by Paul Gitsham
Turning, he headed for the door, before Grayson stopped him. “Oh, one more thing, Warren. This team of yours, make sure it includes DI Sutton. I don’t approve of my officers going behind each other’s backs. Nor do I expect to see them engaged in a pissing contest in front of junior officers. Sort it out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 36
Jones stalked into the squad room, heading directly for Sutton’s desk. Enough was enough, he’d decided. He’d let it linger long enough and if he and Sutton were going to work effectively as a team the air needed clearing. A few detectives glanced up at Jones’ purposeful stride, then, seeing the look on the boss’ face, quickly averted their gaze.
Sutton was on the phone, listening intently. As he looked up his expression turned briefly to one of guilt and apprehension, before his poker face slid back into place. Clearing his throat, he cut off his caller with a mumbled apology and a promise to call them back. Turning his chair, he looked expectantly at Jones.
“Get your coat, Tony, we’re going for a pint.” Without waiting for a reply, Jones turned on his heel and walked straight back out of the room. Looking neither left nor right, he was nevertheless aware of the covert stares from the working detectives. Behind him, he heard Sutton scrabbling for his jacket and grabbing his keys. Not in the mood to share the lift with him, Warren jogged quickly down the stairs to the main reception. Half a turn behind him, he could hear Sutton struggling to catch up.
Good! thought Warren. For too long, he’d felt on the back foot at Middlesbury and it was about time he took control of the situation.
Sutton finally pulled alongside him as they crossed the car park; he had his car keys in his hand.
“Put them away, Tony. You won’t be driving tonight.”
If Sutton had other plans for the evening, he wisely decided not to share them. Warren kept up the brisk pace down the high street; his longer legs meant that Sutton had no choice but to push himself hard to avoid breaking into an undignified trot and his breathing became slightly laboured.
Finally Warren spied what he was looking for: The Bricklayer’s Arms, a traditional-style English pub. Inside, it was exactly what Warren was after. Dark, slightly dingy with a long bar and, most importantly, tucked in the far corner, a few faded velour bench seats with tables and wooden dividers, giving at least the impression of privacy. At four p.m. on a weekday, the bar was quiet, the only customers two elderly men with rheumy eyes and flat caps sitting in silence behind halves of mild. A rolled-up newspaper, a single pack of Golden Virginia rolling tobacco, some cigarette papers and a battered box of matches sat between them like a barrier. Both glanced up at the newcomers, but made no comment, returning to their contemplative silence.
Without asking, Warren ordered two pints of Theakston Bitter. He’d have preferred something a little lighter, but he remembered from Monday that it was Sutton’s pint of choice. No change was forthcoming from his five-pound note and so he directed them to the corner booth. Sutton still hadn’t said anything beyond mumbled thanks for the pint.
Warren took a long swig of the strong, aromatic beer, wiping the foam off his top lip. Sutton did the same, politely nodding his appreciation. Time to start.
“What’s the problem, Tony?”
“Don’t know what you mean, guv.” His eyes flickered slightly, betraying the lie.
“Bollocks.” Warren’s voice was quiet and measured, but forceful. “Since when does a DI go to a superintendent to discuss a case behind his DCI’s back?”
“Don’t know what you mean — just being polite, is all. The super wanted a heads up on the case, you were busy, so I filled him in.”
“Really, and so it’s just a coincidence that when Grayson had me in his office he parroted, pretty much word for word, everything you said to me earlier?”
Sutton shrugged. “I’m not the only person who thinks you’ve got it wrong, sir.”
He took another sip of his pint.
Warren mirrored him, letting the silence sit between them.
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Tony?”
Sutton’s eyes narrowed as he looked for the trap. “You’re my DCI. You’re in charge, doesn’t matter if I like you or not.”
“Damned right it doesn’t matter. I’m your DCI and I’m in charge. If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m handling the case, you speak to me about it and my word is final. You don’t go over my head to the boss unless you think I’m incompetent or breaking the law. Do you think I’m incompetent?”
