Текст книги "Scarred for Life"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

‘Are you sure? They say life begins at forty.’

Jessica had been in the middle of taking a sip from a cup of water, but spluttered so badly that she sent the liquid sploshing over the side. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said life begins at forty – if ever you’re going to switch careers, then it should probably be sooner rather than later.’

Jessica batted Rosie’s hand away, untied her hair, ruffled it up and then retied it as messily as she could. ‘I’m not forty.’

Rosie was frozen in position, hands hovering close to Jessica’s head. ‘You’re not?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not looking to change career either and I can’t sing.’

‘Oh darling, half the actors in musicals can’t sing – they just pipe the lyrics in. It’s all about having a pretty face.’

Jessica pushed herself up from the stool and headed towards the door, picking at her trousers and wondering how DCI Cole and Porky Pomeroy had got out of being annoyed by Rosie. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

As she headed along the corridor towards the entrance to the Longsight Press Pad, Rosie trailed behind, heels click-clacking on the floor. ‘That’s fabulous, sweetie, but I haven’t briefed you about what to say yet.’

Jessica ignored her, fumbling her way across the mass of wet cables, waving a non-committal ‘hello’ to the handful of journalists she recognised and didn’t want to throttle, and then taking her place on the end of the table that looked like it had been dipped in GMP branding. She poured herself a glass of water and then caught sight of herself in the monitor. Shite, she really should have let Rosie sort her hair out – she looked like she’d stepped off a rollercoaster. Her mum would definitely be watching this too.

Jessica turned her phone off.

Suddenly she was blinded as the dazzling white lights clinging to the gantry above fizzed to life with an ominous crackle. ‘Fu . . .’ Jessica disguised her surprise with a cough as she blinked ferociously, trying to see anything beyond the edge of the desk. From the side, DCI Cole emerged out of the heavenly glow, Rosie pinning a radio microphone to his jacket and telling him how fabulous he looked. Without a word, he edged past Jessica and took his seat in the seat farthest away.

Moments later, the bulbous figure of Porky Pomeroy stepped forward from the other side of the light, creating a near-eclipse as he waited for Rosie to clip a microphone to his lapel. He waddled up the three steps to the stage, puffing out his mighty bright red cheeks in exhaustion. His hair wasn’t as thin or as grey as Cole’s, but that wasn’t saying much considering they barely had enough to weave a sock between them. Jessica focused on his blubbery face, wanting him to look at her to gauge the recognition. It was only when he got to the top of the steps and his head swivelled to face her that he gave Jessica the tiniest of glances and a minuscule nod, the type you might give to someone in the street if you thought you recognised them but had no idea who they actually were. Then he peered back up again and attempted to squeeze his way into the seat between her and Cole.

Jessica had been waiting for even the merest hint that he knew who she was but there was nothing. It was the kind of look he’d give to anyone who worked for GMP – ‘Hello, do you know how important I am? Where are the biscuits?’

Rosie came up the stairs and attached a radio microphone to Jessica’s collar and they were away. Despite any reservations about who Graham Pomeroy was and what his job entailed, Jessica had to admit that the assistant chief constable was the consummate pro during the press conference. She kept staring steadily at her glass of water, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye just in case they asked her something ridiculous, but he relished the moment. First he blathered on about how proud he was of the people who’d worked on the case, then it was how their tireless efforts had got a dangerous man off the streets, how everyone’s sympathies went out to the victims’ families, how it proved GMP was in the ‘painful process’ of reforming following the Stretford Slasher scandal of a few months previously, and so on and so on.

After he’d finished speaking, it was time for the questions, which meant a race to ask the most moronic thing possible. Jessica tried to say as little as she could, doing the normal thing of praising everyone she’d ever worked with, met, spoken to, once glimpsed on a train platform in Cardiff and so on. Rule one of corporate PR bullshit: if in doubt, talk up other people, thereby making yourself seem not only like the genius that you are but humble at the same time. After that, pay tribute to the families of the victims, then pay tribute again, and – if you can – go for it a third time as well. Rule two: you can never pay enough tributes in press conferences. Because she had to, Jessica praised everything about the families, from their patience to their cooperation. She was one step away from eulogising their tea-making skills before realising that the teas had been made by the support officer.

Jessica knew she sounded like a recording of every other police press conference ever given, with the added complication – and skill – of simultaneously trying to ignore Rosie’s thumbs-up and Tourette’s-like nodding from the side.

