Slice (25 page)

THE PHONE CALL
summoning Fulton to the chief constable’s office came as he was wading through a pile of month-old newspaper cuttings covering the Slicer case, borrowed from the incident room. The chief’s secretary was icily non-committal as to what the ‘old man’ wanted to see him about. ‘Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty then, Mr Fulton,’ she repeated and put the phone down.

Fulton stood there for several minutes, staring out of the lounge window and turning things over in his mind. He was relieved to see just two of his neighbours standing gossiping in the street by his gate, instead of the droves of press reporters and photographers who had besieged his home for so long.

He had already been officially told that he was off the hook for the murder of Janet and her boyfriend, Doyle, after Oates’s DNA had been found on the abandoned pickaxe handle used to batter them both to death, and that had to be the best news he had received for many days. As a bonus, formal court proceedings for all his other misdemeanours had also been ruled out as ‘not in the public interest’ by an unusually conciliatory CPS, in consultation with the Independent Police Complaints Commission, and, incredibly, no disciplinary action was to be taken against him either. Someone at the top, it seemed, was doing their level best to ensure that the the Slicer case was completely buried with the remains of George Oates, and he could certainly appreciate why.

The dramatic and gruesome end to the Slicer’s bloody vendetta had resulted in a media feeding frenzy, fuelled by a leak suggesting a police corruption scandal involving Norman Skellet, and although the head of force operations had been packed off to the police convalescent home – ostensibly to recuperate from a broken leg and a dislocated vertebra – Fulton suspected that this was just a diversionary tactic, designed to remove him from public scrutiny for a while in the hope that the news media would tire of the whole issue and go after another more productive story.

The blaze of publicity that would have resulted from a crown court prosecution or internal disciplinary action against the ‘old school’ SIO the press had hailed as the hero of the hour was the last thing the chief constable needed. Without a doubt strings had been pulled and favours called in to ensure that it did not happen. But Fulton fully appreciated that this did not mean his transgressions had been forgiven, and whilst he was relieved to know that he would at least hold on to his job and rank until his retirement, he knew only too well that the force had other ways of showing its displeasure. He felt sure that the imperious summons to the ‘big house’ meant the end of his CID career and an enforced move to some dead-end position, like manager of the headquarters control room – with all the humiliation that that would entail.

The chief constable, Harry James, was not wearing a smile when Fulton was shown into the plush inner sanctum the following morning. He was surprised to see Andy Stoller, now resplendent in the uniform of an assistant chief constable, sitting in one corner, a cup of tea or coffee balanced on one knee, and the force personnel manager, Jennifer Strong, sitting in the other. His spirits sank even further. This was a hatchet job if ever he saw one.

‘Good morning, Mr Fulton,’ the chief snapped, motioning him to the chair in front of his desk. ‘I thought it was about time you and I had a chat.’

Fulton sat down unsteadily, feeling much like the little boy confronted by the parliamentary inquisitors in W F Yeats’s famous painting,
And When Did You Last See Your Father
?

The chief sat back in his own padded chair, his gaze fastened intently on Fulton’s perspiring face. ‘I have to tell you that I have today promoted Mr Stoller here Assistant Chief Constable, Operations,’ he announced. ‘Mr Skellet has been – ah – persuaded to take early retirement on health grounds which will take effect when he finishes his convalescence.’

‘Should have been sent down,’ Fulton grated, unable to help himself.

The chief frowned. ‘I don’t want to hear talk like that,’ he admonished. ‘Mr Skellet has been through a very traumatic time and only escaped death by the narrowest of margins. I gather Oates still had his razor clutched in his hand when he was found and Scenes of Crime believe that he must have inadvertently cut through the bell rope as he was pulling on it.’

‘Lucky old Skellet,’ Fulton muttered with heavy sarcasm.

Stoller’s interruption was as sharp as it was unexpected. ‘Shut it, Jack,’ he snapped.