Sutton contemplated him for several heartbeats. “Not that I’ve seen.”
Warren nodded. “Good. We’ll leave it at that.”
The silence grew again, Sutton’s expression sullen. The air still felt tense. It wasn’t enough, Warren realised. All he’d done was mark a line in the sand and dare Sutton to cross it. Whether he did or he didn’t was merely a matter of degree. Warren still hadn’t tackled the core of the problem.
Fortifying himself with another swig of his pint — he was down to the last third, he realised — he started again. “You resent me being here, don’t you, Tony?”
Sutton said nothing, continuing to stare moodily into the dregs of his own pint. Warren motioned to the barman for two refills.
“From what I hear, you were expected to take Sheehy’s place when he retired next year.” Sutton’s eyes flashed at the mention of his former DCI’s name, but he remained silent. “Unfortunately that didn’t work out, did it? Sheehy went down last year and, after months of scrutiny, you were passed over. Bet it really pissed you off when some fucking Brummie turned up out of the blue and took over your job.” Warren’s tone was deliberately provocative.
Sutton scowled and shook his head. “You aren’t even in the ballpark. Sir.”
“Really? So tell me how it is, then, Tony. And forget the ‘Sir’ bullshit. We’re in the pub.”
Sutton took a big mouthful of his fresh pint. The barman had replenished it quietly, taking his payment without comment, experience telling him that he would be better off not interrupting the two men.
“You’re wrong about almost everything. I’ve heard the rumours too; that I was Sheehy’s golden boy, his heir apparent, next in line for the throne. But it’s bullshit. I’ve never wanted to be a DCI and Gavin knew that. I’m a beat copper, always have been, always will be.”
Warren shook his head. “No, you aren’t, Tony, you’re a detective and from what I hear a good one. You are no longer a bobby on the beat. By definition, when you joined CID you joined a team and you need to be a team player.”
Sutton interrupted. “No, you are wrong.” He shook his head vehemently. “This isn’t West Midlands Police, or the Met or even Devon and fucking Cornwall. This is Middlesbury. We are unique.” He waved his hand in the air, suddenly reminding Jones of Professor Tompkinson as he described his university.
“We are all beat coppers in Middlesbury. They won’t have told you any of this stuff when they posted you down here, because they wanted an outsider. Somebody to break up the status quo.”
Warren was starting to wonder if Sutton was paranoid or delusional. He sounded like a conspiracy theorist; Warren wondered who the hell ‘they’ were.
Seeing Jones’ sceptical look, Sutton calmed down slightly. “Let me explain what I mean. I come from a long line of coppers. My old man was a sergeant and his old man before him a constable. When he did his National Service he enlisted as an MP, following his own father’s footsteps, who did stints as an MP and as a civilian police officer in the interwar years. Two of his brothers also joined the force. The family history gets a bit hazy before the Frst World War, but my dad swears blind that there is an unbroken chain of us going right back to Robert Peel’s ‘Bobbies’ and the start of the Met.
“None of my ancestors ever made it past sergeant. None of them wanted it. And none of them were detectives. All of them were bobbies on the beat. My granddad got the George Medal after talking down an armed robber in the fift
ies. All he had was a wooden truncheon and handcuffs. Could have been promoted on the spot, but he turned it down. He didn’t want to leave his patch.”
For the first time since arriving at the pub, Sutton’s features took on something less than a scowl. “When I announced I was taking the detectives’ course, my old man nearly disowned me. That was until he came and saw where I worked and met Gavin and the team.
“Middlesbury has always been a small place, even with the outlying villages. Beat coppers really do know their beats and their beats know them. It’s about as close to Dixon of Dock Green as you’ll ever get in modern policing. Well, CID isn’t much different. We all know our patches, who our grasses are, who is dodgy and who can be trusted. The fact is, it works. By any measure, we punch above our weight when it comes to solving crimes, you know that.”
