Vengeance

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 17

  The Magistrates Court means different things to different people. For clerks, policemen, social workers and probation officers, it is a place of work. For the local reporter it is also a place of work, but with the tantalising weekly prospect that some day some minor case may turn into the big one. The big one that gets his prose and maybe even his by-line into one of the daily papers. For the plaintiffs it is a place of apprehension. Even small time offenders cannot be sure if it is going to be a small fine, a caution or probation. Those who had offended before might well be facing a custodial sentence and all could be sure that their misdemeanours would be faithfully reproduced in the local weekly paper, for those who knew them to read, enjoy and play holier than thou about.

  MacAllister walked in quietly and sat right at the back of the public seating in the shadows of a corner. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on the night before when he had found Jean's body and as he had spent the rest of the night at the hospital and then walking aimlessly around the darkened city he had been unable to shave. He was only here because while sat in one of the smaller parks along with the rest of the down and outs he had seen a Black Maria go by and had remembered this was the day Jason Howlett came before the magistrates. He had gone to one of the riverside cafes and forced down a cup of hot sweet tea and while he waited for the courthouse to open had telephoned the sergeant in charge of the section house to arrange for him to have a room for a few days. Consequently he looked like a man who'd had a heavy night on the town, but his paleness and the red eyes were caused by grief and lack of sleep, rather than drink. He was running only on willpower as he hadn't eaten since lunchtime the day before and the way he felt now would probably never eat again.

  He glanced around the public area. One or two of the local hooligans, there to support their less fortunate mates when they appeared in the dock, recognised him and wondered what the filth was doing in their part of the chamber looking like death warmed up, but no one asked. They hunched their jackets up around their shoulders and turned their faces away. You didn't draw MacAllister's attention to you if it could be avoided.

  The court was currently trying the Alison Jenson case and in the front of him in the public gallery was a small group of West Indians here to see their man get justice. The central Magistrate, a pink faced and smoothly rotund figure, was holding the usual whispered conversation with his two colleagues that all Magistrates go through as soon as all the evidence has been heard. They finished and the central Magistrate then leaned forwards to hold a second whispered conversation with the Clerk of the Court. Checking to make sure his sentence was within the rules, thought MacAllister, whose opinion of Magistrates and Magistrates Courts was usually unprintable. Conversation over the Magistrate sat up and attempted to look stern and just. He hadn't the figure for it. When he spoke his voice was high and full of the indignation that those who have never been caught them selves reserve for those that have.

  “Alison Jenson. You have admitted that you did deliberately attacked George Fairbrother with a knife, causing grievous bodily harm that later required surgery and the removal of one of his organs.”

  At this the hooligans, who all knew which organ the man was talking about, collapsed into laughter, considerably annoying the Magistrate who glared at them before continuing. The West Indians also glared and as they were outnumbered the hooligans went quiet. The Magistrate continued.

  “You show no remorse for this act. Indeed, the opinion you expressed in this court was that you wished it had been even more damaging than it actually was. Under these circumstances and taking into account your previous history, we see no alternative but to send you to a place where you can be shown the error of your ways. You are sentenced to six months in the Pucklechurch Youth Custody Centre. Would Mr. Bramley please liase with the Magistrates Clerk's office please?”

  Amid a smattering of applause from the West Indians sitting near MacAllister, John Bramley, a local social worker stood up, and looking resigned made his way from the court while the young policewoman with Alison Jenson tapped her on the shoulder to let her know it was all over. She started to leave the court and then turned and stopped just long enough to jerk her middle finger up at the applauding West Indians before disappearing through the door behind her. MacAllister wondered how her soldier father would take the news. Probably write to congratulate her, he thought. No wonder the poor little cow was in such a mess. The Clerk of the Court then called Jason Howlett and he forgot her.

  The youth that appeared was exactly as MacAllister had imagined he would be. Not the features or the hair colouring of course, but in his clothing and general demeanour. Jason Howlett stood at about five feet eight. He had dark brown hair, which was cut very short, almost shaven, to the top of his ears and then allowed to bush out above that as if it had been styled with the proverbial pudding basin. He wore a large gold hoop in his left ear, a white, long sleeved, collarless shirt cut in the Cossack style, a beige suede jacket that was just draped across his shoulders, black leather trousers and an air of boredom. MacAllister hated him on sight.

