‘Please don’t take this the wrong way Chief Inspector, but I think most people around this table will be aware of your, aah, rather singular case history?’ Carver caught some of the confirming nods in his peripheral vision.. ‘And I think it’s fair to say we’ve all been quite entertained by the coverage given to some of your more… interesting exploits.’ Carver felt his stomach muscles clench and steeled himself, wondering where Whitely’s deceptively light-hearted delivery might be leading. ‘Now I may be entirely mistaken on this, but I am aware that the same thought has occurred to some of my colleagues….’
Carver looked round. Whoever they were, they were keeping shtum.
‘You see, it strikes me that this coordinating role you foresee yourself playing-.’
‘I didn’t say it would be me, sir. In fact, I-.’
‘But there seems to be a strong inference in the paper that it may well be.’
‘No, sir. What I-.’
Whitely’s hand came up. ‘Please Chief Inspector. Let me finish.’
Carver stopped. He hoped his tendency to colour whenever his past threatened to cast a shadow over the present wasn’t starting to become apparent.
‘Whoever coordinates this group is going to find themselves in a fairly high-profile position, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Umm… maybe, but that-.’ The hand again.
‘And given the way certain sections of the media like to obsess over anything to do with-,’ he paused for effect, ‘Serial Killing, it strikes me that a group charged with looking at the subject on a multi-national level may well attract considerable media interest. Particularly whoever is responsible for coordinating the activities of such a unit?’
‘WHAT?’ Carver felt the colour starting to rise in his face. The intimation behind Whitely’s comment would be clear to everyone. About to voice his feelings, Carver felt a hand on his arm. He looked round to see Broom’s almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Confirmed in post as NCA’s new Operations Director only three weeks earlier, the former Chief Constable and one-time of Director of NCA’s precursor, NCIS, was a veteran when it came to the politicking that is an integral part of NPCC gatherings. Usually happy enough to fight his own corner, for once Carver was glad Broom was present. He couldn’t think of a better ally to help him refute Whitely’s slur. Broom turned to Whitely.
‘That’s rather unfair, Nick,’ he said, calmly. ‘As Mr Carver’s Head of Service I am familiar with both his background and the thinking behind this proposal. I have never found anything to suggest that Jamie courts media attention. Just the opposite in fact. He even-.’
‘Maybe so, Nigel,’ Whitley broke in, determined. ‘But in that case I wonder if DCI Carver would mind explaining how it is then, that a researcher from a Channel 4-sponsored, TV production company has already contacted the NPCC Secretariat enquiring about, the “Euro-Serial-Killer Cops”?’
Around the table the gasps and sharp intakes of breath were clearly audible. Even Broome looked stunned. Carver felt the grip on his arm again and turned to meet his Director’s intimidating gaze.
‘Do you know anything about this, Jamie?’
Carver felt himself redden. Only this time he knew it would be obvious to everyone.
CHAPTER 8
It was late in the afternoon when Carver finally caught up with the man most referred to as simply, ‘The Duke’ - his former boss, Detective Chief Superintendent John Morrison. On the way he had to detour to drop off a batch of the latest ‘Grapevine’s at the NCA’s Longsight offices. The newsletter was the Agency’s official organ for keeping staff appraised on internal matters. The past few months there had been only one, real topic of interest - the ongoing renegotiations concerning the official status of former police staff, in particular those that had a bearing on future pay scales, pension entitlements, and ‘posting rights’ when ‘Agents’, as they were now known, returned to their home forces.
A couple of days before, a Daily Telegraph reporter had contacted the NCA Press Office, asking for comment on a piece they were writing drawing attention to the ‘Crisis in Britain’s FBI’. The article purported to highlight the ‘shabby’ way agency staff around the country were being treated as the latest round of reorganisations progressed. Someone in the Agency’s Human Resource section at its Vauxhall Bridge HQ had decided it would be a good idea to pre-empt the inevitable internal fall-out by running off a special edition of Grapevine, handily pointing out that such reports were based upon, ‘rumour, lies and deliberate misinterpretations.’
