Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

Chapter 16

You were late back last night,” Banks’s mother said, without turning from the kitchen sink. “Tea’s fresh.”

Banks poured himself a cup of tea and added a splash of milk. He had expected this sort of reaction. His mother had probably lain awake until two in the morning listening for him the way she did when he was a teenager. He and Michelle had decided that, for many reasons, it was not a good idea for him to stay with her overnight, but even so Michelle had laughed at the idea of his having to go home to his mother.

Ida Banks turned. “Alan! What have you done to your face?”

“It’s nothing,” said Banks.

“But it’s all bruised. And your lip’s cut. What have you been up to?”

Banks turned away. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Were you fighting? Was it some criminal you were arresting? Is that why you were so late? You could have rung.” She gave him a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of his chosen career.

“Something like that,” Banks said. “I had a bit of business to take care of. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ring, but it was so late. I didn’t want to wake you.”

His mother gave him the reproving look she was so good at. “Son,” she said, “you ought to know by now that I can’t get to sleep until you’re home safe and sound.”

“Well, you can’t have slept much these past thirty years or so,” Banks said, and immediately regretted it when he saw the other look she was so good at, the suffering martyr, lower lip trembling. He went over and gave her a hug. “Sorry, Mum,” he said, “but I’m all right. Really I am.”

His mother sniffed and nodded. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you’ll be hungry. Bacon and eggs?”

Banks knew from experience that feeding him would help his mother get over her bad night. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he couldn’t deal with the protests he knew he’d get if all he asked for was cereal. He was also in a hurry. Michelle had suggested he come down to headquarters to search through the mug shots for his attacker. He wasn’t certain he could identify the man, though the piggy eyes and pug nose were distinctive enough. Still, Mother comes first; bacon and eggs it had to be. “If it’s no trouble,” he said.

His mother walked over to the fridge. “It’s no trouble.”

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, as his mother turned on the cooker.

“Down at the allotment.”

“I didn’t know he still went there.”

“It’s more of a social thing. He doesn’t do much digging or anything these days. Mostly he sits and passes the time of day with his mates. And he has a cigarette or two. He thinks I don’t know but I can smell it on him when he comes home.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on him, Mum.”

“I’m not. But it’s not only his health, is it? What am I supposed to do if he goes and drops dead?”

“He’s not going to drop dead.”

“Doctor says he’s not supposed to smoke. And you should stop, too, while you’re still young.”

Young? It was a long time since Banks had been called young. Or felt young, for that matter. Except perhaps last night, with Michelle. Once she had made her decision, dropped her defenses a little, she was a different person, Banks marveled. It had clearly been a long time since she had been with anyone, so their lovemaking was slow and tentative at first, but none the worse for that. And once she threw aside her inhibitions she proved to be a warm and generous lover. Michelle had also been gentle because of Banks’s cut lip and bruised ribs. He cursed his bad luck, that he had to be injured in combat the first night he got to sleep with her. He also thought it was ironic that such physical injuries were so rare in his line of work, yet both he and Annie had been hurt within hours of each other. Some malevolent force working against them, no doubt.

Banks remembered Michelle’s sleepy late-night kiss at the door as he left, her warm body pressed against him. He sipped some tea. “Is the paper around?” he asked his mother.

“Your dad took it with him.”

“I’ll just nip over the road, then.” His father took the Daily Mail, anyway, and Banks preferred The Independent or The Guardian.

“Your bacon and eggs will be ready.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before they’re done.”

Banks’s mother sighed, and he headed out. It was warm but cloudy outside, and looking like rain again. That close, sticky muggy weather he hated. As he entered the newsagent’s shop, he remembered the way it used to be laid out, the counter in a different place, racks arranged differently. Different magazines and covers back then, too: Film Show, Fabulous, Jackie, Honey, Tit-Bits, Annabelle.

Banks remembered his conversation with Michelle in the pub about Donald Bradford and his collection of porn, and wondered if he really had acted as a distributor. While Banks couldn’t imagine Graham slipping a magazine of French fellatio between the pages of The People and putting it through number 42’s letter box, he could imagine Bradford keeping his stock under the counter, or hidden in the back. And maybe Graham had stumbled upon it.