It was everything that she hated about the job: the spin, the shite, the ‘aren’t-we-great’ attitude. And now, here she was: one of them, nodding along and spouting the same old bollocks everyone else always did.

As soon as the conference was over, Jessica unclipped the microphone, dropped it on the floor, downed her water, and slipped through the side door into the corridor. She walked as quickly as she could through reception, telling Pat where he could shove his custard creams when he made some crack about her hair, and then bounding through to the area where the constables congregated, looking for the first familiar face.

As it was, DC Rowlands was at his desk, hammering away at his keyboard.

‘Busy?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Tough, let’s go for a ride.’

‘Shall I take all the stuff we’ve got about you-know-who?’

‘Yes.’

Dave picked up a thick wallet while Jessica signed out a marked pool car. She edged out of the car park, around the satellite vans and reporters’ vehicles and then ambled along Stockport Road.

‘You all right?’ Dave asked.

‘Why?’

‘You’re driving under the speed limit.’

Jessica ignored him, keeping the car steady. ‘Did you see the press conference?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘All right, I did. It was bloody horrendous – but that wasn’t your fault.’

‘That was Pomeroy next to me. I could practically hear his arteries bursting.’

‘I saw the caption. Did he say anything to you?’

‘Not a peep.’

Jessica headed towards Alan Turing Way, a personal favourite every time she saw the sign, not because she had any interest in mathematics or code-breaking, simply because it made her think of her father. As a child, he had taught her about the Second World War and how Britain had cracked the German Enigma code. She later found out that, despite his efforts for his nation, Turing had been prosecuted for being gay, which made her like him even more. Perhaps that was where her natural suspicion of anyone in authority came from? He was useful enough to help win a war but not allowed to love in the way he wanted.

‘Are we going to Freddy Bunce’s office?’ Dave asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

Jessica followed the road out towards the motorway and then took the turn that led towards the country road they’d been on while tracking the builder’s van. It was deserted, and when Jessica reached the large house, she parked the police car across the driveway, blocking it.

‘What are you doing?’ Dave asked, unclipping his seatbelt and looking over his shoulder.

Jessica had already opened her door. ‘If they’ve got any neighbours, I want them to notice the car. Wait here, I’ll be right back.’

Before he could protest, Jessica was out of the car, scrunching her way across the driveway towards the front door. She used her anger at the press conference to block out the claustrophobia the towering building evoked in her.

The doorbell offered an old-fashioned, satisfying ‘ding-dong’. Jessica waited, pinching her own skin again, making herself focus, wondering if she would ever get over those feelings when she visited a large house.

After a minute, one of the large double doors swung open, revealing a perfect Barbie doll of a woman staring in confusion past Jessica towards the police car. ‘Is there a problem?’

Jessica showed her identification, making sure the woman had enough time to memorise it. ‘Are you Janine Bunce?’

‘Yes, there’s not been a problem with Freddy, has there?’

‘No . . . I was simply wondering where he is.’

After first seeming a little worried, Janine’s posture changed entirely, a frown spreading across her otherwise smooth skin. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I’d rather speak to Mr Bunce.’

‘He’s working.’

‘Can you tell me where?’

Janine bit her bottom lip, tilting her head to the side and peering over Jessica’s shoulder again. With her bleached hair, long nails and slim waist, she didn’t exactly seem the type to own two building companies. ‘Gimme a minute.’

Janine pushed the door until it was almost closed and disappeared back into the house. Jessica turned towards the car, watching, feeling that buzz inside her. This was like the old days. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. There was no way Janine had simply popped inside to check an address.

After another thirty seconds, the door opened again. Janine hesitantly passed her a sheet of ripped-out notepad paper: ‘I’ve written down his office address for you.’

Jessica read it and then put on an over-the-top performance worthy of Rosie. ‘Wonderful, you’ve been just fabulous. Thank you so much for your help.’

She turned and strode back to the car, sitting in the driver’s seat but not switching the engine on. She passed the address to Dave.

‘Didn’t you already have this?’ he said.

‘Yep.’

‘So why didn’t we just go there?’

Jessica stared through the side window towards the house where Janine was still standing in the doorway, watching them. ‘Because sometimes, DC Rowlands, I just can’t resist pissing people off.’