Carver wondered what planet they were living on and where they thought the Telegraph got its story from in the first place?
Despite all the pre-discussion and supposed, ‘consultation’, former police officers - as opposed to direct entrants to the NCA - were still waiting to learn how their pension entitlements might change under the new structure. The prevailing view was that the lack of urgency being given to resolving the matter reflected the level of importance those orchestrating the changes – Home Office and HM Inspectorate Of Constabulary – attached to staff issues generally.
When he first heard about the Telegraph’s enquiry, Carver got his contact at the paper’s Trafford Park printers to E-mail him a draft. Having read the response in Grapevine, he knew whose version he thought was closer to the truth, and suspected that by the time people read the newsletter’s pronouncements about the problems being, ‘exaggerated out of all proportion,’ the NCA’s personnel department would have succeeded only in making things ten times worse. ‘They’d have been better keeping their mouths shut,’ he observed when the batches of newsletters arrived via special courier the previous day.
By the time Carver came away from Longsight, having done his best to answer the questions from those not out on operations, the sounds of discord were ringing in his ears.
Neil Booth, an old DCI colleague pulled him to one side as he was leaving. His take on it all was typical.
‘I don’t know how you see things from where you are Jamie, and I know you’re just the messenger. But take my word for it. They’re shitting on us. Look at this.’ He produced a letter from inside his jacket. It was from the NCA’s Human Resources Section, addressed to his home and dated a few days before. Carver started to read it, but Neil couldn’t wait.
‘It gives notice that as, technically, I’m no longer a serving police officer, I could be posted anywhere in the country once the Staffing Review is complete. Dianne threw a fit when she read it. We’ve only just moved to the catchment area for the school where we want to send our Amy.’ He picked up a copy of the newsletter and waved it in the air. ‘If you know who’s putting this crap out, tell ‘em to stick it up their arse.’ He balled the paper and lobbed it into the nearest waste bin.
Carver hadn’t argued. He’d been hearing such complaints with worrying regularity.
Now, after shelving the organisational problems afflicting the agency to which he remained seconded, Carver awaited The Duke’s reaction to his account of the abortive NPCC meeting that morning.
The big man across the table stopped his pint inches from his lips. ‘You do know Whitely set you up.’ It was a statement, not a question. His eyes locked onto Carver’s as he let the glass complete its journey, taking a good third of its contents in one long sup.
Carver watched the amber liquid disappear before taking some of his own, but didn’t attempt to match the other’s quaff-rate. The Duke’s ability to down pints was like many other things about him - legendary.
From the corner table where he’d found his former boss waiting on his arrival, Carver surveyed the rest of the bar’s clientele. It was an instinctive, though redundant precaution.
The Great English Pride, in the heart of Manchester, was once infamous as the place where elements within the old Manchester CID used to rub shoulders with the villains they stalked. No more. Nowadays its clientele consists mostly of sharply-dressed, management consultant whiz-kids - many still fresh from university
– who flock there to groom their would-be clients with expense-account lunches in a place with a bit more atmosphere than the ubiquitous city-centre bistros. But at least the change meant that Carver and his former boss could meet within reasonable distance of the Manchester Force’s Chester House HQ, without having to worry about someone starting a rumour.
When he’d first sat down, Carver had asked after Cathy. But after a vague, ‘We’re dealing with it,’ it became quickly clear that Morrison preferred to talk of things other than his wife’s recently-diagnosed cancer. Carver brought him up to date with his ill-fated presentation of that morning.
‘My first thought was any leak must have come from the Faculty. But they’re just as keen to get a forum up and running as we are.’
The Duke nodded into his pint as if he’d already come to the same conclusion. Having worked there, Carver was on excellent terms with the Faculty’s cadre of geeky analysts and ‘liason’ officers. Given the difficulties they faced on an almost daily basis, the last thing they’d do would be to scupper the forum’s chances.