  The West Indians had drifted away and the public gallery was now almost empty except for the hooligans awaiting the appearance of those of their mates who had not been detained and a middle aged couple who were giving the boy encouraging nods. They were obviously his parents. They too were well dressed, but not as ostentatiously as the boy. MacAllister and the local reporter, who from the glances he was putting MacAllister's way obviously knew the full story, were the only other people left in the public gallery. The affair was quite predictable. Clive Sayers put the police evidence and the boys solicitor asked for the case to go to crown court, a mere formality as there was a death involved and reserved any defence until then. Bail was unopposed and was set a five hundred pounds. It was all very quickly over. MacAllister left the courtroom and went to see Clive Sayers to find out when the hearing would be scheduled for. He found Sayers in the small and grubby room reserved for the police at the back of the building. He was stacking his papers into his briefcase and looked up with some surprise as MacAllister entered the room, surveying his condition with concern and apprehension.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Guvnor? You shouldn't be here.”

  MacAllister snarled at him.

  “What do you think I am doing? I am keeping abreast of current cases that my section are engaged in.”

  “But, Guvnor?”

  The voice carried a lot of concerned protest. It was obvious he had heard about Jean and was concerned that the latest tragedy had turned MacAllister's mind. MacAllister softened, but only slightly. He put his hand on Sayers' shoulder and stared him down; the Kestrel was peering out ferociously from the blue grey eyes.

  “Look, Clive. That kid in there ran my Kirsty over and then drove off and left her laying there like a stray dog, except most people will stop even when they hit a dog. That drove my Jean to suicide and in my book that makes him responsible for two deaths. I think I have the right see what happens to him, don't you?”

  “Guvnor, I know what you are saying, but if Reid finds out you were here there will be hell to pay. Why don't you go home?”

  MacAllister's patience ran out.

  “Don't be a pratt, Clive. After yesterday none of the ground floor windows have any glass in them and the smell of gas is still in the place so I don't want to go in there. Besides, I don't think I could ever again sit on the settee where Jeanie died, so I have got a room in the section house with the rest of the unmarried coppers.” He dropped his hand. “So don't tell me to go home. There's a good lad.”

  He turned and walked away.

  When he arrived at the Bricewell he was met with stares of amazement from all quarters. He could imagine the gossip in the canteen for the next few days. Wife dead for less than twenty-four hours and he just comes into work as if nothing happened. Couldn't they understand he had to be here? What else could he do with himself without going stark staring mad? He had been at hi
s desk for less than ten minutes when Sayers came in with the trial schedule. It would be six weeks before Jason Howlett came to court. It was far quicker than he had expected and he asked Clive Sayers if he knew why. Sayers confirmed that it looked as if Masonic strings had been pulled. MacAllister simmered, but said nothing. He looked down the list and saw that the case immediately in front of this was Shane Flinders, accused of the Trevor Morton killing. He just stared at Sayers offer to lend him a razor and a towel and sat there immersed in his thoughts.

  He began to appreciate just how John Morton had felt about Shane Flinders. If they still sentenced people to death he felt he could have executed the Howlett kid himself, along his stupid parents for spoiling the little bastard and spoil him they obviously had. The clothes the kid had been wearing in court today would have set the average copper back more than a weeks pay and there was no way he could have bought them himself. His phone rang and he picked it up. It was Gill Bradman. He prepared himself to be emotionally smothered, but she just asked him if he could come and see Mr. Reid and then she rang off.

  When he entered Gill Bradman's office it was empty, but Bill Reid was standing in the connecting doorway to his own office and waved him in. He closed the door behind them and turned to MacAllister, his face now suffused with anger.

  “What the hell were you doing at the Magistrates court this morning? You know you were instructed to stay away from that case.” He paused for a moment. “And look at the bloody state of you man.”

  MacAllister looked at him for some seconds, remembering that his wife and daughter had been taken from him in the space of ten days and how much he disliked this prick of a station commander standing in front of him. If the man had shown the slightest sympathy for the loss of his wife and daughter then he would probably accepted that he was wrong to have been in the court this morning. But the truth was that Reid didn't care about any one or anything other than his own burning ambitions. He curled a lip at the other.

  “I accept your heartfelt condolences on the death of my wife, Sir.”

  Reid's face went a deeper shade of red and his voice rose a couple of decibels.

  “Don't you try emotional blackmail on me, MacAllister? You're the one who should be sat with your family grieving, instead of running around in the Magistrates Court probably ruining any case we could bring against that boy.”

