catching at a breath.
‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’
‘Seven.’
‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’
‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash–he knew about those–or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.
He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…
Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged downthe rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.
The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s
objets
could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.
There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.
The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.
Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat down to inspect the folder. He tipped out a silver necklace and gazed at the heart-shaped links, remembering the dead girl, Laura Maples.
Eventually he dropped it back into the folder and pulled out various documents. A tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out with them. Brook held the plastic bag for a moment then took the small package back to the cellarand dropped it into the trunk then returned to examine the pile of documents.
He skimmed quickly through the chronological landmarks of his descent into hell and extracted the relevant photocopied reports, newspaper cuttings and the photographs Brook had taken with his own camera while on stakeout. Technically he shouldn’t have taken photocopies of official documents, but the Met was fairly relaxed about procedure in those days. Now they would have had his warrant card on the fire before he’d have time to call the Police Federation.
There was a number, scribbled on the back of a report. He picked up the phone and pondered. It was a long time ago. He shrugged and dialled. Coppers rarely moved house unless they were transferring. They needed a familiar haven around them, like a favoured tatty shirt–a place to hide in safety and comfort from the hell of other people’s society. The other end picked up on the first ring.
‘Hello.’
Brook discerned more than a suspicion of alcohol in the voice. ‘Charlie, is that you?’
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell. Brooky. I’ve been hoping you’d call. Wasn’t sure you’d still have the number.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fucking shit-faced, mate. How are you?’
‘Considering it.’
‘You lying bastard,’
ex-DCI Charlie
‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’
‘Seven.’
‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’
‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash–he knew about those–or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.
He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…
Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged downthe rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.
The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s
objets
could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.
There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.
The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.
Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat down to inspect the folder. He tipped out a silver necklace and gazed at the heart-shaped links, remembering the dead girl, Laura Maples.
Eventually he dropped it back into the folder and pulled out various documents. A tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out with them. Brook held the plastic bag for a moment then took the small package back to the cellarand dropped it into the trunk then returned to examine the pile of documents.
He skimmed quickly through the chronological landmarks of his descent into hell and extracted the relevant photocopied reports, newspaper cuttings and the photographs Brook had taken with his own camera while on stakeout. Technically he shouldn’t have taken photocopies of official documents, but the Met was fairly relaxed about procedure in those days. Now they would have had his warrant card on the fire before he’d have time to call the Police Federation.
There was a number, scribbled on the back of a report. He picked up the phone and pondered. It was a long time ago. He shrugged and dialled. Coppers rarely moved house unless they were transferring. They needed a familiar haven around them, like a favoured tatty shirt–a place to hide in safety and comfort from the hell of other people’s society. The other end picked up on the first ring.
‘Hello.’
Brook discerned more than a suspicion of alcohol in the voice. ‘Charlie, is that you?’
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell. Brooky. I’ve been hoping you’d call. Wasn’t sure you’d still have the number.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fucking shit-faced, mate. How are you?’
‘Considering it.’
‘You lying bastard,’
ex-DCI Charlie
Similar Books
