Mortal Men (The Lakeland Murders Book 7) (8 page)

Like I say, they’ll not nab me. It’ll not be like last time. I worked alone, and kept my counsel. I’ll not get grassed. Not this time. And the cops will back off when they’ve done their duty. Duty? They don’t know the meaning of the word. Bloody civil servants with truncheons, most of them. And they didn’t lay a finger on me tonight, did they? Just going through the motions, following procedure. So long as they do that they’ll all get their promotions, and polish their pensions. All I need to do is keep my head down and wait. Because as soon as they’ve worked their way through the list, and ticked all their boxes, they’ll just move on. It’s just a job to them, not a bloody crusade. Last time they were lucky, and we were stupid. All right, I was stupid. But not this time.

So was it all worth it? No doubt about it, the planning paid off. I’m not going back to prison. Not in this lifetime. But the moment itself, what about that? I didn’t enjoy it, never thought I would, but I had to fire the second time. He might have just bled out otherwise, and been conscious the whole time. And I wouldn’t do that, not to a beast. So it was the right thing to do, no doubt about that. He took years of my life, and Christ I could do with them back now. It was justice, pure and simple. That’s what it was, and I’ve no regrets. Not a bloody one.

Jane Francis was always happy to see Sandy Smith, so long as she’d had time to prepare properly. A trip to the cake shop, that went without saying, but it had to be preceded by a very thorough reading of the file. Because one thing that Sandy hated - one of the many things that Sandy hated - was coppers who didn’t read her reports carefully enough. But that had never been a problem for Jane, because the dry, scientific language that Sandy used when she wrote, and which was so at odds with her speech, was every bit as familiar as the smell of the interview rooms at the station. It was as if she’d always known them both.

Sandy accepted the box of cakes, made her usual joke about starting a diet tomorrow, and laid them on the table in her office with all the care that she’d show to the most vital piece of forensic evidence.

‘Thanks for coming up here’ said Sandy, ‘we’re right under the fucking gun at the moment. If you see what I mean.’

Jane smiled, knowing that she was expected to. ‘No problem. It’s good to show my face at HQ every once in a while.’

‘Really?’ Sandy looked surprised. ‘It’s never done me any good. Still, a nice opportunity to see Andy, I suppose.’

‘Hardly. I only saw him a couple of hours ago. And nothing interesting will have happened since then.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because it never does, not now. He just goes to meetings and sends emails. I’m starting to feel guilty about pushing him into taking the job, to tell the truth.’

‘Shame. Do you want a coffee and a bit of chat, before we start?’

‘Anything that I need to get the team looking at right now?’

‘No, sorry. We’ve got the gun, but not the smoke.’

‘Come again.’

‘There’s no smoking gun, Jane.’

Sandy selected her cake with care, while Jane just took the one that was nearest. But then she’d made the selection in the shop, and she liked them all.

‘So why did Andy take the bloody job, then? He must have known that he’d be working with a right bunch of twats.’

‘The pension, mainly. It’ll mean a decent bump.’

‘Doesn’t his ex get half of it, though?’

‘Don’t remind me. I’ll be working ’til I’m bloody ninety at this rate.’

‘Really? I thought you might be thinking about breeding, like.’

‘Christ, Sandy, you make me sound like a prize milker.’

‘Who said anything about any fucking prize?’ said Sandy cheerfully, as she reached for another cake.

Jane laughed. ‘So what have you got for me? The gun’s been dismantled and swabbed, is that right?’

‘Yes, we got some DNA, so that’s away for analysis, and I’ve asked for a specialist examination of the shotgun. Metallurgy, the oils used, everything.’

‘And we’re confident that it’s the one we think it is?’

‘Unless that posh bloke who identified it has any reason to lie then yes, that’s a safe assumption. There were no serial numbers on shotguns when this was made, not on many of them anyway, so I’m relying on that identification. But there’s no evidence that there’s been any attempt to alter its appearance, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘And no prints, not anywhere?’

‘That’s right. I’d say that the gun was wiped with a mildly acidic cleaner, so there’s not a trace of a print.’