  The Kestrel had taken over MacAllister completely now. The eyes were blazing with anger and defiance.

  “You may not have noticed it, Sir, but half of the family you say I should be at home comforting are dead as a result of the actions of this boy, so don't give me your facetious advice because a cold blooded bastard like you could know nothing about it.”

  Reid's face again took on its by now familiar crimson hue. He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped and tried to calm himself. MacAllister just kept giving him a look of contempt as Reid's face registered in rapid succession sympathy, anger and frustration. Then anger won and he made a decision.

  “Just look at the state of yourself and then tell me you are completely in control of your emotions. You are relieved of duty as of now, Inspector, on the grounds that you are emotionally unfit for command. For your sake I will put it down as compassionate leave so that it will not show on your records, but only if you don't do anything to force me to make it official. You will not come into this station until I call you in and that will not be until I have arranged your transfer to another area. You are finished with Bristol CID as of today. I will not have any loose cannons careering about in my command.”

  MacAllister had taken the rest of the tirade without expression until the last two sentences. These brought the colour to his cheeks in a rush. He leaned both hands on the desk glared at the other man.

  “I see. Get rid of the man and get rid of the problem. Well you just listen to me. You try to transfer me and I will cause such a fuss that your career will never recover from it, Billy boy. You think about it.”

  It was Reid's turn to look contemptuous.

  “Don't threaten me, Inspector. I am not one of your villains. I understand you have taken a room in the section house. You may stay there today until your house is re-glazed and then you will leave it. I have rung a local glazier I know and he will start work tomorrow. After that if I see you here, or hear that you have been anywhere near this station or the section house before I contact you, you will be on a disciplinary charge. You may now leave.”

  MacAllister had one last try to swallow his feelings for the other man.

  “Look, Bill, I am sorry about this morning, but surely you can understand that I wanted to see what the person looked like that has destroyed my family?”

  Then in his exasperation he ruined it.

  “Surely even a cold hearted sod like you can understand that?”

  Reid stared at him at him for a few moments more before he replied.

  “Go home, Inspector and make sure you remember what I said.”

  He turned and looked out of his window at what he could see of the seven hills and did not turn back until he heard the door slam.

  It was really too early, but MacAllister really needed the large whiskey he was holding. The pub had only been open a few moments and today’s fresh aromas had not yet covered the smell of last night’s stale beer and cigarette smoke. It was a handsome old pub, the Prince William. All old beams and polished brass and standing in one of the few remaining cobbled streets left in the city. It was the Bricewell station's local, but at eleven thirty in the morning MacAllister and the man sat opposite him were the only coppers in the place.

  Jack Wirrel was the Bricewell Station rep for the Police Federation and had been for eight years. He had been in the station this morning only because he had been giving evidence in a case at the courts. MacAllister had grabbed hold of him and whisked him away to the “Prince Billy”, as the locals called the Prince William and had explained about Reid's threat to transfer him. Wirrel had listened carefully and was now sat in silence considering what MacAllister had told him. MacAllister had more sense than to interrupt him and was morosely sipping at his whiskey, waiting to hear what the other had to say while watching the landlord restocking the bar after last night's business. Finally Wirrel put his glass down, ready to give his opinion.

  “Well, as I see it, John, they are entitled to transfer you at any time if they think it best for you and the force, but not out of malice or without good reason. You may have visited the court this morning against Reid's wishes, but he only told you not to get involved in the case, he never told you couldn't follow the case and he even agreed that Clive Sayers could keep you up to date on what was happening. Secondly, he never told you that you could not go to the court and watch the proceedings. Besides that he seems to have taken nothing into account of your current circumstances.”

  He scratched his chin before continuing.

  “The way I see it is that he has wanted to get you off his patch for quite a while, but has been unable to find a good reason for doing it.” He looked embarrassed. “Its no secret that he doesn't approve of some of your methods, John and he is terrified you are going to drop a big one and take his precious career with you.”

  He continued.

  “He has every right to try and transfer you if he wants to, but he must go through the proper channels. This sounds like a case of him seizing the opportunity to move you on without having to make a proper case out. Has he offered you a promotion?”

  MacAllister gave him a sneering smile of disbelief.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think if he had any sense that is what he should have done, then you would be unable to argue with him. Any promotion above the level of sergeant practically always carries a transfer.”

  MacAllister held his patience with difficulty.

  “So what about it then, Jack?