35

As plans went, it was ridiculous – but the lack of recognition from DCI Cole, the nit-picking, and the way she’d turned into everything she despised at the press conference, all coupled with the guilt that somewhere Bex was living on the street because of her, meant that Jessica didn’t care.

Sometimes, getting on people’s nerves was the only way to make herself feel better.

Jessica drove carefully towards Freddy’s office, taking her time and expecting her phone to ring at any moment. The fact it didn’t heartened her even further.

His office wasn’t quite in keeping with the rest of Freddy’s empire that Jessica had seen. Far from the sprawling driveway and enormous house surrounded by the greenery of Greater Manchester, the breeze-block building on the edge of an industrial estate not far from Prestwich wasn’t exactly what Jessica had expected. It was only when she thought about it that it made sense: if you were looking to hire a tradesman, you’d pick a bloke with a phone number that had the same area code as yours and a local-sounding voice. If they could give you an address somewhere in the city limits, then all the better. People didn’t want someone who lived in a giant mansion renovating their house; they wanted down-to-earth working-class types who’d come in, call them ‘luv’, and at least have the good grace to pretend they weren’t ripping them off.

Jessica did a loop of the estate, driving slowly in the hope that people would notice and speculate about what was going on. Sometimes the image of a police car was far more powerful than anything an officer might actually have to say. As they passed the office a second time, Jessica could see a man standing in the now open doorway, watching them, arms folded. Jessica drove to the next roundabout, went the entire way around it, and then came to a halt next to the metal gates of Bunce ’N’ Builders.

Although they’d seen four white vans at his house on the Friday evening, there was another here, plus one with the One-Stop Builders name on the side. Jessica got out of the car slowly, holding her phone to her ear, even though there was no one on the other end. She leant on the bonnet, watching Freddy watch her, having a conversation with an imaginary person. He was short, not fat but not thin either; he definitely didn’t have the physique of a builder. It might have been something he’d done in the past but his arms were too thin for it now. Even though it was only fractionally above zero, he was wearing a T-shirt, trying to prove he wasn’t cold. Dave had put his file on the back seat and was standing next to the passenger door looking between the two of them. Jessica felt a sudden pang of guilt for bringing him – he’d done more than enough for her in the past and yet she’d dragged him out to go along with something stupid again.

Jessica started walking towards Freddy, still having a conversation with nobody.

‘. . . Well, if that’s what he says, then that’s what he says – I can’t make all the decisions. Use some initiative. All right, see ya, bye.’

She hung up and continued walking, stretching her hand out to shake. ‘Mr Bunce?’

Freddy nodded, not taking his eyes from her. They were narrow and calculating. It was easy to pigeonhole people but it wasn’t the type of glare you’d get from someone who spent their time doing a day’s work and then headed home. But then there weren’t too many builders who owned huge mansions in the countryside. He gripped her hand tightly, squeezing in the way only a dickhead could. You could tell a lot from a handshake.

Jessica didn’t grimace, instead handing him her identification and heading past him into the office without being invited. Freddy kept his cool, following, with Dave at the rear. The interior was smaller than it appeared from the outside but far less grim than she expected. Directly in front was a small desk with a young woman sitting behind it, connected up to a telephone headset; off to the right was an open doorway which Jessica made her way towards.

Through the side door, there was a tall leather chair behind another desk and rows of filing cabinets. A computer sat there, monitor off, while heat blazed from the radiator under the window. On the desk was a pad of headed notepaper, the company’s name and the three-pronged logo clear at the top.

‘I gather you visited my house,’ Freddy said, returning her ID and perching in the leather chair, leaning forward.

Jessica went to sit opposite, in a seat that looked a lot less comfortable. ‘Correct.’

‘You could have called if you wanted me. My secretary can always get hold of me if necessary.’

Jessica looked to Dave and slapped herself on the head. ‘I really should have thought of that.’

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s a bit embarrassing, really.’

‘What is?’

‘It’s more of a personal visit than anything official. I was going about my business in the centre at the weekend, doing a bit of shopping, getting wet, that sort of thing, when I saw one of your vans driving past. I was confused because it was a Saturday and I couldn’t believe there was a builder actually working on a weekend.’ Jessica paused, hoping for a reaction, but Freddy was unmoved. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I was curious about your logo.’