‘Hardly an unpremeditated crime, then?’

‘That’s not for me to say, Jane. But your killer made a good job of cleaning that gun, a bloody good job. That’s why I was a bit surprised to find those DNA traces.’

‘Surprised, or suspicious?’

‘The former. Christ, I’ve been doing this job for long enough to know that the ones who get away with it are usually just lucky. Thick as pig dribble, most of the cons are.’

Jane nodded.

‘How about the clothing from our two suspects?’

‘Clean as a whistle, forensically speaking at least. No powder, no spatter from the victim. And before you ask, both sets had been worn, and we’re checking their footwear against the locations that they claim to have been at. I’ve got a team out now, collecting the samples.’

‘But you’re expecting them to both be OK?’

‘No reason not to. Like I said, there’s no smoking gun. Not so far, anyway.’

‘Shit, Sandy. Why me? Andy gets kicked upstairs and then five minutes later we get a brutal murder with not one but two tailor-made suspects, absolutely bloody perfect, and it looks like we can’t prove that either of them did it. Neither of them has got a bloody alibi either, so decent forensics would have sealed the deal, I expect.’

‘I’m not saying they didn’t do it, Jane. You know that just as well as I do. What I’m saying is that they didn’t do it in the clothes we’ve recovered, that we can’t prove that either of them fired that shotgun, nor that either of them ever set foot in the victim’s home. It’s not the same as me saying that they didn’t do it. I just can’t prove that they did, that’s all.’

Jane nodded glumly. ‘It adds up to the same thing though, doesn’t it? We’ve taken witness statements and examined what little CCTV that’s relevant. They were either wearing those clothes, or ones just like them, yesterday. No doubt about that, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t tell you this, but Andy reckons that we’ve come to rely on your branch of the service too much to get results where serious offences are concerned. Cons are cowed by a bit of DNA, and juries are convinced by it.’

Sandy laughed. ‘If he says that to my face I’ll ask for a bloody pay rise. And some new kit for the lab too. But look on the bright side, lass.’

‘What bright side?’

‘Well, this is the perfect chance to prove the old man wrong, now isn’t it? Get your man without relying on DNA. Just good old fashioned Police work.’

‘But I’m a modern woman, Sandy. I thought that much was obvious.’

‘Modern my arse. Still, you’re this year’s bloody model, compared to Andy, I will give you that. He’s the only bloke in this whole bloody force who still holds doors open for me.’

‘Do you mind that?’

‘Of course not. Saves me doing it, doesn’t it?’

The old man was feeling his age and superfluous in equal measure. Hall had been in his office all morning, and not a single person had knocked at his door. He’d had email to deal with, plenty of that, but Hall knew that he’d been promoted beyond the point at which what he did made any kind of difference to anything that mattered. He thought about Ray Dixon, his old DC and a man who had spent a fair chunk of each of his working days thinking about retirement, and for the first time Hall began to understand why he did that. It wasn’t that retirement held any particular appeal to Hall, quite the opposite in fact, but this job was beginning to feel like limbo, or like being a ghost, aware of everything that was happening, but unable to influence it in any meaningful way. He hoped that Dixon hadn’t felt like that. ‘I can’t even rattle the bloody windows’ said Hall, to his computer monitor.

But Jane had been right. He had to admit that, and just get on with it. With the way things were he needed the considerable boost to his pension that promotion to Superintendent brought, and it was a bit of a tradition for officers close to retirement to get a last leg up, care of the Council Tax payers. He was just following in some illustrious - and many more time-serving - footsteps, after all. And though the pension rules were due to change it wouldn’t make any difference to Hall. So maybe age did have one or two advantages.

Hall very much doubted that his boss saw it that way, though. How anyone managed to becomes an ACC before he was forty was beyond Hall. How had he managed to shin up the greasy pole that fast without his trousers actually catching fire? And Peter, ‘call me Pete’, Thompson certainly seemed sure of himself, even though he seemed to have achieved his exalted rank without any meaningful operational experience whatever. But, Hall conceded to himself, since his current job was so far removed from the front line that probably wasn’t much of a disadvantage. It might actually work in Thompson’s favour, since any knowledge of the realities of Policing would probably just confuse the issue. Whatever it actually was.