  Jack Wirrel gave him a slow smile and stuck out his hand.

  “The Federation will take it on. I am quite happy
to fight this transfer on the grounds that it is being arranged because of a personal dislike and not for the reasons officially stated. I think with your record we can show them that it will impair station efficiency to lose a man with your knowledge of the local villains and that there were extenuating circumstances for any disregard of Reid's orders.”

  MacAllister gave a deep sigh of relief and taking the offered hand, shook it warmly.

  “Thank you, Jack and I apologise for all the times I have thought the Federation Subs were a waste of money. If you can get this bastard from off my back you will have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Well that's as maybe, but think on now, John. Until I have talked to a few people you should follow his orders and stay away from the Bricewell.” He hesitated and then continued. “I am so sorry about your Jean, she was a good woman. I should get a shave and some sleep if I were you, John. It always makes you feel better.”

  He rose and with a nod of his head left the pub.

  MacAllister sat finishing his whiskey and thought about his room at the section house and then about his own home, still full of the smell of death and by now with Bill Reid's influence, probably a team of glaziers. He went and bought a refill. By this time the pub had begun to fill up with the early lunchtime crowd and the smell of hot food began to fill the place, he had just about finished his fifth large whiskey. He stood up and swayed a bit before he found his balance, unused to drinking so much and on a stomach that had not taken food for twenty-four hours. He cursed himself for a fool and made his way through the now crowded pub to the doorway. He would get a sandwich down the road and sit and eat it by the river. No point in going back to the section house in this condition.

  Outside the pub was bright September sunshine and after the gloom of the interior it was blinding. He stepped out onto the pavement with his eyes squinting against the glare and bumped into a group of people. He was on the verge of muttering an apology when his eyes focused upon and recognised the black leather trousers and suede jacket of Jason Howlett. The boy was looking at him with an expression of disgust as the fumes from the whiskey MacAllister had been drinking were blown into his face. He stepped back away from the contact and turned his head to his father.

  “Take no notice of him, Dad. He’s a drunk.”

  The lip curled in contempt and the face took on an expression of loathing that made MacAllister want to punch it, but he held on to the remains of his good sense and turned away. It was Rex Howlett's reply as they walked away that did it.

  “Look at the state of him. Fine example to be setting to a young lad he is. Come on, Claire, lets find somewhere else to have lunch, this place is probably full of his sort.”

  MacAllister stopped in his tracks and started counting to ten, but only made it to five before he broke. He turned and hurried the few steps after the threesome. When he was within reach he put his hand on the man's shoulder and pulled him to a halt. Howlett Senior turned angrily and shrugged off his hand, but MacAllister took the lapels of his jacket with his right fist and pushed him up against the wall of the Prince Billy. He pushed his own face towards the other's and let him breath in the whiskey fumes.

  “Now you listen to me you sanctimonious prick. I may have had a few too many and I wouldn't deny it, but do you know why?”

  Howlett senior struggled, but the MacAllister grip was like a steel vice on his lapels. He continued. The boy and his mother just stood there with their mouths open making no attempt to go to his aid. MacAllister gave him a little shake.

  “A couple of weeks ago, your darling boy there, the one you spend so much money on buying him all the latest gear, stole a mans car that he had worked bloody hard to buy and then ran down and killed a young girl just twenty four hours before she was to get married. Last night that girl's mother took a bottle of sleeping pills and then turned on every gas tap in the house.”

  He pulled the man towards him and then slammed him viciously back against the wall, his head making a satisfying bang on the ancient brickwork. The tears were streaming down MacAllister's face by now and it was all that he could do to control his voice. He pulled himself face to face again, ignoring Jason Howlett's attempts now to pull him away from his father.

  “Do you know how I know?”

  He slammed him back against the wall a second time. Panic began to enter the man’s face and his hands scrabbled frantically to release the others hold on his jacket, as he felt the blood running down his neck from the wound on the back of his head. Another slam against the wall and by now Jason Howlett was punching at MacAllister's head and shoulders trying to make him let go.

  “Do you?”

  MacAllister slammed him a fourth time and let him go. Howlett Senior slid along the wall as legs turning to rubber refused to support him and he dropped to the floor, moaning and holding his head. His wife and son dropped to their knees beside him, she frantically applying a pathetically small handkerchief to the bleeding skull. She looked up at MacAllister with hatred in her face.

  “You drunken animal. I shall have the police on you.”