He could remember quite clearly the first time he had ever seen a pornographic magazine. Not just the ones with naked women in them, like Playboy, Swank and Mayfair, but true porn, magazines that showed people doing things.

It was in their den inside the tree, and, interestingly enough, the magazines were Graham’s. At least, he brought them. Had Banks never wondered at the time where Graham got them from? He didn’t know. And if Graham had mentioned it, Banks didn’t remember.

It was a warm day, and there were only three of them there, but he wasn’t sure whether the third was Dave, Paul or Steve. The branches and leaves came right down to the ground, hard, shiny green leaves with thorns on them, Banks remembered now, and he could feel himself slipping through the concealed entrance, where the foliage wasn’t too dense, the thorns pricking his skin. Once you got inside, the space seemed bigger than it could possibly be, just the way the inside of Dr. Who’s TARDIS was bigger than the outside. They had plenty of space to sit around and smoke, and enough light got through for them to look at dirty magazines. The smell of the place came back, too, so real he could smell it as he stood waiting to cross the road. Pine needles. Or something similar. And there was a soft beige carpet of them on the ground.

That day, Graham had the two magazines stuffed down the front of his shirt and he brought them out with a flourish. He probably said, “Feast your eyes on this, lads,” but Banks couldn’t remember the actual words, and he didn’t have time to settle down and try to reconstruct the memory in full. It wasn’t important anyway.

What was important was that for the next hour or so the three teenagers looked in awe on some of the most amazing, exciting, unbelievable images they had ever seen in their lives, people doing things they had never even dreamed could or should be done.

By today’s standards, Banks realized, it was pretty mild, but for a fourteen-year-old provincial kid in the summer of 1965 to see color photos of a woman sucking a man’s penis or a man sticking his penis up a woman’s arse was shocking in the extreme. There were no animals, Banks remembered, and certainly no children. Mostly he remembered images of impossibly large-breasted women, some of them with semen spurting all over their breasts and faces, and well-endowed men usually on top of them or being ridden by them. Graham wouldn’t lend the magazines out, Banks remembered, so the only time they had to look at them was then and there, inside the tree. The titles and text, or what he remembered of them, were in a foreign language. He knew it wasn’t German or French because he took those languages at school.

While this didn’t become a regular occurrence, Banks did remember a couple of other occasions that summer when Graham brought magazines to the tree. Different ones each time. And then, of course, Graham disappeared and Banks didn’t see that kind of porn again until he became a policeman.

So was it a clue or not? As Michelle had said last night, it hardly seemed something worth murdering over, even back then, but if it was a part of something bigger – the Kray empire, for example – and if Graham had got involved in it way beyond his depth, beyond borrowing a few magazines, then there might be a link to his murder. It was worth looking into, at any rate, if Banks could figure out where to start.

Tapping the newspaper against his thigh, Banks crossed the busy road and hurried back home before his bacon and eggs turned cold. The last thing he needed was to upset his mother again this morning.

Despite her late night, Michelle was at her desk long before Detective Superintendent Shaw was likely to see the light of day. If he bothered coming in at all. Maybe he would take another sick day. At any rate, the last thing she wanted was him breathing over her shoulder while Banks was in an interview room looking through the mug shots. There were people around the office, so she and Banks hadn’t had a chance to do much more than say a quick hello before they got down to business. She had given him a choice of the computer version or the plain, old-fashioned photo albums, and he had chosen the albums.

She had felt a little shy when he walked in and could still hardly believe that she had gone ahead and slept with him like that, even though she knew she had wanted to. It wasn’t as if she had been saving herself or anything, or that she was afraid, or had lost interest in sex, only that she had been far too preoccupied by the aftermath of Melissa’s death and the end of her marriage to Ted. You don’t get over something like that overnight.

Still, she was surprised at her newfound boldness and blushed even now as she thought about the way it had made her feel. She didn’t know what Banks’s personal situation was, except that he was going through a divorce. He hadn’t talked about his wife, or his children, if he had any. Michelle found herself curious. She hadn’t told him about Melissa and Ted either, and she didn’t know if she would. Not for a while, anyway. It was just too painful.

