SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller (7 page)

Recalling events in the church, David knew how the police pressure ratcheted up when one of their own was injured. It certainly had when his father received the blow to the head during a pub brawl that eventually led to him being invalided out of the force only to die three years later. David remembered one of his father’s shifts, recounting with intense satisfaction how the man who assaulted him ended up in hospital for six weeks after an incident in the cells following his arrest.

‘We look after our own,’ the officer had said. ‘Of that you can be assured.’

The attack on his father had happened around the time that David started taking drugs. Cannabis at first, bought from a spotty kid at college, then the harder stuff, crack and heroin from street dealers. When his father, by then just weeks from death although no one realised it, discovered that his son was taking drugs he refused to talk to him. Father and son never spoke again and two months later the father was dead. Heart attack, the doctors said, probably unconnected to the assault, but David knew that some of his ex-colleagues blamed it on the stress brought on by what they saw as his son’s betrayal. They had made that clear enough on the many occasions on which he had been subject to a stop and search in the months since his father died.

To David’s relief, the street was deserted.

Chapter eight

Radford drove through the night-time streets until he reached a set of park railings a couple of miles from the city centre where he got out. Glancing round to make sure that he had not been followed, the inspector walked through the gates, using the light from nearby streetlamps to pick his way along the deserted paths, past the dark waters of the lake and the dilapidated snack kiosk, then round by the play area with its vandalised equipment. Finally he reached the bandstand, the swirls of graffiti just visible in the half-light.
Gazza
in red,
Pocky
in bold blue. Memories flashed.

Just look at this place. I remember it from when I was a kid. Mum and Dad used to bring me here on Sunday afternoons, Dad still with his Saturday night hangover, head like the proverbial, Mum timid as ever, not speaking lest she spark his anger again, her black eye covered by sunglasses, more often than not, even on the gloomiest of days, and me in the middle. Always in the middle. Like now. Nothing changes. What would she think of what I’m doing? Always a big one for authority figures, was Mum. Looked up to them. No questions asked. What they said goes even if it makes no sense. Me, I reckon that you have to earn respect every day you’re on the planet, face down your critics. Be prepared to doubt even those closest to you. It’s why Connor and Gaines are right to ask questions about me. Why they are so disappointed.

Radford shook his head to banish the thoughts – England had always told him to clear his mind of all distractions. Thought of the man made him turn his attention to the burly figure that had emerged from the shadows and was approaching the bandstand from the other direction. Peter England, the detective chief superintendent in charge of the entire force CID, a burly, down-to-earth dark-haired man in his late forties, a bluff Yorkshireman who was a veteran of numerous murder inquiries and an adept political practitioner in the corridors of power at headquarters. A man now playing the highest stake of his career. England was the rule-maker and the game was top of the superintendent’s agenda as he shook the inspector’s hand.

‘You OK?’ asked England.

‘Persona non gratis, Peter. There’s plenty of folks reckon I’m on the take.’

‘I’d think the same, sunbeam. So would you. Your behaviour has been absolutely shocking. Job’s a good’ un.’

‘I suppose so,’ Radford frowned. ‘I don’t like misleading them like this, though. Particularly not Roland. He’s a good friend and a good copper and it seems wrong to keep things from him. He beginning to doubt me and it’s hurting him. Gaines has been making no secret of his doubts for weeks. Just doesn’t quite dare say it.’

England sat down on the bandstand steps and lit a cigarette, which glowed in the darkness.

‘Connor
is
a good copper,’ he said. ‘So is Gaines. Jesus, never thought I’d hear myself saying that about Michael Gaines. You’ve worked miracles with the man, Danny. Look, Connor will get my job when I make ACC but we can’t risk him knowing too much. Not yet anyway. Not when we’re this close. Heard from de Vere yet?’

‘Not yet.’ Radford patted the mobile phone in his jacket pocket. ‘Thought he would have rung by now but it won’t be long. He’ll be panicking.’

‘That what your man in the council says?’