James threw his new ACC a swift, irritable glance, then stared at Fulton again with even greater intensity. ‘Mr Skellet has been fully investigated,’ he said softly, ‘and he strenuously denies any wrongdoing. There are
no
witnesses to say otherwise and
no
documentary evidence to support the allegations made in the report you submitted. Therefore the matter is now closed.’

Fulton felt the anger rise in him, despite his precarious position. ‘You mean “buried”, don’t you, sir?’ he said and out of the corner of his eye he saw Stoller visibly wince.

James leaned forward, his eyes like gimlets. ‘I mean “closed”, Superintendent, and that is that – got it?’

Fulton had no option but to capitulate. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, but his truculent expression did not alter.

James continued to study him critically for a moment, as if trying to will him into submission. ‘Good. Now, you should also know that I have promoted Detective Chief Inspector Gilham to Detective Superintendent, Northern Crime Area.’

Futon felt the room sway slightly. So that was it: his worst fears confirmed and the end of his CID career. ‘Yes, sir.’

James gave a grim smile. ‘And where do you think that leaves you?’

‘In the shit, sir.’

The chief nodded slowly as if in agreement, then abruptly leaned forward again, staring at him almost balefully. ‘You are a pain in the bloody backside, Jack,’ he rasped. ‘Always have been and always will be; awkward, stuck in the past, bloody minded and totally disrespectful. In fact, you are your own worst enemy!’

‘Yes, sir.’

James sighed and straightened up. ‘But unfortunately you are a damned good detective – and just the man I need to head the new force serious crime squad.’

Fulton stiffened in his chair and gaped, for once lost for words.

‘A position,’ the chief continued, ‘that carries with it the rank of detective chief superintendent incidentally. So congratulations – and bugger off!’

Fulton was on cloud nine as he drove home, still hardly able to credit what he had just been told. Twice he nearly ran into the back of vehicles waiting at traffic lights and a speed camera flashed at him as he passed it at around forty-two miles an hour in a thirty limit.

He was still in a surreal light-headed mood when he eventually got home, but he came down to earth when he not only saw Abbey’s Honda parked outside his bungalow, but the lady herself actually standing inside his open front door.

‘Hi there, Chief Superintendent,’ she called, waving a bottle in her hand as he lumbered up the path. ‘I thought I’d pop by to help you celebrate.’

He stared at her in blank amazement. ‘How the hell did you find that out?’ he gasped.

She moved aside as he strode into the hallway. ‘Aha,’ she replied with an extravagant wink, ‘news travels fast in these here parts, you know.’

He stared around him almost wildly. ‘And how did you get in here?’

She followed him through to the lounge. ‘Met a man coming out as I arrived.’

‘A man?’

She nodded towards the coffee table and a bottle of champagne standing there on a silver tray. ‘He left that for you.’

Fulton snatched up the small envelope leaning against the bottle and tore it open, his face hardening as he read the message on the card inside.

‘The cheeky bastard,’ Fulton breathed, then turned when he heard the clink of glasses.

‘I think the champers would be a lot better than my wine?’ Abbey said with a grin. ‘Do you want to open it or shall I?’

Fulton’s face still registered bewilderment as he stared at her. ‘I thought you’d be celebrating with Phil?’ he said.

She picked up the bottle and began to remove the wire from the cork. ‘Phil and I have broken up, Jack,’ she replied. ‘I told him it wouldn’t work and he’s now back with Helen.’

‘What, just like that?’

‘Just like that.’ She carefully twisted the cork, held it, then removed it with a slight popping sound, but the champagne did not explode from the bottle as Fulton had expected and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Where the hell did you learn to do that?’

She laughed, pouring out two equal bubbling measures. ‘I can do lots of things – you’d be surprised.’

‘What sort of things?’ He grinned, for the first time for years feeling optimistic and alive.

‘Now, now, one step at a time, Jack,’ she warned, treating him to a radiant smile and raising her glass. ‘Cheers.’