The only real drawback was that he was on the Job. But where else was she likely to meet someone? People who form relationships often meet at their places of work. Besides, North Yorkshire was a fair distance from Cambridgeshire, and after they’d got the Graham Marshall case sorted, she doubted they would ever have to work together again. But would they even see each other? That was the question. It was a long way to travel. Or perhaps it was foolish of her even to imagine a relationship, or to want one. Maybe it had just been a one-night stand and Banks already had a lover up in Eastvale.

Putting aside her thoughts, and her memories of the previous night, Michelle got down to work. She had a couple of things to do before Graham Marshall’s funeral service that afternoon, including tracking down Jet Harris’s wife and ringing Dr. Cooper. But before she could pick up the telephone, Dr. Cooper rang her.

“Dr. Cooper. I was going to ring you this morning,” said Michelle. “Any news?”

“Sorry it took me so long to get the information you wanted, but I told you Dr. Hilary Wendell’s a tough man to track down.”

“You’ve got something?”

“Hilary has. He won’t commit himself to this absolutely, so he’d be very unwilling to testify if it ever came to a court case.”

“It probably won’t,” said Michelle, “but the information might be useful to me.”

“Well, from careful measurement of the nick on the underside of the rib, he’s made a few projections and he’s pretty certain it’s a military knife of some kind. His money’s on a Fairbairn-Sykes.”

“What’s that?”

“British commando knife. Introduced in 1940. Seven-inch, double-edged blade. Stiletto point.”

“A commando knife?”

“Yes. Is that of any use?”

“It might be,” said Michelle. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And please thank Dr. Wendell from me.”

“Will do.”

A commando knife. In 1965, the war had only been over for twenty years, and plenty of men in their early forties would have fought in it, and had access to such a knife. What worried Michelle most of all, though, was that the only person she knew had served as a Royal Naval Commando was Jet Harris; she remembered it from the brief biography she had read when she first came to Thorpe Wood. He had also been awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal.

The thought of it sent shivers up her spine: Jet Harris himself, as killer, misdirecting the investigation at every turn, away from Bradford, perhaps because of Fiorino, as Banks had suggested, and away from himself. This was one theory she certainly couldn’t go to Shaw with, or to anyone else in the division, either. Harris was a local hero and she’d need a hell of a lot of hard evidence if she expected anyone to entertain even the remotest suspicion that Jet Harris was a murderer.

After he’d been in about an hour, Banks poked his head out of the interview room door, no doubt looking to see if Shaw was around, then carried one of the books over to Michelle.

“I think that’s him,” he said.

Michelle looked at the photo. The man was in his late twenties, with medium-length brown hair, badly cut, a stocky build, piggy eyes, and a pug nose. His name was Des Wayman, and according to his record he had been in and out of the courts ever since his days as a juvenile car thief, progressing from that to public disorder offenses and GBH. His most recent incarceration, a lenient nine months, was for receiving stolen goods, and he had been out just over a year and a half.

“What next?” Banks asked.

“I’ll go and have a word with him.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No. I think it would work better if I could question him without you there. After all, it might come to an identity parade. If any charges are brought, I want to make sure this is done right.”

“Fair enough,” said Banks. “But he looks like a tough customer.” He rubbed his jaw. “Feels like one, too.”

Michelle tapped her pen against her lips and looked across the office, where DC Collins sat talking on the phone, shirtsleeves rolled up, scribbling on the pad in front of him. She hadn’t let him in on her suspicions about Shaw yet. Could she trust him? He was almost as new as she was, for a start, and that went in his favor. She had never seen him hanging around with Shaw or with any of the other old brigade, either, another plus. In the end, she decided she had to trust someone, and Collins was it.

“I’ll take DC Collins,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Look, there’s a couple of things I need to talk to you about, but not here.”

“After the funeral this afternoon?”