Radford shook his head. ‘He’ll be keeping his head down now. Last thing he wants is to be seen talking to me at a time like this. And he’ll not want to fall foul of Neil Garvin, either. Everyone knows what he does to those who cross him. They only have to look at what happened to the vicar if they need reminding.’

‘Yeah, I don’t blame him for keeping out of it. How is the good reverend?’

‘Pissed off.’

‘I’ll bet he is but I am not sure either of us saw it coming. Should have really. Poke a wasp’s nest hard enough and Garvin is a nasty fucker.’ England stood up, drew on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke into the night air. He chuckled. ‘Not as nasty as you, mind, Danny. Heard you hit him good and proper. One of my better ideas, even if I say so myself, and while they do all the public hand-wringing, there’s plenty will be cheering you in private for lamping the twat.’

‘I know but Connor reckons you have no option but to suspend me, or at the very least take me off the case. I hope you know what you are doing.’

‘I told you, Danny, you leave Connor to me. You’ll not be suspended and de Vere will assume you are what he always hoped you were, a tame copper as fireproof as they come. When he knows that, he’ll make his mistake. That’s why you have to see him tonight. Give him that final push.’

England started to walk away then stopped and turned.

‘This will all be over soon,’ England waved a hand and ambled off into the night, his cigarette still glowing darkness. ‘Keep the faith, Danny.’

Struggling to keep hold of
his
faith, the bishop was still sitting at the desk in his dimly-lit office as the grandfather clock out in the hallway struck eight. He sat with his head down, his eyes closed, feeling the pressures of the world crowding in on him. Feeling suddenly older than he had ever felt before, his mind turned to his calling, as it had many times over in recent days, and he clasped his hands tight together.

‘God forgive me for I have sinned,’ he murmured.

‘That’s no way to talk,’ said a voice. The bishop started and looked over to the door. He had not heard his chaplain enter the room. Never did, it was like the man was not even flesh and blood. No wonder some called him the Holy Ghost.

‘Goodness, you gave me a fright,’ said the bishop.

‘Sorry.’ The chaplain sat down on the sofa but he did not look apologetic. He never did. ‘Just exactly what sin did you have in mind anyway?’

‘You know damned well what sin I had in mind, Charles,’ snapped the bishop. ‘If people find out how deeply we are…’

‘You worry too much. Tony Hankin will keep his trap shut, so will de Vere and even if Rowland knows anything, his credibility will be shot once people find out that he’s been thieving. That’s what I came to tell you. The doughty Sergeant Gaines has been back on, they know about the missing money.’

‘This is the last thing we need,’ groaned the bishop.

‘Is it? No one will listen to him now. We just have to keep the faith.’

‘It seems to me that we are a long way from our faith, Charles.’

The chaplain did not reply.

‘What if Gaines finds out about the deal with Hankin as well?’ asked the bishop. ‘Puts two and two together? There’s an awful lot to lose here.’

‘And eight million to gain, all of which will go to further fund our Lord’s mission.’ The chaplain patted his jacket pocket and smiled. ‘Once certain expenses have been paid first, of course. Rowland must have got the message by now, for God’s sake.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. James Rowland is a man of strong principle.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Like we all were once.’

‘Speak for yourself. Oh, don’t look like that. If Jesus were walking among us, he too would be a pragmatist, I’ve told you that before.’ The chaplain stood up and rubbed his hands. ‘Who was it that said, “I love it when a plan comes together”? That chap from the A-Team, as I recall. Good night.’

The bishop watched bleakly as the chaplain walked from the room with a spring in his step. Once he had gone, the bishop tried praying again but was overwhelmed by the feeling that no one was listening, a feeling that was growing stronger by the day. He closed his eyes but his reverie was disturbed by the return of the chaplain, who popped his head round the door. Again, the bishop did not hear him arrive.

‘I forgot to say,’ said the chaplain. ‘Don’t worry about the police. Radford has made sure that Garvin is off the hook.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed,’ said the bishop suspiciously.