Warren nodded; it was true. Middlesbury had an impressive clear-up rate, putting it amongst the top-performing CID units within the country. He admitted as much.
“Yeah, well, tell that to the penny pinchers. A few years ago, Herts and Beds decided to pool resources and move all CID units to Welwyn Garden City. Gavin was devastated. You see, to Gavin’s way of thinking, Welwyn is too far away for that sort of community policing. We’d almost be better off joining up with Cambridgeshire. In the end he made his case strongly enough that it was decided to make Middlesbury CID a local first-response unit, responsible for Middlesbury and the surrounding towns. We come in, assess the situation, use our local contacts where appropriate and request back up from Welwyn as and when we need it. But we are constantly under scrutiny. We’ve set ourselves a high benchmark in terms of our performance figures and any deviation away from that could spell the end for the arrangement.”
“OK, I’d figured that something along those lines must have happened — I still don’t see what your problem is though.” Warren had the feeling that he was being told something significant here, something that would impact upon his entire stay at Middlesbury, but he couldn’t see what.
Sutton took another gulp of his pint. “Gavin Sheehy was a good man.” He raised a hand as if to still any protest. “I know, what he did was absolutely wrong and he deserves everything he gets. Still doesn’t change the fact that fundamentally he was a good man who fought for what he believed in. The battle to keep Middlesbury CID was messy and bloody and more than one promotion was earned based on the savings achieved from the merger. But Gavin wouldn’t give up and he fought his way up the food chain, arguing his case. Eventually he won his battle. But it cost him. He never went higher than DCI. He pissed off too many people and burnt too many bridges.”
Warren tried to hide his incredulity. Stick tens of thousands of human beings together and ask them to get on with a job as complex and important as policing and factions would inevitably emerge, but this seemed too far-fetched.
Seeing that he still had some way to go in convincing his superior, Sutton took a deep breath and tried again.
“When Gavin was caught, it was seen by many as proof that we’d be better off under the direct control of Welwyn.” He made a bitter face. “That way they can keep a closer eye on us and spot rogue officers like Sheehy before they do too much damage. Gavin’s greed and stupidity might just scupper his whole dream. Our whole dream.”
With that, Sutton slumped into a moody silence.
It’s personal, Warren realised. Sheehy convinced Sutton and goodness knows how many others to go along with him and then turned around and betrayed them with his corruption.
Warren already had his suspicions what the answer would be but he asked anyway.
“I’m still not seeing why you have a problem with me or how I am dealing with this case.”
“Isn’t it obvious? With Gavin out of the picture, they’ve appointed you to do their dirty work.”
Despite himself, Warren bristled. “I’m not here to do anybody’s dirty work. I’m here to solve crime and do my duty.”
Sutton raised a hand in a half-hearted gesture of placation.
“I’m not saying that you have anything but the best of intentions. There’s no way you would be briefed in on this, but you are the perfect man for the job.”
Warren listened in growing anger; he couldn’t work out if he was being accused of naiveté or dirty tricks. “And what job would that be, Inspector?” His voice was now icy cold as he forced a lid onto his temper.
“To close down Middlesbury CID and see it merged with the rest of Herts and Beds Serious Crime.”
Warren was aware that his mouth was open in surprise.
“Why on earth would anyone think that? Let me assure you, I have not been given any other job, other than to lead this unit to the best of my ability, and I am offended that anyone could think otherwise.”
Sutton repeated his calming hand gesture.
“Don’t get me wrong, sir, nobody thinks otherwise.”
He took another sip of his pint.
“Before you came here, I did a bit of digging about you and it turned up a couple things. That you are a good copper, well regarded and that you are ambitious.”
“OK,” drawled Warren, unsure where this was leading.
“As to the ambition, it’s figured that you are tapped for greater things, that Middlesbury is just a stepping stone before you move on to senior officer positions. Give it a couple of years and there will be a few vacancies in Welwyn that you can pursue.” Warren said nothing; Sutton wasn’t completely off the mark. But ambition wasn’t a crime, was it? He said as much.