“Okay,” said Michelle, jotting Des Wayman’s address down in her notebook. “I should know a bit more about Mr. Wayman’s activities by then. Oh, and guess where he lives?”

“Where?”

“The Hazels.”

Annie pored over Luke Armitage’s notebooks and computer files in her office that morning. At least she felt a bit better, despite a poor night’s sleep. Eventually, the painkillers had kicked in and she woke up at half past seven in the morning, not even having got around to putting in the second Doctor Zhivago tape. This morning, though her jaw was still throbbing a bit, it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as it had.

The one thing that intrigued her about Luke’s jottings was the increasing eroticism mixed in with the vague classical references to Persephone, Psyche and Ophelia. Then she remembered that Ophelia wasn’t a character from classical mythology, but Hamlet’s girlfriend, driven mad by his violent rejection of her. She remembered studying the play at school and finding it rather too long and dense for her taste at the time. She had seen several film versions since then, including one with Mel Gibson as Hamlet and another with Marianne Faithfull as Ophelia, and she remembered from somewhere the image of Ophelia floating down a river surrounded by flowers. Did Luke feel guilty about rejecting someone, then? Had he been killed out of revenge, by “a woman scorned”? And if so, who? Liz Palmer? Lauren Anderson? Rose Barlow?

Of course, the repeated references to “sweet white breasts,” “pale cheeks” and “soft white thighs” in Luke’s fragments of songs and poems could have been mere adolescent fantasy. Luke certainly had a romantic imagination and, if Banks was to be believed, adolescent boys thought of nothing but sex. But they could also point to the fact that Luke had been involved in a sexual relationship. Liz Palmer looked like a likely candidate, despite her denials. Annie also shouldn’t forget that according to the head teacher’s daughter, Rose Barlow, there might have been something going on between Luke and Lauren Anderson. Rose was unreliable, but it might be worth talking to Lauren again if she got nowhere with Liz and Ryan. Rose had been involved with Luke, in however slight a way, and she had no doubt felt jilted when he spent more time with Liz or Lauren. Or was there someone else Annie was overlooking, some connection she was missing? She felt that she was, but no matter how she tried, the missing link still eluded her.

Her phone rang just as she was turning off Luke’s computer.

“Annie, it’s Stefan Nowak. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but I might have a bit of good news for you.”

“Do tell. I could do with some good news round about now.”

“The lab hasn’t finished trying to match your DNA samples with the blood on the drystone wall yet, so I can’t tell you about that, but my team did find blood at the flat.”

“Liz Palmer’s flat.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Only a small amount.”

“Where?”

“Not where you’d expect. Smeared under the bathroom sink.”

“As if someone gripped it while leaning over?”

“Could be, yes. But there are no prints or anything, just a small smear of blood.”

“Is it enough for analysis?”

“Oh, yes. We’re working on it now. All the lab has been able to tell me so far is that it matches Luke Armitage’s blood type and that it doesn’t match the samples we took from Liz Palmer or Ryan Milne.”

“But that’s fantastic, Stefan! Don’t you see? It puts Luke Armitage bleeding in Liz Palmer’s flat.”

“Maybe. But it won’t tell you when.”

“For the moment, I’ll take what I can get. At least that gives me some leverage in the next interview.”

“There’s more.”

“What?”

“I’ve just been talking to Dr. Glendenning, and he tells me the tox screen on Luke shows an unusually large amount of diazepam.”

“Diazepam? That’s Valium, isn’t it?”

“That’s one name for it. There are many. But the point is that it was mostly undigested.”

“So he died very soon after taking it, and his system didn’t have time to digest it?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s not the cause of death?”

“No way.”

“Would it have been enough to kill him?”

“Probably not.”

“Anything else?”

“In the flat? Yes. Drugs. Some marijuana, LSD, Ecstasy.”

“Dealing?”

“No. Not enough. Just for personal use, I’d say. And no diazepam.”

“Thanks, Stefan. Thanks a lot.”