  MacAllister laughed and pulled out his warrant card. He waved it in her face.

  “Does the name mean anything to you? Does it?”

  The women looked at the card and then back at MacAllister before speaking.

  “You're the girl's father. The one in the accident.”

  “That's right except I was the girl's father, remember? The girl is dead now and so is her mother. Your son did that.”

  With the release of tension the violence had brought to him he began to sober and realise what he had done. For a moment he considered helping the man, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He turned away leaving the Howletts to help themselves and walked back to the section house. Once inside his room he threw himself down on the bed and within minutes he was sleeping the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion, helped by the excessive quantity of whisky in his bloodstream.

  It was late afternoon and the shadows in the room were already lengthening when the banging on his door awoke him. His head was throbbing with hangover and his mouth was dry and foul so he went first to the sink to rinse his mouth and splashed some water on his face before going to the door. When he opened it and saw who his visitors were the events of the morning came back with a rush. He stood aside and waved Bill Reid and the Divisional Commander into the room, closing the door behind them and then leaning back against it. He put his head on one side, a gesture of inquiry that many a suspect had got to know well after a few hours with him in the interview room. With his unshaven chin and rumpled clothes he could have been any down and out from the Salvation Army hostel a few yards up the road. He certainly didn't look like an inspector with Bristol CID. His visitors looked at his condition with obvious distaste.

  Walter Hart, the Divisional Commander, was a man who had reached the end of his promotion road with his current rank and he knew it. That be as it may, if nothing else it now allowed him to give free reign to the pomposity and arrogance that had been instrumental in prevented his further promotion. He was universally detested as a man who would break a career by putting an improperly dressed notation onto the record of a bobby who ten minutes early had been pursuing some tearaway through a filthy warehouse. But Hart's view was that if Regulations stated a correct form of dress then by Harry the men in his command would stick to it, even if it meant keeping a spare uniform permanently in their lockers. MacAllister knew that Hart would enjoy what was to follow and he was not disappointed. Hart drew in his stomach and smoothed his small white moustache with the back of his thumb as he viewed MacAllister's condition with disgust. He himself always kept his uniform immaculate and his iron-grey hair neatly barbered. You have got to present the right image to the public and all that. He became formal, standing with his legs slightly apart and his hands clasped together behind his back.

  “Inspector MacAllister, this is an official visit and anything you say will be noted and may be used in any future disciplinary
proceedings against you that may be decided upon. Do you understand that?”

  He spoke clearly and carefully, like you would to a drunk or a half-wit. MacAllister nodded and remained leaning against the door, his expression of contempt equalling the others.

  “Yes, Sir.” It was not said respectfully.

  Hart waited a few seconds as though weighing carefully what he was going to say, but MacAllister knew he was just mentally rehearsing the lines the two of them had agreed on before coming to see him.

  “I understand that Chief Superintendent Reid gave you specific instructions that you were to take no part in the Jason Howlett case, except if called as a witness by either side if and when the matter came to court. Is that correct?”

  MacAllister nodded.

  “I said is that correct, Inspector?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The sir was emphasised.

  “I further understand that you went to the Magistrates court this morning when the case was having its initial hearing. Is that also correct?”

  “Yes, Sir, but....”

  “Is that correct, Inspector?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The contempt was now replaced by a growing anger. Hart exchanged a glance with Bill Reid that clearly said, now we have him, he has admitted to it.

  “Can you confirm, Inspector, that when you returned to the station after your visit to the court this morning, Chief Superintendent Reid called you once more into his office and told you were suspended from duty for disobeying his precise instructions not to get involved in the Howlett case?”

  MacAllister stared his contempt into Reid’s face, but the other refused to meet his gaze. His eyes switched back to Hart.

  “I understood he gave me compassionate leave following the death of my wife, Sir. Officially that is.”

  The men again exchanged glances and this time it was obvious that Reid had not told Hart about the compassionate leave angle. He looked embarrassed, but Hart continued anyway.

  “After leaving Chief Superintendent Reid's office this morning, did you go to a public house called the Prince William and stay there for some two hours or more.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  This time the answer sighed out as if MacAllister were weary of the whole charade.

  “Were you drinking during this time?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How much would you say you had to drink while you were there, Inspector?”

  “I don't remember precisely.”

  “Would you say you were completely sober when you left.”

  “No, Sir, I was not completely sober.”

