and I had to break into a flat that was leaking water into the place below. We broke in, switched the water off, reported it all, then two hours later we get called back to the same block to a break in. It was the owner of the flat we had to force our way into.’
‘Didn't you leave a note or something? Wait, Al was supposed to do it, right?’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Right.’ he said. ‘All we have left now is Rawlins’ parents.’
‘Where's that?’
‘Down the Sunderland Road.’
‘Can we swing by Al’s on the way?’
He shot her a ‘what now?’ look.
‘He didn't turn up this morning and I just checked with the station and he still hasn't called in. The sarge is a decent bloke but he can’t cover for him much longer.’
‘Al’s beginning to sound like a liability, Deacon. He's probably laid up with man flu, sparko on brandy and night nurse judging by the state he was in yesterday.’
‘He'll get bollocked if he leaves it any longer. It's not like him.’
‘Are you and he...?’
‘Give over! I'm more like his mam.’
‘Try again.’
She dialled.
‘Still not answering his phone?’
She shook her head.
‘Where's he live?’
FIFTEEN
Al wasn't answering his door either.
‘Maybe he's taking the cure down the pub,’ said North, but he didn't need the look he received to know that something was amiss. If that was the case he would have called in, using his best sick voice, before setting off.
They pounded the door and had several more goes at the bell.
Nothing.
‘Call his mobile again.’
Deacon couldn't see the point. North pressed his ear to Al’s letterbox.
‘Ah, shit.’
They could both hear Al’s phone ringing inside. The call tripped to voicemail and the ringing stopped.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she said. ‘Get in there.’
The building was old and the door was wooden, paint flaking, single Yale lock, probably bolts inside, but Al might not have bothered using them, the state he was in.
‘Come on!’
‘I'm convalescing. This could set me back weeks.’
He prepared to go at the door but Deacon pushed him out of the way. She tutted and charged into the door, close to the jam. It held and she went back at it. Pain filled her shoulder, but she felt the door give slightly. She stepped back and slammed the sole of her boot into the lock. One more kick and it flew inward, smashing into the hall wall.
North went in.
PC Alan Winter was sitting in the middle of the sofa, his back to them. It looked like he could have fallen asleep in front of the telly, only the telly wasn't on. North went round the front. Al was in full uniform but his trousers had been pushed down and were bunched around his boots. A needle dangled from his left, inner thigh, just below a band of rubber tied around his leg. North checked for a pulse. He was stone cold to the touch.
‘He's dead.’
North’s eyes went from the body to the coffee table in front of it. Two small, white cellophane sausages sat on it. Deacon looked on, still processing what she was seeing.
‘He never had the flu at all,’ said North, ‘he had withdrawal symptoms and I fell for it like a mug.’
‘All heart, as ever,’ Deacon found her voice. ‘He was obviously far sicker than just having a cold, and we're cops not doctors, none of us noticed. I've partnered him on and off for months and never had a Scooby.’
Deacon pulled out her radio and started to call it in.
‘We can't just call this in,’ said North. ‘We have to let the Chief know first. Look at him, the press will have a field day if this gets out, a copper sat in full uniform, trousers round his ankles, drugs from a murder scene he was at the night before on the table in front of him, needle still sticking out of his dead, overdosed cop leg. There's half a dozen stories for them in there. If we call it in Chinese whispers will have this all over the station before we even get back there.’
She made an excuse and ended the
‘Didn't you leave a note or something? Wait, Al was supposed to do it, right?’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Right.’ he said. ‘All we have left now is Rawlins’ parents.’
‘Where's that?’
‘Down the Sunderland Road.’
‘Can we swing by Al’s on the way?’
He shot her a ‘what now?’ look.
‘He didn't turn up this morning and I just checked with the station and he still hasn't called in. The sarge is a decent bloke but he can’t cover for him much longer.’
‘Al’s beginning to sound like a liability, Deacon. He's probably laid up with man flu, sparko on brandy and night nurse judging by the state he was in yesterday.’
‘He'll get bollocked if he leaves it any longer. It's not like him.’
‘Are you and he...?’
‘Give over! I'm more like his mam.’
‘Try again.’
She dialled.
‘Still not answering his phone?’
She shook her head.
‘Where's he live?’
FIFTEEN
Al wasn't answering his door either.
‘Maybe he's taking the cure down the pub,’ said North, but he didn't need the look he received to know that something was amiss. If that was the case he would have called in, using his best sick voice, before setting off.
They pounded the door and had several more goes at the bell.
Nothing.
‘Call his mobile again.’
Deacon couldn't see the point. North pressed his ear to Al’s letterbox.
‘Ah, shit.’
They could both hear Al’s phone ringing inside. The call tripped to voicemail and the ringing stopped.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she said. ‘Get in there.’
The building was old and the door was wooden, paint flaking, single Yale lock, probably bolts inside, but Al might not have bothered using them, the state he was in.
‘Come on!’
‘I'm convalescing. This could set me back weeks.’
He prepared to go at the door but Deacon pushed him out of the way. She tutted and charged into the door, close to the jam. It held and she went back at it. Pain filled her shoulder, but she felt the door give slightly. She stepped back and slammed the sole of her boot into the lock. One more kick and it flew inward, smashing into the hall wall.
North went in.
PC Alan Winter was sitting in the middle of the sofa, his back to them. It looked like he could have fallen asleep in front of the telly, only the telly wasn't on. North went round the front. Al was in full uniform but his trousers had been pushed down and were bunched around his boots. A needle dangled from his left, inner thigh, just below a band of rubber tied around his leg. North checked for a pulse. He was stone cold to the touch.
‘He's dead.’
North’s eyes went from the body to the coffee table in front of it. Two small, white cellophane sausages sat on it. Deacon looked on, still processing what she was seeing.
‘He never had the flu at all,’ said North, ‘he had withdrawal symptoms and I fell for it like a mug.’
‘All heart, as ever,’ Deacon found her voice. ‘He was obviously far sicker than just having a cold, and we're cops not doctors, none of us noticed. I've partnered him on and off for months and never had a Scooby.’
Deacon pulled out her radio and started to call it in.
‘We can't just call this in,’ said North. ‘We have to let the Chief know first. Look at him, the press will have a field day if this gets out, a copper sat in full uniform, trousers round his ankles, drugs from a murder scene he was at the night before on the table in front of him, needle still sticking out of his dead, overdosed cop leg. There's half a dozen stories for them in there. If we call it in Chinese whispers will have this all over the station before we even get back there.’
She made an excuse and ended the
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