Annie hung up and pondered what she had just heard. Luke had bled in Liz and Ryan’s flat, and he had undigested diazepam in his system. Where did he get it? She didn’t remember anything about medication in the information they’d gathered on him. She wasn’t even sure that doctors prescribed diazepam to someone that young. She should at least check with Robin. Even though Stefan’s team hadn’t found any in the flat, the first thing to do, Annie thought, getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket, was to find out if either Liz or Ryan had prescriptions for diazepam.

According to his file, Des Wayman lived in a two-bedroom council house on Hazel Way, just off the crescent at the Wilmer Road end of the estate. It was mid-morning when Michelle and DC Collins parked outside and walked down the path. The sky was covered in gray cloud and the air was so saturated with moisture it felt like warm drizzle. Michelle’s clothes were sticking to her, and DC Collins had taken off his suit jacket and unloosened his tie. Even so, there were damp patches under his arms. She was glad Collins was with her. He played second row for the police rugby team, and his solid presence was enough to put anyone off trying anything. As far as Michelle could make out, nobody had followed them, and she hadn’t seen any beige vans in the area.

Michelle knocked at the scratched red door of number 15. The man who opened it seemed surprised to see her. It was Des Wayman, no doubt about it. The pug nose gave him away, and the piggy eyes. He was wearing grubby jeans, with his shirt hanging out.

“Who are you? I thought it was a mate of mine,” he said with a leer. “I’m off out. But seeing as you’re here, how about coming with us for a drink?”

Michelle showed her warrant card and DC Collins followed suit. The man’s expression became wary.

“Mr. Wayman?” Michelle said.

“And what if it is?”

“We’d like a word, sir. Mind if we come in?”

“Like I said, I’m just on my way out. Can’t we talk down the pub?” He licked his lips and nodded toward the pub at the bottom of the street, the Lord Nelson. Then he looked at Collins. “And you can leave your chaperon behind.”

“It’d be better here, sir,” Michelle insisted. When Wayman made no move, she walked past him into the house. He stood and looked at her for a moment, then followed her into his living room, DC Collins right behind him.

The place was a tip, to put it mildly. Empty beer cans littered the floor, along with overflowing ashtrays. The heavy curtains were closed, allowing just enough light to illuminate the mess. The medley of smells was hard to define. Accumulated dust, stale beer and smoke, with overtones of used socks and sweat. But there was more: something vaguely sexual that turned Michelle’s stomach. She flung the curtains open and opened the window. The latter took a bit of doing, as it hadn’t been open in a long time and had jammed. DC Collins lent a hand, and the two of them finally got it open. The still, humid air outside didn’t help much, and the room looked even worse in full light.

“What are you doing?” Wayman protested. “I value my privacy. I don’t want the whole fucking estate looking through my window.”

“We value our health, Mr. Wayman,” Michelle said. “It’s already at risk just by being here, but a little fresh air might help.”

“Sarky bitch,” said Wayman, sitting down on a worn and stained sofa. “Get to the point, then, love.” He picked up a can of beer from the table and ripped the tab. Foam spilled over the top, and he licked it off before it fell to the floor.

Michelle looked around and saw no surface she felt comfortable sitting on, so she stood. By the window. “First off, don’t call me ‘love,’” she said, “and second, you’re in a bit of trouble, Des.”

“What’s new? You lot are always trying to set me up.”

“This isn’t a setup,” said Michelle, aware of DC Collins paying careful attention to her. She hadn’t explained much to him in the car; all she had said was not to take notes. He hadn’t a clue what this was all about, or how it linked to the Graham Marshall case. “It’s cut and dried.”

Wayman folded his arms. “So tell me what I’m supposed to have done.”

“Last night at approximately ten fifty-five, you and another man assaulted a man outside a riverside flat.”

“I did no such thing,” said Wayman.

“Des,” Michelle said, leaning forward. “He saw you. He picked you out of the villains’ album.”

That seemed to stop him for a moment. He frowned, and she could almost see the wheels spinning, cogs turning in his addled brain, looking for a way out, an explanation. “He must be mistaken,” he said. “His word against mine.”

Michelle laughed. “Is that the best you can do?”

“His word against mine.”

“Where were you?”

