The Rule

by David Jackson

‘Wait. Let me get this straight. Last Sunday, you drove all the way to a beach in Málaga?’

  ‘Sure. It’s not that far. Couple of miles, maybe.’

  Hannah rubbed her forehead. It was beginning to ache.

  ‘So . . . what you’re telling me is that you were staying there, in Málaga?’

  ‘Yes. What did you think I meant?’

  ‘You have an apartment there?’

  ‘Yes. A timeshare.’

  ‘When did you go?’

  ‘Thursday. Not yesterday, of course. The previous Thursday.’

  ‘So you went to Málaga last Thursday. In late October.’

  ‘October is a nice month in Málaga. Not too hot, but not cold either. Nothing like it is here. Very pleasant.’

  ‘And when did you come back?’

  ‘Tuesday. I wanted to stay longer, but I had to be back for my sister’s birthday party. She was sixty this week. Two years younger than me. I took early retirement, you know. They kept putting the pension age up, and I thought to hell with this, I’m getting out of here before I drop dead on the factory floor. I worked in a biscuit factory, did I tell you that?’

  Hannah ignored the question. She didn’t want to get into a long discussion about the merits of bourbons versus custard creams.

  ‘So you were away from Thursday to Tuesday, and on the Sunday you drove from your apartment down to the beach?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘With Sheila?’

  ‘No. I already told you: she died three years ago.’

  ‘No. I mean you drove in Sheila the car? The Toyota?’

  ‘No. I had a hire car. A little Fiat. Sheila would never last a journey like that, all the way from England to the south of Spain. She’s getting on a bit. I don’t think she’ll ever be as old as my wife, but then I’ve probably not got that many years left either. I have very high blood pressure, you know, and I get angina.’

  Hannah was beginning to think Mr Parkes was unlikely to be the killer she sought.

  ‘Mr Parkes, is it possible that anyone could have used your car without your permission while you were abroad, particularly on Sunday?’

  ‘Used Sheila? No. Not possible.’

  ‘You seem very certain.’

  ‘I am. She was locked away.’

  ‘Locked away? Where?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  ‘You have a garage?’

  ‘No. I mean the garage where they fix cars. Like I said, when Sheila gets sick, I get her better, and I always use the same doctor. Been using them for years. Very reliable, and they don’t charge the earth, either. They picked it up while I was away, fixed it, and brought it back again on Tuesday.’

  ‘Who might they be?’

  ‘Crossland Garage. Bryant Street. You know it?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘Very reliable. Very nice fellas. Gavin Crossland and his mate whose name I can never remember. Like the polar explorer guy.’

  Hannah had no idea what he was talking about, and no desire to pursue it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Parkes,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Helpful in using up a big chunk of day I’ll never get back, she thought.

  ‘That’s it? You just wanted to ask about my holiday?’

  ‘As I say, this was just a routine call.’

  ‘I took pictures. You want to see them? There’s a pool and everything. Okay, I have to share it, but in October it’s very quiet, and—’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Parkes.’ And she hung up.

  She brought her pen to his name, ready to cross it off her list.

  Would you be happy, she asked herself, if one of your team left it at that?

  Check out every story. And then double-check.

  She googled Crossland Garage and found a phone number. She called it.

  ‘Crossland Garage.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Stockford Police here. Detective Inspector Hannah Washington. Is that Mr Crossland?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Just a quick question or two, Mr Crossland. We’re trying to trace a Toyota Avensis that may have been used in a crime recently, and I believe you fixed one last weekend. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Thank God for conciseness, she thought.

  ‘Could you confirm when it was that it was brought in and how long you had it for?’

  ‘Let me think . . . We picked it up Friday. Took it back Tuesday.’

  ‘Do you normally keep cars for so long?’

  ‘Not normally, but the owner had gone away on holiday.’

  ‘Is there any possibility that the vehicle could have been used without your knowledge over the weekend? I’m thinking of Sunday in particular.’

  ‘No. We’re closed on Sundays, and the car was locked up in the garage. Safe as houses here.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The car’s gearbox was knackered. We had to tow it here. Didn’t fix it till Monday. Before then there’s no way it could be driven.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crossland. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She ended the call. Looked again at her list. Crossed off Mr Parkes.

  Better luck next time, she thought.

  Scott Timpson couldn’t believe his luck.

  She hadn’t recognised his voice.

  But then why would she? They’d had one short conversation at the beginning of the week. She’s probably spoken to hundreds of people since then, he thought. Probably doesn’t even remember my name or what I look like.

  But what if Gavin had answered? He might have dropped me in it by saying the car had already been fixed before Sunday.

  Definitely a lucky escape there.

  Although . . .

  How did they get onto the car? How the hell did they track it to the garage?

  How much closer will they get?

  What if they decide to search the car? They’ll find forensic evidence. They’ll come back to the garage and make the connection to me.

  ‘Shit,’ he said quietly, his fist tightly clenched. He could hear Gavin on the other side of the garage, putting a wheel back on.

  He paced up and down for a few seconds, ignoring the pain that still wracked his body.