‘Does not the Lord move in mysterious ways?’ The chaplain smiled enigmatically and walked out into the hall again. The bishop could swear that he heard him laughing.

The bishop waited for the front door to close and the sound of the chaplain’s car pulling away and fading into the night. He had only just closed his eyes again when his desk phone rang.

He picked it up warily.

‘I take it you have heard what happened to our Mister Rowland?’ said a voice.

‘My chaplain tells me that they have arrested Neil Garvin. If he decides to talk…’

‘Don’t worry. Radford has sorted it. I told you, the man is in our pocket.’

‘What about his sergeant? Gaines? He is asking some awkward questions and he…’

‘Just keep calm, Bishop,’ said the voice. ‘Let me handle Danny Radford and don’t worry about Gaines. He’s all washed up.’

The line went dead. This time, the bishop did not attempt to pray.

Chapter nine

Washed up might well have once accurately described Michael Gaines, indeed, it might have best summed him up for the best part of a decade as he watched his corrupt CID unit slide into the mire and did nothing to stop it. However, as he and Radford sat in the interview room, staring across the table at a baleful Neil Garvin, the sergeant appeared anything but washed up. He surveyed Garvin with unalloyed pleasure, despite his reservations at the sight of the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. Lapsed Catholic Gaines may be, but the strong moral code on which he was brought up by his God-fearing mother had remained with him and nothing gave the sergeant greater satisfaction that bringing bullies to book. He had been after Garvin for a long time.

Next to Garvin sat a thin man in a black pinstripe suit. Garvin’s lawyer. It was he who spoke.

‘My client will be submitting a formal complaint about the assault on his person,’ he said. ‘He has been the subject of an unprovoked attack.’

‘Nothing anyone does to your client is unprovoked,’ said Radford. ‘Besides, he tried to strike me. I acted in self-defence.’

‘He claims this not to be true and the barman will substantiate that. As,’ and the lawyer looked pointedly at Gaines, ‘will your sergeant, I am sure.’

Gaines said nothing.

‘You must do what you think fit,’ said Radford, not sounding interested. ‘Me, I would rather talk about the attack on the Reverend Rowland this afternoon. That is of much more interest to me.’

‘My client denies any knowledge of the incident.’

‘He was seen near the church.’

‘That’s no proof of anything,’ said the lawyer, ‘and well you know it. Lots of people walk past that church. The wasteland is a cut-through to the shops. Is that all you have?’

‘Not unless your client wants to make a confession.’

‘Like that is going to happen,’ said the lawyer. ‘We demand immediate release.’

‘I may have to accede to the request,’ said Radford blandly.

The lawyer looked surprised – he had expected more of a fight – and Gaines could not contain his dismay.

‘What, just like that?’ exclaimed the sergeant, staring in disbelief at the inspector. ‘Without even asking him any questions?’

‘What else can we do?’ asked Radford as Garvin smirked. ‘I mean, do you really think he’s going to tell us he did it? We could be sitting here for hours and it would be the same conversation going round in circles.’

‘If you think this will save your hide, I suggest you think again, Inspector,’ said the lawyer.

The DCI gestured to Garvin. ‘Go on, get out of my interview room,’ he said.

‘This does not change the fact that we will be submitting a formal complaint about your conduct,’ said the lawyer, standing up and clipping closed his briefcase. ‘We will be demanding that action be taken against you.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

Gaines tried to speak but the words would not come. When the solicitor had reached the door, and his client had walked out into the corridor, he turned back to survey the inspector with a bemused shake of the head.

‘I thought better of you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should not say this but after all the nonsense that has happened to CID in this city, I really thought that you were different. Someone we could trust. Now, it would seem that you are as bad as all the others. It looks to me that you want him to get off to protect his influential friends.’

Radford did not reply. When the lawyer had left the room, he and Garvin escorted towards reception by a uniformed officer, a furious Gaines glared at his boss.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded. ‘This not the Danny Radford I know. Maybe what people say is right, maybe you have been turned. Maybe you are as bad as the others.’

