SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller by JOHN STANLEY Page A

and out into the street. To his relief, it was deserted so he ran fast and hard until he was well away from the squat and could slow down, his breath coming heavy and laboured, and suddenly acutely conscious of the pain in his injured knee.
    Back in the house, the uniforms had burst into the living room and rounded up Roper and Farron.
    ‘Hey!’ protested Roper, trying to struggle free of a uniform’s grip but too weak to do so, ‘we ain’t done nothing wrong!’
    ‘Well, well,’ said Perlow, recognising him through the gloom. ‘If it isn’t Guy Roper. Wondered which sewer you had crawled into. You look shit.’ He glanced at the other drug user. ‘Who’s your pal then?’
    Roper said nothing but one of the uniforms said, ‘That’s Jonny Farron. Right smackhead. They both are. Lifted them for dealing few months back. The soft bitch of a magistrate gave them another chance. Not sure they’ll be so lucky this time.’
    ‘Maybe they can help themselves,’ said Perlow, staring hard at both of them. ‘Where’s David Roberts?’
    ‘Never heard of him,’ said Roper. He twisted to look at the uniform. ‘Gerroff, you’re hurting my arm!’
    ‘I’ll hurt a damn sight more than that,’ snarled the uniform as his colleague with the broken ankle, limped into the room and slumped heavily onto the sofa, his face ashen and twisted in pain.
    ‘This is police brutality,’ protested Roper as the officer twisted his arm even more so that he squealed in pain. ‘I’m going to report you to…’
    ‘Listen, sunbeam,’ hissed the uniform, ‘my mate is in hospital getting his face stitched back together thanks to your scumbag pal and Dennis here does not look too clever either so you tell us where he is or…’ He let the unfinished sentence hang heavy in the musty air of the living room but gave Roper’s arm another twist.
    Despite the threat and despite the ugly expression on the uniform’s face, neither Farron nor Roper replied.
    ‘Take them away,’ sighed Perlow, nodding at the uniform. ‘We’ll find him with or without their help. He’ll not get far. Oh, and search the place for drugs. They’ll learn soon enough not to fuck us about.’
     
    The night security man let Radford in through the side entrance of City Hall and up the ornate stairs to the second floor, along dimly-lit corridors, the inspector’s shoes clicking on the marble floor as they walked. When they reached the office of Jason de Vere, the security man ushered Radford in and left them alone. The council leader was standing at the window, staring down at the traffic, his angular frame silhouetted against the lights of the night-time city. He did not turn as Radford took his seat.
    ‘Who was on the phone to you just now?’ asked the council leader. ‘It sounded pretty intense.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Radford, inwardly cursing himself for taking the call where de Vere could look down on him, ‘seems there’s a problem with my PPI.’
    ‘We seem to have a bigger problem than that,’ said de Vere, still not turning round.
    ‘ You have a problem, Jason. Not we.’
    Finally, the council leader turned back into the room and walked over to sit down behind his desk. He eyed the inspector in silence for a few moments. De Vere had always found the detective intriguing; every time he thought that he had worked him out, the DCI did or said something to make him think again. Perhaps, thought de Vere as the DCI calmly returned the gaze, that was what had attracted him to the officer in the first place. The idea of turning the unturnable. De Vere knew that every principle has its price. Now was the test of all that he thought he had achieved with the chief inspector.
    ‘I prefer we, actually,’ he said. ‘As I have made clear to you in the past, Danny, this partnership between police and council comes with a measure of accountability.’
    ‘Dress it up in whatever words you fancy, Jason, but I am not sure I can help you if you are connected to the