  Wait, he told himself. Calm down. You heard her on the phone. She doesn’t think it’s that car. They’re probably looking at hundreds of cars, from CCTV or something. If they really thought it was that one, they’d have come here in person. A routine inquiry, that’s all it was.

  He took several long, deep breaths. He knew he couldn’t let this get to him. His nerves were shot already.

  He had to keep his wits about him for what he needed to do later.

  44

  Hannah had her defences up even before she went into DCI Ray Devereux’s office. She suspected he wasn’t about to offer a pat on the back. More likely a kick in the arse.

  He’ll ask me to run through our progress on the case, she thought, and he’ll question my judgement, and then he’ll summarise by telling me how I need to pull my socks up. That’s usually how these things go. He’ll do it nicely, though. Probably wearing a smile as he points out my deficiencies.

  She quickly found out that her suspicions were unfounded.

  Things were much, much worse.

  ‘Come in, Hannah,’ Devereux said, indicating the chair on the other side of his desk.

  No smile. Uh-oh.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen the local rag today, have you?’ he asked.

  She glanced at the folded-up newspaper in front of him. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Take a look.’ He slid it across to her.

  Hannah read the headline:

  TRAIN-DEATH DETECTIVE IN SCRAP WITH VICTIM’S SON.

  Fucking hell, Hannah thought. She continued to read:

  A high-ranking police detective who was investigated for her par
t in a fatal chase was involved in fist fight yesterday with the dead woman’s grieving son.

  Detective Inspector Hannah Washington of Stockford Police had been the focus of an inquiry in September regarding her actions during an investigation into the whereabouts of a known criminal, Mr Tommy Glover. What began as routine questioning of Ms Suzy Carling, who was Glover’s partner at the time, quickly degenerated into a foot chase that led to Ms Carling running onto a railway line in front of a high-speed train.

  Ms Carling was killed instantly in the collision, but although she had never been arrested, charged or named as a suspect in any crime, the inquiry later cleared Inspector Washington of any wrongdoing in taking up the pursuit. Mr Shane Carling, son of the deceased, denounced the decision at the time, declaring it a ‘travesty of justice’.

  In a bizarre twist last night, Inspector Washington chose to dine at the King George pub in Stockford, where Mr Carling, a regular at the pub, was already drinking at the bar.

  Witnesses report how an intense ‘scrap’ broke out between Mr Carling and Inspector Washington in the upstairs toilets, with the detective aided in the struggle by her husband Ben. The fight resulted in Mr Carling sustaining injuries that made him look ‘like he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson Fury’.

  Hannah pushed the paper back towards Devereux. She’d had enough poison.

  ‘Bullshit,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’ Devereux asked.

  ‘All of it. It’s so biased, for one thing. I’m the “Train-Death Detective” and he’s the “grieving son”? Give me a break. And then they make it sound like I’d gone to that pub because I knew he’d be there—’

  ‘Did you know he drank there?’

  ‘Of course not. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to go there if I had? I went there because Marcel Lang recommended it. Carling can’t be that much of a regular, because Marcel has eaten there several times and he’s never bumped into him.’ She jabbed at the paper. ‘And then there’s all this shit about a “scrap”. It wasn’t a fucking scrap. It was an assault. By Carling. If Ben hadn’t turned up, I’d have been the first person in history to have been murdered with a fucking bog brush. Who are these so-called witnesses anyway?’

  ‘All right, Hannah. Calm down. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Fine. Watch the interviews with Carling. He puts his hands up to all of it. If anyone’s a “victim” here, it’s me. Twice, in fact!’

  ‘Yes, about that . . . There’s nothing in your reports about the first assault.’

  ‘That’s because it wasn’t worth reporting. I didn’t see who it was, and neither did anyone else.’

  ‘But it was serious enough for you to require hospitalisation?’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration of the truth. I dropped in to A&E because Marcel Lang insisted on it. It wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Marcel about it. Apparently you lost consciousness.’

  ‘For a while, yes. I’m fine now.’

  Devereux tapped his fingers on the desk, giving Hannah the impression that he was choosing his next words with care. It seemed ominous.

  ‘Is it possible,’ he said, ‘that you knew more about your attacker than you were willing to admit at the time?’

  Hannah stared at him as she tried to process this.

  ‘Wait. Are you asking what I think you’re asking?’

  Devereux hesitated. ‘It is being suggested in some quarters—’

  ‘No, don’t mince your words, Ray. You’re saying did I know it was Carling who attacked me in the flats? And if so, is that why I went to his boozer, so I could provoke him into having another go, giving me the excuse I needed to beat the crap out of him? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s . . . a hypothesis that’s been put forward.’

  ‘It’s bollocks is what it is. And you should be ashamed of yourself for repeating it. You know me, Ray. You know I wouldn’t do something like that.’

  Devereux flushed, but Hannah wasn’t sure if it was out of embarrassment or anger.

  ‘Look, I don’t for one moment believe there’s any substance to this. But you know what it’s like when rumours start flying round.’