  “As you left the Prince William, did you bump into the Howletts. Mr, Mrs and Jason Howlett.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And did you assault Mr. Howlett by banging his head against the wall of the public house several times, hard enough for him to require hospital treatment?”

  “I hope so, Sir.”

  “What did you say?”

  The Scottish accent was becoming more evident while fire crackled from the grey blue eyes.

  “I said I bloody well hope so, Sir.”

  At this last reply Walter Hart decided they had more than enough evidence and could reasonably go about what they had already arranged. He turned to Bill Reid and nodded before composing himself to deliver their verdict.

  “Inspector John MacAllister, you have admitted to several serious breaches of discipline and I have no other choice than to suspend you from all duties until a disciplinary hearing can be arranged for the earliest moment possible. In the meantime you will leave this Section House and you will return to your own home. Good evening to you, Inspector.”

  At this last MacAllister moved away from the door, opening it as he did so. Walter Hart straightened his uniform cap and marched from the room closely followed by Bill Reid. Neither man so much as glanced at him, but both were unable to hide their satisfaction at the outcome of their visit.

  Marcus Lomax and Frank Lintsey were parked in the unloading area at the back of one of the large electrical goods shops in the central precinct, sitting in the rear of an old Ford Focus van that had seen better days and were both stiff and cramped. They were waiting on a tip off received earlier in the week stating that the storeroom of the electrical goods shop was to be robbed some time during this week and this was their second night in the back of the small and uncomfortable van with “Cully's Domestic Electrics” written along the side of it.

  The first night had ended in a farce when a couple of teenagers had tried to steal the van for a joyride, completely unaware that there were two detectives inside it and the ensuing hullabaloo of their arrest had ensured that no one would be attempting any big robbery that night. The two detectives had considered their cover blown and the case closed after that, but Bill Reid had insisted they continue for a while longer as the owner of the store was a fellow Mason. Tonight they had been passing the time by discussing in whispers the conduct of their leader. Frank Lintsey was sympathetic to MacAllister, but Marcus Lomax wouldn't buy that.

  “Look, Frank, even if the man's son had shot his daughter in front of him there was still no excuse for smashing the father up. The man has concussion for God's sake. And what's more he did it to him in front of his wife.”

  Lintsey's reared up at him.

  “Bollocks to you, Marcus, you cold blooded sod. The man had just lost his daughter and his wife inside two weeks and then that bastard Reid tells him he is finished in Bristol CID just because he went to court to watch that little tow rag get his come uppance. I think he had a right to get drunk.”

  Lomax sighed gently.

  “I think he had every right to get drunk as well, Frank, I really do, but he had no right to criminally assault the kid's father and put him in the bloody hospital. You can't believe he had, surely.”

  Lintsey chewed on his fingernail and stared out through the small glass panel in the rear door of the van, lost in thought. It was several moments before he looked up. He sighed.

  “Your right, Marcus. Of course I don't think he should have bashed Howlett's father.”

  He turned in the narrow confines of the van to face the other.

  “What's really getting up my nose in all this is Reid.”

  He waved his arm around as much as was possible in the confined space, to emphasise his point.

  “There is the Guvnor, lost his wife and only daughter right on top of each other and what does Reid do? Does he show any grain of sympathy or understanding?” He answered his own question. “Does he bollocks. He forbids him to go anywhere near the case as if he believed MacAllister would immediately screw the whole thing up. I ask you. A man with his record.”

  Lomax sighed gently and then said it.

  “But that is exactly what he did do, Frank. He totally screwed it up. He got pissed and he screwed it up.”

  Lintsey glowered.

  “Yeah, well he wouldn't have screwed it up if Reid had shown a bit more compassion and treated him like a responsible police officer instead of a bloody cowboy and used the whole affair as an excuse to get rid of the best copper the Bricewell has ever had”

  He picked up the radio, the conversation obviously closed as far as he was concerned.

  “Oscar five to control.”

  The radio crackled in reply.

  “Look, we have been here for four hours and nothing is going to happen now. We are going to call it a night.”

  He clicked out of transmission without waiting for a reply and opening the rear doors of the van, climbed out.

  “Come on Marcus, I have my car parked about half a mile away. The walk there will get the stiffness out of us and then I'll drive you back to the Section House.”

  They walked along in silence after that, both of them unaware that the object of their discussions was lying awake in the bed he had until yesterday evening shared with his wife. His thoughts were black and cancerous.