She pointed to the notepaper on the desk. Freddy glanced at it and then scratched the back of his shoulder, still spikily leaning forward. His forehead appeared to have a permanent frown. ‘You know my wife called me from the house, terrified. She thought I’d been in an accident, then she thought there was something else wrong when you insisted on talking to me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And then you took that car of yours all around the estate before leaving it directly outside my business.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘No, you weren’t.’

A hint of a smile crept across Jessica’s face. It felt like being told off at school and finding it increasingly funny, no matter how many times the teacher said it was serious. Usually, she’d have the self-control to hide it but she allowed her lips to curl just long enough for Freddy to notice.

He sounded even more irritable when he spoke next: ‘Why are you interested in that symbol?’

‘Nothing in particular, I was just intrigued by it.’

‘There must be a reason.’

‘Nope: I’d just like to know where it came from.’

Jessica and Freddy stared at one another, each waiting for the other to break first. Unlike when she had been facing Bex, Jessica knew that this was a contest she’d win.

Freddy finally leant back in his seat, trying to appear relaxed, even though he clearly wasn’t. ‘It was just something I thought of.’

‘When?’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘I’m curious.’

‘Years ago, when I was at school.’

‘So you were thinking about logos for your business while you were still a student?’

‘I suppose.’

He was lying, which only made Jessica more curious about why he’d hide it. The forced relaxation looked even more awkward because his eyebrow was starting to twitch with anxiety.

‘Does it mean anything in particular?’

Freddy began tugging at his T-shirt, pulling the shoulders forward and then shrugging them back again. ‘It was just a shape I fancied. Perhaps I saw it once?’

‘Did you?’

‘What?’

‘See it once – or was it something you thought of?’

‘I, er . . . I’m not sure why any of this matters. You said it wasn’t official business . . .’

Jessica stood, exchanging a glance that she thought had a significant look about it with Dave, even though he clearly didn’t know what she was thinking. ‘No, no, that’s everything. Sometimes we have to ask the odd question. You know what it’s like with all the Eastern European tradesmen coming in and doing shoddy jobs; then there are all sorts of tax scams going on and rogue traders building these crumbling properties. I’m sure you don’t have any problems with those types of thing.’

‘Is there some sort of problem?’ he asked.

‘Not at all – I know what a busy time it must be for you with that juicy new social housing contract. What was it worth, eleven, twelve million?’

‘I, um . . .’

‘No matter, I’m sure you’re a busy man.’ Jessica took a business card from her pocket and placed it carefully on top of his desk. ‘Never mind, if there’s a problem, you can always call the station where I work. The number’s on there.’

‘Am I suspected of something?’

Jessica laughed again. ‘Have you got something to hide?’

‘Of course not.’

‘There’s your answer. Cheerio.’

Jessica hurried to the car as quickly as she could, muttering a ‘come on’ to Dave as they moved. She started the car and then handed him her phone, watching through the side window as Freddy stood in the doorway.

‘What was all that about?’ Dave asked, turning her phone over in his hand.

‘Honestly? I’m not sure yet – but I bet you ten quid that my phone rings in the next five minutes.’

36

Jessica was grateful she didn’t put any money on it, because it actually took six minutes for her phone to ring. ‘Don’t sit there looking at it, answer it,’ she hissed.

Rowlands fumbled with the buttons before finally putting it to his ear. ‘Hello.’ Moments later, he held the phone out in Jessica’s direction: ‘It’s for you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘The guv.’

‘Tell him I’m driving.’

Dave went through the rigmarole of being the middle man in the conversation between DCI Cole and Jessica but she had known what the gist was going to be from the moment she’d walked out of Freddy’s office.

‘He wants us back then?’ Jessica clarified when Dave hung up.

‘“Now”, apparently, as he shouted half-a-dozen times.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

‘No – because now I know for certain that there’s a link between that logo and whatever it is that’s going on at the station. As soon as we’d pulled away, Freddy was on the phone to someone complaining about us.’

‘Porky Pomeroy?’

‘Perhaps – but at least we know for certain it’s not just me being paranoid.’

Jessica hadn’t seen Detective Superintendent William Aylesbury for almost two years. He had been a DCI when she was first promoted to detective sergeant. At first, she’d not known what to make of him; he was more someone she’d tried to work around, rather than with. Gradually he had grown on her – and then he’d been promoted to DSI to oversee multiple stations. Over time, his appearances at Longsight had become less frequent and then he’d stopped coming at all, occasionally summoning DCI Cole to see him, or taking part in a conference call. In all that time, he’d never bothered to seek Jessica out – not that he had any reason to.