  ‘Yes, I know what it’s like. And what I expect to happen when they do is for my line manager to quash them before they spread. So let me make this as clear as fucking crystal. I had no idea that the man who attacked me in Erskine Court was Shane Carling. The only reason I didn’t report it was that the young man who chased him away had learning difficulties, and I didn’t see any point in putting him through a legal process that would have gone nowhere. Furthermore, I had no idea that Carling was a regular at the King George. Now, will that do, or do you want me to put it in writing?’

  She could see that she had pushed back a bit too hard. Devereux was definitely looking flustered now.

  ‘All right, Hannah. Point taken.’ He nodded towards the newspaper. ‘But this is still a problem.’

  ‘It’s only a problem if we don’t ignore it for the trash it is.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. It raises your profile, and not in a good way.’ He picked up the paper and began reading. ‘“Washington is currently the senior detective investigating the murder of Joseph Cobb, a prominent gangland figure. These latest events have prompted some to question Washington’s suitability for the role, with one close family member of Cobb commenting that they had ‘lost all faith in the police’.”’

  ‘You know who that’ll be, don’t you?’ Hannah said. ‘Myra Cobb. She’ll be saying that even when we find her son’s killer.’

  ‘Yes,’ Devereux said slowly, and there was something in his tone that turned that single word into a hundred more.

  Hannah shook her head. ‘No, Ray. Don’t say what you’re about to say. We’re making good progress on this case.’

  Devereux sighed. ‘It’s been nearly a week now, Hannah. A week. And I’m not convinced we’ve got much to show for it.’

  ‘We’ve got tons to show for it. We’re hot on the tail of the car that was used to dump Cobb’s body. As soon as we find it, we’ve got our man.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news. But if that’s the case, it shouldn’t be that difficult for another lead to tie up the loose ends.’

  ‘Another lead? Why do we need another lead?’

  Devereux picked up the paper and dropped it again. ‘This! It’s bad PR, Hannah. We can’t simply ignore it. We have to restore public confidence in our ability to investigate serious crimes.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Carling attacked me. Not the other way round. What part of that is so hard to understand? If you want to restore confidence, try standing up for your officers. Try issuing statements about what really happened instead of pandering to media hacks. If you remove me from the investigation, you might as well put a huge question mark against the rest of my career.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. The decision has already been made. After end of play today, I’ll be taking over as SIO on the Cobb case.’

  Hannah stared at him open-mouthed. ‘No, no, no. This isn’t about public confidence. It’s not about that shitty little newspaper. It’s about me. It’s what you wanted all along. This story has just given you the extra ammunition you need to finish the job.’

  ‘Hannah, I think you should stop there, before you say something you regret.’

  ‘You set me up for a fall, Ray. You thought I wasn’t up to it anymore, so you threw me in at the deep end, expecting me to drown. But I’m swimming like a fish, Ray, and you don’t like it. That shabby article is your excuse to make accusations of impropriety, even though you know I’ve done everything by the book. I have done everything you’ve asked of me, and more. Admit it, Ray. You’re shafting me.’

  Devereux shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Hannah, you have to understand that this wasn’t a unilateral decision on my part. As I said, I’m getting pressure from above—’

  ‘Fuck you, Ray!’ She jumped o
ut of her chair. ‘Fuck all those above you, too, but most of all fuck you for not having the balls to defend me.’ She stormed away, but paused at the door. ‘Good luck with your next promotion,’ she said, ‘but I hope you remember the people you walked over to get it.’

  45

  It felt to Scott as though something was gnawing at his insides. Work couldn’t distract him. The only thing on his mind was the upcoming encounter with Barrington Daley. He didn’t know anything about the man except that he was a drug dealer. He imagined a scarred, tattooed, muscle-bound maniac with a gun in each hand, willing to cut down anyone who came within a hundred metres of his contraband.

  He tried telling himself it wouldn’t be like that. Barrington would be just an average-looking guy, no bigger than himself. Probably meaner, though. Quicker to resort to violence almost certainly.

  Still scary.

  Scott had never instigated a fight. He could count on one hand the number of punch-ups in which he’d been involved, and they had always resulted from others making the first move. Like yesterday, for example. And look how that turned out.

  Which was another problem. After the beating he’d taken, he was hardly match-fit. He couldn’t afford to allow things to get too physical. His body wouldn’t cope.

  Go in fast and go in hard. Overwhelm the opposition. There was no other way.

  He’d considered all the alternatives. He’d thought about taking the family and running away, but where would they go? And how would they manage without money? He’d also thought again about Gemma’s advice to go to the police, but he knew he was in far too deep for that now. At best, they’d all end up in prison; at worst, dead.

  No, this was his only option. He had to see it through. And he had to come out on top. Then this nightmare would be over.

  When he saw it was after four o’clock, the thing inside him began scurrying and chewing again. Ronan had told him that the money drop-off would take place between four and five. It could be sitting there right now in Barrington’s flat. A white Adidas bag full of cash, just waiting for Scott to come and get it, thereby solving all his problems.

  At five o’clock, Scott visited the toilet for the second time in ten minutes. The rodent in his belly seemed to be using his intestines as a skipping rope.