Grave Doubts (10 page)

The slice of salmon disappeared and the cat licked the floor where it had lain before looking up expectantly for more. Nightingale opened the front door and set another piece of fish just outside, then a third on the top of the stairs before throwing the last piece onto the half-landing below her.

The cat made a run for the second piece, grabbed it and swerved away as she went to push it outside. She missed but it ran along the landing anyway and she slammed the door behind it. Through the peephole she watched it turn and stare at her flat before eating the third sliver and heading down the stairs.

Her hands were shaking as she locked the door again and wedged a chair beneath the handle. She scrubbed the floor clean, vacuumed the carpet and dusted everywhere that the cat might have touched, then she ran a bath. The intrusion into her flat, the sight of Fenwick with Claire, and the news of his wife’s death had stretched her feelings to breaking point. It occurred to her that she had at last arrived at a clear choice. She could give in to the self-pitying malaise and fear that had threatened to overwhelm her since the trial or pull herself together.

Whoever put the cat in her flat must have hoped to scare her witless and make her paranoid but they were going to be disappointed. She felt something of her old courage return, a grain of tough self-sufficiency that she feared had been lost forever.

As her bath filled, she checked the answering machine: six calls, five silent heavy-breathers and one message. ‘Welcome home,’ a man’s voice said, then laughed. The fine hair on her arms rose and she rubbed them vigorously. On her PC she had three Emails from ‘Pandora’. She deleted them all.

In the warm, lavender-scented water she laid back, closed her eyes and tried to think. She should report the break-in and the phone calls. They were linked – the last message made that clear – and somebody had invaded her home; she had to take that seriously. But would her colleagues at Harlden treat it the same way? One or two of them would; George Wicklow and, of course, Bob Cooper, but there were plenty of others who still resented her promotion and would spread the story about with a negative twist. Neurotic, that’s what they’d call her; attention-seeking. And Quinlan would insist on her moving away for her own good. The thought of the consequences of making a formal report made her shudder but she could no longer ignore the fact that somebody had decided to try and terrorise her. It was time to do something about it and she would after her shift finished tomorrow.

Mentally she was beginning to feel better. Physically she was a wreck. She could count her ribs even if she didn’t breathe in; her wrist and anklebones were sharp; her head ached and her eyes were hot and dry. It was possible that she had a temperature. She told herself that all she needed was a decent night’s sleep and a good meal to put her right, and she almost believed it.

After her bath she cooked herself scrambled egg on toast and made herself eat it all. She felt sick but more alert than she’d been for some time. Before going to bed early she re-checked every possible entry into her flat. They were all secure, with no marks to suggest how her intruder had gained access but she looked up the name of a locksmith to call in the morning anyway. At nine o’clock, she took a half a sleeping tablet, hoping that its effects would have worn off by six when the alarm would wake her. The next thing she was aware of was the bell from the clock, faithful to time, summoning her to the morning. With gritty eyes and a dry mouth she rose to confront the new day.

Blite met the team at the rendezvous point. It was already twenty degrees even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock. Despite the heat, the Inspector was wearing a jumper beneath his jacket and he looked terrible. The whole team was to be positioned out of sight around the estate. One of the more experienced officers objected.

‘There are only ten of us, including you. Shouldn’t there be more?’

‘Waste of resources. We know where the post office is and all the attacks have been within three hundred yards of it.’

He jabbed a grubby handkerchief at a plan of the estate opened on the bonnet of his car. In two dimensions it all seemed logical, and Blite had only visited the location once. Perhaps he’d forgotten the walkways and stairwells, the ants’ hill of passages that made up the site. They would never be able to cover it.

Nightingale stifled a sneeze and took a sip of water from one of the bottles she had remembered to bring with her. Two others were frozen solid within a rucksack in the hope that they would hold their chill during the heat of the day. Blite coughed again and spat phlegm onto the cracked tarmac before putting a hand to his ribs. Mentally she shook her head. Blite didn’t have the instincts of a wombat and was a useless operational officer.