Radford met his sergeant’s gaze calmly.

Keep ranting, Gainesy-boy, keep ranting. Makes it look better.

Radford’s mobile phone rang. He glanced down at the screen.

‘De Vere’s PA,’ he said. ‘Get rid of Cranmer, will you?’

Gaines gave a snort and stalked from the room. Radford thought about calling him back. Trying to explain to him. Instead, he took the call.

‘Jason wishes to see you,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘In his office.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘I might be busy, Avril.’

‘He was most insistent. He said that it was most urgent.’

‘I imagine he did,’ said Radford, glancing at the wall clock and suddenly realising that he had not eaten for nine hours. ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

‘I’m not sure he will wait that long.’

‘He’ll wait.’

Radford ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. An image of a struggling fish on a hook came to mind, memories of the few times as a young boy when his father took him fishing down by the canal which ran along the edge of the city centre. These days, the canal was dirty and clogged with shopping trolleys, its water fouled by run-off from an industrial estate, but once it had run clean and sparkling and teemed with fish. As a child watching his father fish, Radford had felt for the creatures, felt tears sting in his eyes as he witnessed their death throes before his father dashed their brains out on a nearby brick, appearing to relish the experience. No throwing them back in his world.

Not this time either. Let the fish twist and squirm a little longer, watch for the fear in its eyes as it gasps for air. Let it fight for its life before we dash out its brains.

Radford smiled.

Sport indeed. Let the bastard wait a little longer.

Suddenly feeling weary, Michael Gaines walked down to the cells.

‘I need to see Cranmer,’ he said to the custody officer.

‘I’ll bet you do. This true that your governor has let Garvin go?’

‘News does travel fast.’

‘Bad news does. You know, until tonight I didn’t believe all the shit about Danny Radford. Too straight-laced to be bent but now…’ He shook his head.

Gaines did not say anything and together they walked down the corridor to Des Cranmer’s cell. Cranmer looked up as they entered.

‘On your feet,’ said the custody officer.

Cranmer looked at him in confusion.

‘What, you letting me go?’ he said.

‘On the orders of DCI Radford,’ nodded the custody officer.

Cranmer stood up and looked at Gaines.

‘He’s bent that one,’ he said.

Gaines could think of nothing to say. Watching the officer escort Cranmer out of the custody suite, the sergeant felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

Radford sat in the canteen, eating his meal in silence, acutely aware of the dark looks from other officers, then headed back out into the corridor. As the inspector passed the door to the CID room he glanced to see Gaines sitting at his desk, head in hands, the picture of dejection. The sergeant looked up at his boss.

‘I thought you had gone to see your little friend,’ said Gaines accusingly.

‘Just off there now.’

Sod the game.

‘Can I trust you?’ asked the inspector, walking over to the sergeant and putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I mean really trust you?’

‘I am beginning to wonder if I can trust you.’

‘Understandable, Michael. Tell me, you ever read any Homer?’ Radford sat down on a nearby chair. ‘Specifically
The Odyssey
. Bit heavy going but not bad for all that.’

Gaines looked confused.

‘Homer? The guy off The Simpsons?’ he said.

‘Philistine. No, it’s the first mention in literature of the Trojan Horse. I studied it for my Classics degree. Surely you’ve heard the story?’

‘Yeah, as a kid, but quite what some big horse…’

‘Worth Googling it, refresh the memory,’ said Radford, standing up. ‘Right, I’m going to see de Vere. Assuming someone will open the gates to let me in.’

Gaines watched him go with a sudden lightening of the heart. Within a couple of seconds Radford was back.

‘Oh, and keep this to yourself,’ he said, solemn-faced and pointing a finger at the sergeant. ‘You can tell Connor but no one else. Let them think what they will.’

Gaines opened his mouth but Radford beat him to it.

‘And no questions,’ he said.