Which was why Jessica was so surprised to see DSI Aylesbury sitting in DCI Cole’s office, legs crossed, cradling a cup of tea and laughing as if he was at a comedy gig. When he spotted her through the glass, he smiled and waved her inside.

He’d always had a presence, partly because of his height, but also because of his trim, athletic physique. He stood to shake her hand, reminding her of quite how imposing he was. Now in his late fifties, his hair was looking thicker than while he had been DCI and, if anything, he appeared fitter than she remembered, with a hint of a tan too – which definitely hadn’t come from Manchester. If everything people said was true, then it was more likely a Portuguese golf course. He was surely only a year or two away from retirement – unless one of the assistant chief constable roles became available for any reason and then he’d be one of the first names on the list.

‘Jessica, Jessica,’ he said, over-pronouncing each syllable and being too familiar. ‘It’s so good to see you – and a DI now too.’

Jessica shook his hand: ‘Sir . . .’

DCI Cole’s face was blank as he watched from his side of the desk. Any hilarity that had been in the room moments before was gone.

‘Sit, sit,’ Aylesbury said, grinning too much. ‘I figured it was about time we had something of a catch-up. I’ve been hearing good things.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘You looked good on television this morning – I know what a ruck those things can be but you dealt with everything exceptionally. I know Graham was delighted with how everything turned out.’

‘That’s good to hear, Sir.’

Ugh. Jessica hated the sound of her own voice.

‘I hear you were largely responsible for the arrest of Timothy Stoddard and that it was clean as well; no roughhousing, no shots fired.’

‘It wasn’t just me, Sir, there were other people involved – a true team operation.’

The two men exchanged a quick glance and Jessica thought she saw the I-told-you-so look from Cole. She was cooperating in an entirely non-cooperative kind of way, not quite giving the wanted answers. Aylesbury had a small hint of frustration in his voice when he continued. ‘But it was you who talked him down, so to speak.’ He swirled his hand around in front of his chest, stammering, before finally finding the right words. ‘I suppose in old parlance, you made him come quietly.’

‘I suppose so, Sir.’

Jessica knew he wanted details but she was also aware that he wasn’t simply here for a cosy catch-up.

Another quick exasperated flicker between the two men: ‘Would you care to say how you managed that?’

‘Womanly charms? I’ve got a good range of pilfered jokes as well. Have you heard the one about the price of Velcro?’

Cole cut in: ‘It’s all on tape – she was wired in case Stoddard actually confessed.’

Aylesbury studied Jessica with a scratch of his chin and a considered nod. ‘Aah, very good, very good. So you can speak with great diplomacy when required . . .’

Jessica allowed herself a grin. ‘That’s very kind of you to say, Sir.’

‘Of course, this is only the latest in your run. I believe you brought a man into custody for the tattoo robberies?’

‘That was DS Diamond, Sir.’

‘And then there was the unfortunate incident with the, ahem, Stretford Slasher last spring . . . ?’

‘That really wasn’t much to do with me, Sir. I was just here.’

‘I’m hearing all sorts of rumours about the outcome of Matthew Pratley’s investigation into our district following that case. You know they’re publishing early next year?’

‘I don’t really listen to station rumours, Sir.’

‘Probably the best policy – but there could be all sorts of shake-ups and redeployments. For some, it will be the end of the road but for others – people who get their heads down; those with good track records – this entire mess could turn out to be a blessing.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sir.’

Aylesbury nodded, leaning forward and picking up his tea again. He took a swig, before returning the cup to the saucer, twisting the handle around until he was satisfied it was perpendicular to the edge of the table. So far, he’d been as subtle as a bloke shuffling his way into Sandra’s: if she kept her head down and didn’t cause too much trouble in the next couple of months, there could be all sorts of interesting opportunities come the new year.

Aylesbury sucked on the inside of his cheek, still watching Jessica. ‘This all comes, of course, after what was an extended break . . .’

Jolts of ice prickled along the back of Jessica’s neck. He couldn’t use that against her: no one could. Cole knew as well as anyone what she’d been through. She angled slightly in her chair to look at the DCI behind his desk but he was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

She kept her eyes on Cole, even though it was Aylesbury she was talking to. ‘As far as I’m aware, everything was cleared at the time with HR and anyone else it needed to be signed off by.’