Carver continued. ‘Then I remembered. Whitely missed out on the Northumbria Chief’s job a few months back. Broom knows someone in the Crime Commissioner’s office up there. Apparently Whitely didn’t respond too well when the Kenworthy case came up during his interview. He’s been heard citing it as the reason he didn’t get the job.’
‘So you think the leak may have been engineered by Whitely himself, to embarrass you?’
Carver stared into his pint before looking up to meet the other man’s gaze. ‘Let’s put it this way. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
The Duke nodded, slowly, as if considering it. ‘What did the rest of them think?’
Carver shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. I like to think most believe it was nothing to do with me. But there’s no way they’d admit one of their own would do something like that out of spite.’
The Duke harrumphed, loudly, shaking his large head. ‘Bloody Chief Officers. Sometimes they can be naive as hell.’
Carver let a lift of an eyebrow signal his agreement. He’d already gone over the possibilities during his lively discussion with Broom after the meeting. Eventually Broom had accepted that the leak to the TV company was nothing to do with Carver. But he was understandably angry, not to mention embarrassed, that a NCA-sponsored proposal had come to grief so spectacularly. His advice to Carver as he left to catch the train for Newcastle – the next leg of his provincial tour – had been uncompromising.
‘Everyone knows your investigative record Jamie. That’s why I welcomed your secondment. Your credentials can help us navigate our way through all this re-organisation bullshit. But if the baggage you carry round with you becomes a problem, I won’t hesitate to bounce you.’ At this point he leaned forward to make sure his next words weren’t misunderstood. ‘From now on, forget operations. Keep your head down, and for God’s sake keep your name out of the papers.’
It wasn’t exactly a bollocking, but it felt like one.
‘Is that all he mentioned?’ The Duke sounded like he sensed there might be more.
Carver gave a wan smile. ‘He did say something about it being time I moved up. That a Super’s job would take me away from the, how did he put it, ‘source of my problems’?’
‘Well fancy that.’
The knowingness in The Duke’s voice was unmistakable. He’d expressed similar views, many times, as, indeed, had Carver’s retired Chief Constable father. Carver had always responded that he was more suited to investigating, than command. His view hadn’t changed. Carver continued.
‘He also asked me if I was seeing much of you.’
The Duke spluttered into his pint so he had to put it down. A hand like a bear’s paw wiped across his mouth. ‘And what did you say?’
‘I said I’d only visited SMIU once, to talk about the Forum, which is the truth.’
‘Hmmm.’ The Duke cocked an eyebrow. For several seconds, unvoiced thoughts and understandings passed between the two detectives who had been through so much together.
As soon as it was announced that the newly created, national Special Murder Investigation Unit was going to be set up in the adjoining half of the complex that already housed the NCA’s North West arm – a nondescript set of offices tucked away at the back of a Salford trading estate – Nigel Broom was on the phone to The Duke. Ostensibly it was to offer his congratulations on his appointment as head of the new unit whose brief was to take on the investigation of murder cases which, by their nature, didn’t lend themselves to traditional methods of investigation. In reality that meant those that fell within either the, ‘Too Hard To Do’ or ‘We’ve Tried And Got Nowhere’ categories. But when Broom referred, casually, to the coincidence of Carver working next door and the pair’s shared history, the message was clear. ‘Carver is NCA. Don’t involve him in SMIU affairs.’
Carver almost broke a smile when The Duke rang to report the conversation, having already turned down his former boss’s several offers to use his pull with the powers-that-be to get him re-posted. ‘SMIU’s tailor-made for someone with your background,’ The Duke had argued.
Not that Carver wasn’t tempted. His most recent experiences could almost have been designed to equip him for the sort of work that would come to the unit that was the service’s response to the Rawcliffe Report’s scathing criticism of its record on investigating cross-border homicide - amongst other things. But his promises to Rosanna, and himself, had to stand. Thankfully, The Duke understood. He knew what they’d been through.