She studied the plan, superimposing onto it her limited knowledge of the estate. If the attackers doubled back, away from the post office, they had a choice of at least four escape routes, one of which passed close to the derelict flat in which she was sentenced to spend the day with Richard Rike the doughnut monster. Even with her limited experience she estimated that they needed another four officers. She opened her mouth to add her concern to that already raised.

‘With respect, when one takes into account the walkways above, and the alleys, it will be very difficult to cover all possible escape routes. The teams on the periphery will be too far away if there’s an attack.’

Blite looked at her in astonishment, his disdain undermined by his bulbous red nose and watering eyes.

‘When I want your opinion, Sergeant, I’ll ask for it. Now shut it and get into position before the whole estate is awake.’

Rike pulled at her sleeve and she followed him.

‘That took balls,’ he glanced at her, ‘so to speak, but it was hopeless, I could’ve told you that. I’ve worked with him too often to even bother any more. We’ll be OK though, he usually has the luck of Old Nick. I reckon he’s sold his soul.’

‘As long as he doesn’t sell ours as well while he’s at it.’

Rike opened a greasy bag and shoved it towards her. ‘Bacon sarni? Home made by Linda, my better half. She got up early to see me off.’

It was said with pride and she took one to avoid hurting his feelings.

‘Why is Superintendent Quinlan giving Blite so much of the tough stuff?’

‘Instead of DCI Fenwick you mean?’ He eyed her shrewdly but she was a good poker player. ‘Rumour has is that the ACC wants to see more on Blite’s CV ASAP. Thinks Quinlan’s kept him in the backroom too much.’

That made sense. Word on the evergreen and usually healthy grapevine was that the promotion boards were looking for more ‘real’ police experience these days. Front line skills were in demand again.

In their stinking hide, Nightingale shivered and stifled another sneeze. She cursed Blite’s germ-ridden briefings. The first bottle of water went quickly but she was sweating so much that she didn’t need to go and find another room to squat in to relieve herself. The shivers started before eight and she took two Nurofen. Rike seemed fine.

‘Never catch cold, me. Constitution of an ox. Me grandad lived to ninety-three, and two of his sisters are still alive. A long-lived family we are. Doughnut? Feed a cold, they say.’

Nightingale shook her head and rubbed one of the icy bottles against her forehead. Sweat trickled between her breasts and down her back. Richard slipped out for coffees and this time he remembered her order. She sipped the bitter, black liquid and turned from hot to freezing cold. This felt more like flu and she cursed her stupid body for its weakness. It’s all in the mind she tried telling herself, then sneezed three times. Her radio transmitter squawked loudly and Richard rushed to turn down the volume. The operations centre had DI Blite back with them and he ordered Rike to another vantage point about thirty metres away. He slipped the radio into his pocket and turned to go.

‘Don’t forget this.’ Nightingale handed him his Kevlar vest and he touched his forehead in thanks.

An hour later, she could see him pacing back and forth in his tatty shirtsleeves, trying to walk the cramp from his legs. Her own muscles spasmed sympathetically and her back ached. Part of her brain said that it would be sensible to call in sick but then she remembered how much worse Blite had been and guessed that he would only tell her to stay put. But when she found herself about to the leave the flat for some fresh air her stupidity made her shudder. There was no question in her mind now that she had to go home. One call to Operations and a replacement would be on its way.

She looked around for her radio but it was nowhere to be found. Rike must have taken hers with him by mistake after he had silenced it. All she had was her mobile phone. One button dialled Harlden station and she waited impatiently for the switchboard to answer.

There was quite a stir in the Operations Room when DI Blite collapsed. Sergeant John Adams, the nearest first aider enjoyed being at the centre of attention but his pleasure faded as he stared down at Blite’s corpulent form and the contagious air around him.

‘It’s this viral flu,’ said Sergeant Wicklow knowingly as he watched John check vital signs and call an ambulance. ‘My next door neighbour’s got it. He’s been terrible. In bed for a week, doctor out every other day.’ He jerked his hand towards the man lying unconscious on the floor. ‘Should have stayed at home. All he’s done is bring his germs in here.’

John wasn’t a fan of DI Blite but he recognised a very ill man when he saw one.