As Radford walked out into the corridor, the sergeant remembered his conversation with the chaplain. He ran out into the corridor.

‘Guv!’ he shouted.

Radford walked back down the corridor.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I clean forgot what with all the stuff about Garvin,’ said Gaines, opening his notebook again. ‘Our friend the Reverend Rowland was on the rob.’

‘Get away. From whom?’

‘His own church. Several thousands. The bishop’s chaplain told me. They hoped to keep it secret.’

‘That is interesting because, for all I think Garvin is guilty, I do keep coming back to the Bible.’

‘Yeah, so do I.’ Gaines flicked over a couple of pages in his notebook. ‘How hard it is for those who have riches to enter the Kingdom of God?’

Radford nodded. ‘Now, it may indeed have been the vicar who underlined it as part of his sermon…’

‘Except it’s the only passage underlined in the whole book.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. So let’s assume that the Bible does not belong to the vicar, that would mean that whoever did it was sending him a message. Presumably about all the money that’s gone missing.’

‘Garvin?’

‘Bit subtle for Neil Garvin. Maybe someone else has it in for him as well.’

‘Should I do some digging around?’

Radford hesitated for a few moments then nodded.

‘Yeah, why not?’ he said.

Once the inspector had gone again, Gaines switched on his computer and did as Radford had instructed. Having Googled the Trojan Horse, he looked up thoughtfully as Connor entered the room.

‘Where’s Danny?’ asked the superintendent.

‘You just missed him. Gone to see de Vere.’

‘Doubtless to tell him that he’s let Garvin go.’ Connor sat down heavily on the same chair that Radford had occupied. ‘Go on, Michael, look me in the eye and tell me that Danny has not turned.’

‘I’m not sure he has, sir.’

Connor stared at him. ‘What makes you say that?’ he said. ‘Every other bastard thinks that he has and he’s hardly acting like Mister Innocent.’

‘Ever read any Homer?’ asked Gaines. ‘Bit heavy going but good for all that.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked the superintendent. ‘This is hardly the time to…’

‘He wrote the story of the Trojan Horse did Homer. Worth Googling it,’ said Gaines and turned his computer round.

Connor looked at the image of the horse, read the text and sat back in his chair with a relieved smile.

‘Maybe you are right, Michael,’ he said. ‘Maybe the good inspector is playing a game. It would explain why Peter England has just rung me and told me that he will not be suspended. Chief’s orders, apparently.’

‘What better way to gain de Vere’s trust than do something to get him off the hook?’ said Gaines. ‘Garvin has become fire-proof because of what the DCI did. We’d just got it wrong as to why.’

Connor lowered his voice. ‘Best keep this to ourselves for the moment,’ he said. ‘If he is playing a game, it’s a dangerous one and the last thing we want to do is queer his pitch.’

‘Exactly what the DCI said.’

George Roberts sat in the dimly-lit living room of his terraced house and stared at the ten and twenty pound notes piled up on the dining table. The old man sighed. He knew that what he had done was wrong, that stealing from the church was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, that he should have admitted it long before now, but once he had started taking the money, it had become so easy to do and so difficult to stop. Besides, his massaging of the accounts had seemed to go unnoticed. Not that James Rowland would have ever believed that such a thing was possible anyway. George had always regarded him as a man whose naivety bordered on stupidity.

Now, as on so many occasions in the previous weeks, George wondered if he too had been a fool. An old fool being taken for a ride. When his wife had the stroke the year before, and the doctors told him that she would probably never make a full recovery, he had been desperate, had clung to every shred of hope, which was when he started surfing the internet and found the website offering miracle cures based on ancient Chinese medicines.

At first, he had been sceptical about the claims but when Mavis started to show signs of improvement after taking the first doses, the old man had started to believe that there may be something in it, had been prepared to spend money on more of the potions. But he was not a rich man and the temptation of the money piling up in the collection plate from well-wishing people wishing to help the protest campaign had proved too strong.

However, now that the police were involved, and asking questions, George Roberts knew that his time was running out.