There was just one file on Hall’s desk, a draft review of procedures to be followed in cases of suspected internet fraud, and Hall had actually found it interesting, useful even. There were two or three excellent ideas, plus a couple that were even more attractive but entirely impractical, as well as a few that showed an almost childlike lack of understanding of how criminals’ minds worked. Because nearly thirty years in the job had taught him that, in many cases, career criminals had some specific characteristics in common. Laziness, and a lack of attention to detail, were traits he’d come across often. And the one characteristic that they almost all shared was an absolute, almost pathological, level of self-centredness. As an economist by nature as well as by education Hall was more than willing to believe that all human interactions were based on self-interest, but there were limits. But for some folk everyone else, including close family, were potential victims. No exceptions, no appeals allowed. But you needed to have talked to cons, or rather listened to them, to ever really understand that fact.

But he’d made some notes that he thought would be useful, so he printed them out, added them to the file, and set off for Thompson’s office. It was a floor up, and Hall took the stairs. He’d made an effort to lose a bit of weight, this last few months, and it had been working. Up to a point, anyway. But his suit trousers did feel a bit less tight, he was almost sure of it.

He wasn’t remotely out of breath when he reached Thompson’s office, so he knocked briefly on the closed door and went straight in. It’s what he always did, because Thompson took pride in his door always being open - even when it wasn’t. But before Hall had quite crossed the threshold he knew that he should have waited.

‘This is totally unacceptable, Will, what the fuck were you thinking?’

Thompson was standing, red faced, on the opposite side of his meeting table from Will Armstrong, a young civilian analyst who Hall had met a few times, and who was sitting on the side nearest the door. But Thompson was leaning right forward, his hands flat on the table, and his face was just a foot or so from Armstrong’s.

‘Get out of here’ he said, drawing back and dropping his voice just a little when he saw Hall. ‘But you haven’t heard the last of this. You’ll be clearing your desk, if I have my way. And I bloody well will have my way.’

The young man got up fast, and came past Hall in a hurry. But Hall was still almost sure that he could see tears in his eyes. And there was one thing that he was sure about, though. Because Andy Hall had been a proper copper, and he’d seen offenders display almost every kind of anti-social and downright shitty behaviour, up-close and first-hand. And the type that he disliked the most, the ones who he always wanted to be up in front of the beak when his piles were red raw, were the bullies. He just could not abide a bully.

‘Yes, Andy?’ said Thompson, sitting down at his desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve got that Home Office report. I’ve made a few notes.’

‘Oh, that. Great. Just drop it there, would you? We won’t be offering any comments.’

‘Really? I did have a couple of suggestions.’

‘I’m sure you did. Policy, I’m afraid.’ Thompson gestured skyward, and Hall was unsure which higher power he was referring to. They were already on the top floor.

‘That’s a pity. There were a couple of operational points…’

‘Forget about all that now, Andy. You take my tip. We’re all about strategy here, aren’t we? The big picture, the long view.’ Hall waited for the last in the trio to be mentioned, and it wasn’t long in coming. ‘The helicopter view.’

Hall nodded, because he’d already thought of a way round Thompson. He had an old mate at the Home Office who he’d seen was a co-author, so he’d route his comments through him. It wouldn’t make any difference of course, because no-one in Whitehall would give a shit about what a Superintendent in a provincial force thought about anything, but it would make him feel a bit better.

The colour was fading from Thompson’s face now. He seemed surprised that Hall was still there, taking up his strategic time. ‘Was there anything else, Andy?’

‘There wasn’t, but there is now. About young Will Armstrong.’

‘Yes. Absolutely bloody useless, isn’t he? He can’t even add up. He’s dropped me right in it with the Chief this time, I can tell you. I’ll look a right tit now, if you’ll pardon my French.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but…’

‘But what, Superintendent?’

‘I’m not comfortable with the way that you were speaking to him, or your body language. We do need to be aware of our position.’

Thompson’s face flushed again.