‘This might be pneumonia. Be a bit more sympathetic, poor bugger’s not well.’

Wicklow sniffed without compassion and turned his attention to his duties. The first priority was to alert the Superintendent that his SIO on a live operation was out cold. Quinlan’s response was predictably direct.

‘Find Fenwick, quickly.’

The Chief Inspector was tracked down to another endless meeting on new procedures that the Superintendent had delegated to him. He listened, suddenly attentive, and went to find Cooper for a briefing. Despite the Sergeant’s studied neutrality it took Fenwick less than five minutes to share his concern that the surveillance was under-resourced. He swallowed a sharp remark that would have betrayed how little respect he had for Blite and called Quinlan’s office. On his way up the stairs, with Cooper increasingly lagging behind, he asked about the gang’s MO.

‘Are they armed?’

‘A baseball bat. No guns or knives so far.’ Cooper paused at a turn in the stairs and gulped in air.

‘That’s bad enough. What back-up’s been arranged?’

‘The minimum and an alert in Ops to be on standby.’

‘Bloody stupid, penny-pinching prick.’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘Nothing. I’ll see you in Quinlan’s office.’

Then he was gone though the door.

‘We need more resources, sir.’

‘So soon!’ Quinlan laughed. ‘I had expected ooh, at least,’ he pretended to consult his watch, ‘another hour before this request.’

‘I’m serious. I think this operation could be heading for disaster. At best it might fail, at worst someone could be hurt.’

‘How many more.’

‘Eight, six at a pinch, just for the rest of the day. I’ll reconsider tonight if nothing happens.’

There was a hesitant tap on the door and Cooper walked in.

‘Bob, help Andrew find another six. It’s got my backing. You’ll be going straight out there yourself, I imagine.’

‘Of course I will.’

Perspiration was dripping from Nightingale’s chin onto the bare wood of the windowsill where it evaporated in magnified sunlight within thirty seconds. She watched in fascination as the dark blot shrank and faded from sight, almost hypnotised by the process. The operations centre had told her to stay put until a relief officer could reach her. She’d given up counting seconds, now she marked time by keeping note of the number of sneezes per minute. The record so far was six.

Every joint in her body ached, even the knuckles in her fingers and toes throbbed. Occasionally her vision blurred, nothing dramatic, just a faint fogging around the edges. Whatever virus Blite had given her, something in her body had supercharged the germs and she was failing fast. At one o’clock she drank the last of her water and tried to eat an apple she’d brought with her. After some unsuccessful scrapes at the skin she threw it away. Rike hadn’t returned to the flat and he still had her radio.

There was a noise from outside, not alarming just unusual. She peered out of the window and Richard’s head popped up over a wall, but there was nothing for either of them to see.

She heard another sound an obvious shout this time and straightened up, flexing her toes within her trainers. Across the square, about two hundred metres away, she saw two figures creep around the corner. One looked no older than sixteen his companion was even younger. They were hiding, so tense that even at this distance she could feel it, like cats waiting to pounce. An old man ran through a passageway into the square, glancing back fearfully over his shoulder. The gang must have split into two – drivers and catchers.

Nightingale watched the boys waiting to spring their trap, unable to alert the others because Richard had taken her radio. The old man had almost reached his hidden attackers yet the square remained empty. She had to decide – watch and wait in the hope that help would arrive or break cover to save the old man from hurt but risk his attackers escaping. There was really no choice.

Her legs felt like jelly but she moved as fast as she could, buckling her vest as she went. Outside it was like running through water. The square was massive, the old man too far away. One of the boys already had an arm around his throat.

‘Police.’ Her cry was a feeble croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Police!’

That was better. There was another shout, Richard’s echoed ‘Police’ as he reached the square far behind her. He too was wearing his Kevlar vest.

The teenagers dropped their victim in an untidy heap on the ground and started running towards Nightingale. She had thought that they would turn away but she’d under-estimated their aggression. As they closed on her she studied their eyes and realised that they were high on something. When they saw Richard, they hesitated and the younger of the two started backing away towards the passage. Two against a single woman might have been good odds but Richard looked as if he meant business.