‘I respect your decision, Jamie,’ he said when Carver rang to tell him. ‘But the offer stands. Any time you are ready.’
Carver never even mentioned it to Rosanna.
Now, as The Duke rose, glasses in hand, he winked. ‘Just as well Nigel Broom doesn’t get in here much then, isn’t it?’
Carver watched as the six-foot-four former rugby forward headed towards the bar, broad back and shoulders rolling in the John Wayne-swagger that, along with the old movie star’s real surname, had long ago given rise to his nickname - ‘The Duke’. Not for the first time Carver regretted they were no longer working together. He even wondered if it wasn’t some sort of weird destiny that had brought them together again, almost. Okay, he wasn’t actually part of SMIU. But being next door, there should be plenty of opportunities to…. He stopped.
There you go again, he thought. Giving in to it. He let out a sigh. When will you get it through your thick skull? You’re not operational anymore. And if Nigel Broom catches so much as a whiff of you taking an interest in SMIU, you’ll end up Uniform Ops Manager on some out-of-the way divisional posting.
He was still musing on how he was going to manage to resist the temptations he could already see arising, when The Duke returned with their pints of Smooth Flow. Squeezing back into his seat, he returned to the subject they’d been discussing.
‘Whoever was behind the leak, it’s a bloody shame. Your little set-up would have complemented SMIU nicely.’ Despite the downbeat observation, Carver had to stifle a smile. The Duke’s West Country lilt made his new unit’s acronym sound like a cross between a cat and a cow; ‘Smeee-ooo.’ But though he agreed wholeheartedly, Carver had dwelt enough on the morning’s events.
‘Speaking of which, how is it coming along? Got the rest of your staff in place yet?’
To his surprise, Carver just caught a hint of a smile as The Duke picked up his glass, took another long swig then banged it down. He nodded at Carver’s pint.
‘Drink that up,’ he said, a glint suddenly showing in his eyes. ‘Then I’ve something to show you.’
CHAPTER 9
Temel Ozalan picked his way across the field he’d ploughed only that morning, bobbing and weaving to keep the tray he was carrying evenly-balanced. On it were the pitcher of aryan his thoughtful wife had ordered he take to their new hand, along with a beaker and jug of water.
Somewhere near the half-way point, the shadow of something pass
ing overhead drew him to look up. The distinctive outline of a golden eagle, one of the pair nesting in the cliff across the valley, soared overhead. But he was only able to follow its progress across the cloudless sky for a couple of seconds before he had to look away. Now approaching midday, the sun’s glare was too much for even his mountain-born eyes. Evening was the best time for eagle-watching, when the sun was setting beyond Turkey’s Taurus Mountains, behind the hill farm where Temel had lived and worked his fifty-two years. But it was nice to know they were still there. He hadn’t seen them for a few days and was beginning to worry that hunters may have taken them.
He carried on across the rough-hewn soil towards the woodshed from behind which the sounds of the new man, hard at work, had continued all morning. Since the stranger’s arrival a week or so before, the man had hardly stopped, happy it seemed to work long hours without rest. It was almost as if outdoor work was something he had been deprived of, which judging by the pallor that was only now beginning to disappear, Temel thought could well be the case.
But in this heat a man needed refreshment, hence the aryan that Sisi had made fresh that morning. Along with a jug of crystal-clear mountain water, the diluted-yoghurt that was a staple amongst the hill-farmers in the Konya region was enough to slake any man’s thirst.
Temel rounded the corner of the shed, just as the axe split the half-round of timber in two. The two quarters fell away from each other to join the steadily growing piles either side of the block. As Temel cast about for a flat surface where he could put the tray, he kicked some logs out of the way.
The axe-man span around.
Had Temel given it any thought, he may have wondered why the man wielded the axe across his chest as if making ready to defend himself. But his attention was diverted by the sight of Versile, trying to slide away, unseen, from her seat on the fence-post next to the shed door from where she had been watching the man at work.
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