Aylesbury adjusted his position until he was perched forward, diligently trying to catch her eye. ‘Quite, quite – and you’ve been largely hitting your targets since returning, of course . . . so, with all of that in mind, can I ask where you’ve just been?’

Jessica could feel Aylesbury staring at her but didn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Finally, the buttering up and vague hints were over and they were getting to the point.

‘I’ve had a busy weekend,’ Jessica replied. ‘I was moved to lates at short notice but then I had to come in yesterday to deal with Timothy Stoddard. I need a new pair of shoes, so I figured no one would mind if I nicked over to the Arndale for half an hour. My timesheets have been ridiculous this month anyway.’

Silence.

DCI Cole stared at his desk. DSI Aylesbury stared at Jessica. Jessica stared at the certificates on the wall behind the pair of them.

‘You went shopping?’

‘Not technically, Sir, I didn’t buy anything.’

‘But you’re saying you were in the city centre?’

‘I was in a few places – just a quick in-out. I didn’t think anyone would mind; it’s quiet around here.’

‘Right . . .’

Aylesbury sounded as if he was about to launch into some sort of life lesson, so Jessica cut him off. ‘Can I ask why you’re interested, Sir?’

The question took him by surprise. ‘Sorry?’

‘It’s just we’ve not seen you in months. Obviously that’s none of my business – it’s just curious that you’re suddenly interested in what I’m up to. If you like, I can email you minute-by-minute updates of my whereabouts but I doubt there’ll be a lot in there to interest you. If I’m not here, I’m usually at home. Sometimes I stop off at the supermarket on the way back. If you catch it at just the right time, there’s a sweet spot for when they reduce the price of all the bakery items. It’s an art form trying to get there at the right time.’

The DSI’s eyes were narrow, piercing through Jessica. This was definitely not Grandpa Aylesbury; this was someone firmly on the greasy pole of corporate promotions. ‘Perhaps your time would have been better spent trying to find the evidence needed to secure a conviction against the person who killed Damon Potter, instead of harassing innocent people?’

‘If you ask DCI Cole, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you that I’ve been shuffled sideways in that case. Witnesses were brought in at times I wasn’t here, Holden Wyatt was charged by someone else. I’m not omnipresent, Sir – and the whole point of what we do is that we don’t know who’s innocent or guilty until we’ve actually done the whole investigating thing.’

A pause for another sip of tea and then the rearrangement of the handle so it lined up with the desk.

‘Are you saying you don’t believe Holden Wyatt is guilty?’ Aylesbury asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir, like I say – shuffled sideways.’

Aylesbury turned to face Cole and Jessica knew that this exact conversation had already been predicted.

‘Wyatt has already admitted multiple assaults, including upon Damon Potter. We are going to look increasingly ridiculous if he is tried for an assault on someone, while we still don’t have anyone for the actual death. The victim didn’t put himself in that bin.’

‘That’s what I’ve been saying the entire time – but I fail to see how a group of students first saying they saw Holden at a party and then saying they didn’t proves that he was the one responsible for dumping the body. We’re not even certain whether Damon choked on his own vomit after drinking voluntarily, or if he was forced.’

‘In that case, it’s your job to get on with proving something and to stop messing around with other things – and that message comes down from on high. Do you understand?’

Jessica understood far better than he knew: Pomeroy.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good – then I’m sure there’s something you can find to be doing.’

Jessica stood and headed towards the door, turning at the last moment. ‘Oh, by the way, it’s a rip-off.’

Aylesbury and Cole exchanged a confused look. ‘What is?’ Aylesbury asked.

Jessica pulled the door until it was almost closed. ‘The price of Velcro.’

Slam.

37

Jessica hurried down the stairs, ignored Fat Pat bleating about something or other, and went to find DC Rowlands. He was at his desk but barely visible behind a stack of ring binders, cardboard folders and printouts.

He acknowledged her with a nod but was clearly occupied.

‘Got a minute?’ Jessica asked.

‘No – and I mean it this time.’

Jessica perched on the edge of his desk anyway but he continued working. She lowered her voice. ‘We’re definitely onto something – I’ve just been bollocked by Lord Aylesbury himself.’