking responsibility for it. Then a more practical thought
intervened: Where could he find a shovel?
CHAPTER FIVE
At the County Hospital
Mortuary, Harkness printed and signed his name for the fourth time that
morning, glowered at by Slowey.
The first time had been at the
insistence of the driver of the crumpled Renault Scenic. She’d been equally
unimpressed with having to accept a glimpse of his warrant card in lieu of
insurance details, and the fact that the scrap-yard Mondeo was still driveable.
He’d suppressed his amusement at life’s small ironies when a wailing child
confirmed that the late Mr Fuzzy was in fact the family cat. His offer of a
quiet coup de grace with a shovel had not been well received.
He was quite sure he’d catch
some static later for not reporting a ‘police vehicle accident’ – which
technically speaking this had been. Yet all departments would be minimally
staffed today to cut down on bank holiday overtime payments, and he was in no
mood to wait for one of the lucky few uniform duty sergeants to turn a simple
prang into a neighbourhood spectacle.
The second signature had
completed the statement covering his enquiries so far. Biddle had insisted on
it before he flew the coop again. “Without continuity of evidence,” he’d
loftily and pointedly opined, “we may as well walk into court with our trousers
around our ankles singing ‘I Should Be So Lucky’.”
“An enchanting image. Found the
parents yet?” Harkness had asked.
“To ID the bodies or surrender
the suspect?”
“Both. Either.”
“Prison Service put Dale’s
parents in Nottingham. Local nick is sending a van full of sensitive types to
the house any hour now to break the news and turn the place over.”
“And the other set?”
“I’m working on it. Neighbours
don’t seem to know who or where her parents are.”
The DI had been preoccupied
with setting up and staffing a new enquiry room and, visibly relieved to see
him clean-shaven and clear-headed, was receptive to the suggestion that he
handle the post mortem while Biddle filled in as office manager.
Printing out and signing a
statement he’d all but completed hours earlier hadn’t kept him glued to a seat
for as long as Biddle had envisaged. As soon as Biddle sloped off for another
cigarette break, he’d left another spare jacket on the back of his chair and
taken his leave. Happily, Harkness had dumped the Mondeo on double yellows out
of sight of the nick – confident that traffic wardens weren’t worth double-time
– the better to make a quick escape.
The third signature had saved a
grateful receptionist at A&E the trouble of arranging a lift home for
Slowey. Slowey, his wounds cleansed of crusted blood but his face still
inflamed and mottled, had almost looked pleased to see Harkness until he
noticed the change of clothes draped over one arm.
“I’ll give you a lift home,
Ken,” he’d said, steering the Mondeo onto Greetwell Road, past the red-brick
Victorian edifice of HMP Lincoln. “Eventually. I need your considerable
investigative acumen right now. If you’re too poorly, just say the word.”
“I’m fine, by the way. Nothing
broken, just cuts and swelling.” Slowey had replied. “Oh, and a concussion. I
might puke at any time and ruin this lovely upholstery.”
“That’s good to know. I didn’t
like to pry.”
Slowey had shrugged and
dry-swallowed a handful of pills as Harkness turned off
leaving both cars skewed across the narrow residential street. A slick of
glossy fluid formed beneath the Renault’s engine and at the mouth of the cat,
which thrashed madly on either side of a hot tyre-mark, body trying and failing
to obey a dying impulse to flee.
Harkness backed into the
shadows to gnaw his knuckles and form a new plan as the chorus of childish
sobbing began. Not for the first time, he pondered the gulf that lay between
causing a thing and taking responsibility for it. Then a more practical thought
intervened: Where could he find a shovel?
CHAPTER FIVE
At the County Hospital
Mortuary, Harkness printed and signed his name for the fourth time that
morning, glowered at by Slowey.
The first time had been at the
insistence of the driver of the crumpled Renault Scenic. She’d been equally
unimpressed with having to accept a glimpse of his warrant card in lieu of
insurance details, and the fact that the scrap-yard Mondeo was still driveable.
He’d suppressed his amusement at life’s small ironies when a wailing child
confirmed that the late Mr Fuzzy was in fact the family cat. His offer of a
quiet coup de grace with a shovel had not been well received.
He was quite sure he’d catch
some static later for not reporting a ‘police vehicle accident’ – which
technically speaking this had been. Yet all departments would be minimally
staffed today to cut down on bank holiday overtime payments, and he was in no
mood to wait for one of the lucky few uniform duty sergeants to turn a simple
prang into a neighbourhood spectacle.
The second signature had
completed the statement covering his enquiries so far. Biddle had insisted on
it before he flew the coop again. “Without continuity of evidence,” he’d
loftily and pointedly opined, “we may as well walk into court with our trousers
around our ankles singing ‘I Should Be So Lucky’.”
“An enchanting image. Found the
parents yet?” Harkness had asked.
“To ID the bodies or surrender
the suspect?”
“Both. Either.”
“Prison Service put Dale’s
parents in Nottingham. Local nick is sending a van full of sensitive types to
the house any hour now to break the news and turn the place over.”
“And the other set?”
“I’m working on it. Neighbours
don’t seem to know who or where her parents are.”
The DI had been preoccupied
with setting up and staffing a new enquiry room and, visibly relieved to see
him clean-shaven and clear-headed, was receptive to the suggestion that he
handle the post mortem while Biddle filled in as office manager.
Printing out and signing a
statement he’d all but completed hours earlier hadn’t kept him glued to a seat
for as long as Biddle had envisaged. As soon as Biddle sloped off for another
cigarette break, he’d left another spare jacket on the back of his chair and
taken his leave. Happily, Harkness had dumped the Mondeo on double yellows out
of sight of the nick – confident that traffic wardens weren’t worth double-time
– the better to make a quick escape.
The third signature had saved a
grateful receptionist at A&E the trouble of arranging a lift home for
Slowey. Slowey, his wounds cleansed of crusted blood but his face still
inflamed and mottled, had almost looked pleased to see Harkness until he
noticed the change of clothes draped over one arm.
“I’ll give you a lift home,
Ken,” he’d said, steering the Mondeo onto Greetwell Road, past the red-brick
Victorian edifice of HMP Lincoln. “Eventually. I need your considerable
investigative acumen right now. If you’re too poorly, just say the word.”
“I’m fine, by the way. Nothing
broken, just cuts and swelling.” Slowey had replied. “Oh, and a concussion. I
might puke at any time and ruin this lovely upholstery.”
“That’s good to know. I didn’t
like to pry.”
Slowey had shrugged and
dry-swallowed a handful of pills as Harkness turned off
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