Sutton agreed. “Far from it. But ambition can be used by others. If Middlesbury CID closes, we’ll all be transferred to Welwyn, closer to the rest of the force. Some might say, ‘closer to the action’. Some might suggest that such a move would be advantageous to those with ambition…”
Sutton took a long sip of his pint, eyeing Warren shrewdly over the rim of the glass, watching for his reaction. Warren’s head spun at the implication.
“What about Grayson? His opinion will carry far more weight than mine.”
Sutton all but snorted. He paused, then, clearly emboldened by drink, leant forward. “Between you and me, guv, Grayson’s just marking his time card. He’s got a few more years before he can retire and everyone reckons he’s just after one more promotion to boost his pension. It doesn’t matter to him if the promotion is here or at Welwyn.”
Warren was slightly shocked at the man’s candour, but decided to let it slide. “So why are you so keen to cosy up to him?”
“You’re right that Grayson’s opinion carries more weight than yours, but he’s a follower, not a leader. If you make it clear that Middlesbury is the place to be, then he’ll probably take your advice. But failing that we’ve got to make it attractive for him to stay here and an easy collar like Severino makes the likelihood that he’ll be promoted in post more likely.”
Warren sat back, his head reeling and not just from the effect of two pints of bitter on an empty stomach. What the hell had he landed in? He’d come to Middlesbury expecting to further his career and his education in an environment that would allow him to experiment and stretch himself, away from the pressure cooker of big-city policing. Instead he had stumbled across a rat’s nest of intrigue, politics and back-biting. Listening to Sutton talk, Warren felt himself wondering if he was witnessing the start of a mutiny. He said as much.
“Look, we’re fighting for our survival here. Shutting us down as soon as Gavin was arrested would have been too obvious — he acted alone and you can’t punish a whole CID unit for the actions of one man. However, rumour has it that we will be subject to a review in a few months’ time and they’ll probably claim that we just aren’t cost-effective enough to justify maintaining.
“That’s why solving this case so quickly is so damned important. We’ve also earned the gratitude and admiration of the university, local politicians and saved a major conference from being moved out of the region. All of these are vital for the survival of our CID.
“Yet now, you want to turn this whole thing around. Tell everyone we’ve got the wrong person. You want to announce that out there a killer is still loose and we’ve got an innocent man in prison?” Sutton’s voice was starting to rise, his cheeks flushing.
“With all due respect, sir, are you fucking mad?” he carried on before Warren could interrupt. “We’ve got a man with a prior conviction for assault, with a huge motive, no credible alibi and to top it all the murder weapon, his blood-splattered clothes and CCTV footage and computer logs placing him at the scene of the crime. Jesus wept, sir, what the hell else do we need? Are you really going to scupper this entire prosecution and with it the future of this police unit on the basis of a fucking hunch?
“Christ, sir, you know how a murder investigation works. There is almost never a single piece of irrefutable damning evidence. Every piece of the jigsaw can be removed and discarded if needs be, every bit of evidence can be argued to be circumstantial with enough imagination — it’s what it all adds up to that counts. And this adds up to a clear conviction. It might not be as polished as we’d like, but who gives a shit? We’ve done our job. Now we let the lawyers and the courts do theirs.”
Sutton leant back in his chair again, breathing heavily, his face flushed. Warren said nothing, letting the man cool down as he got his own thoughts in order. When he judged enough time had passed, he started again.
“Now you listen to me, Tony, let’s be absolutely clear on one thing. I am not here to do anybody’s dirty work and I have no intention of getting involved in this political dispute. As far as I am concerned, I am a detective chief inspector assigned to this unit to run major operations under the command of Detective Superintendent Grayson. When it comes to the future of this particular CID unit and its place within the larger police force, I neither have nor want any influence. If asked my opinion, I will state it clearly based on the evidence I have seen and I will not be swayed either way. Do I make myself clear?”