“Matter of fact, I was having a bevy or two in the Pig and Whistle.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Lots of people. It was very busy.”

“That’s not far away from where the attack took place,” said Michelle. “What time did you leave?”

“Dunno. After closing time.”

“Sure you didn’t sneak out a few minutes early and then go back for last orders?”

“And waste good drinking time? Why would I do that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Not me, miss.”

“Show me your hands, Des.”

Wayman stretched his hands out, palms up.

“Turn them over.”

Wayman did as she asked.

“Where’d you get that skinned knuckle?”

“I don’t know,” said Wayman. “Must have brushed it against the wall or something.”

“And that ring you’ve got,” Michelle went on. “Sharp, I’ll bet. Sharp enough to cut someone. I bet there’ll still be traces of blood on the metal,” she said. “Enough to identify as your victim’s.”

Wayman lit a cigarette and fell silent. Even with the window open the air soon became thick with smoke. “Right,” said Michelle, “I’m sick of pissing about. DC Collins, let’s take Mr. Wayman down the station and organize an identity parade. That should settle things once and for all.”

Collins moved forward.

“Just a minute,” said Wayman. “I’m not going to no station. I’ve got an appointment. People are expecting me.”

“In your local. I know. But if you want to enjoy a nice pint this lunchtime, or any lunchtime for the next little while, you’d better tell us what we want to know.”

“But I’ve already told you. I didn’t do anything.”

“And I’ve told you. You were identified. Stop lying, Des. Do yourself a favor. Think about that nice, thirst-quenching pint sitting there on the bar at the Lord Nelson, just waiting for you.” Michelle paused to let the image sink in. She could do with a pint, herself, even though she rarely drank beer. The air was fast becoming unbreathable, and she didn’t know if she could stand it much longer. She had one last card to play before she would have to take Wayman in. “Trouble is, Des,” she said, “the man you attacked, the man who recognized you…”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“He’s a copper. He’s one of us.”

“Come off it. You’re trying it on. Trying to set me up.”

“No. It’s true. What was it you said earlier? His word against yours? Whose word do you think the judge is going to believe, Des?”

“Nobody told me-”

“Told you what?”

“Shut up. I’ve got to think.”

“You’ve not got long. Assaulting a police officer. That’s a serious charge. You’ll go down for a lot longer than nine months on that one.”

Wayman dropped his cigarette stub in the empty beer can, tossed it on the floor and opened another one. His fleshy lips were wet with foam and beer. He reached for another cigarette.

“Please don’t light another one of those, Des,” Michelle said.

“What do you mean? Surely it’s not got so bad a bloke can’t even smoke in his own house these days?”

“When we’re gone you can smoke yourself silly,” said Michelle. “That’s if we leave without you. Up to you. There’s no smoking in the holding cells anymore.”

Wayman laughed. “You know,” he said, puffing out his chest, “I’m practically one of you lot myself. I don’t know where you get off coming and pinning this assault on me when it’s police business to start with.”

Michelle felt a little shiver up her spine. “What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.” Wayman touched the side of his pug nose. “I told you, I was on police business. Undercover. Sometimes a little tap on the head and a few words of warning work wonders. It’s the way they used to do things in the old days, so I hear. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your boss certainly does.”

“Boss?”

“Yes. The big ugly bloke. Numero uno. Detective bloody Superintendent Ben Shaw.”

“Shaw?” Michelle had been more than half-suspecting that Shaw was behind the attacks on her and Banks, but found herself stunned to have it confirmed.

Wayman tilted the can and took a long swig, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. “Don’t look so surprised, love.”

“Superintendent Shaw told you to do this? Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re an undercover police officer following Detective Superintendent Shaw’s orders?”

Wayman shrugged, perhaps sensing he’d gone too far. “Well, maybe I’m not exactly what you’d call an undercover officer, but I’ve done your boss a little favor from time to time. You know, like giving him the nod where the stuff from the Curry’s warehouse job was stashed. That sort of thing.”

“So you’re Shaw’s snitch?”

“I’ve been happy to help out now and then. He’ll see me all right. So do us a favor and bugger off, then just maybe I won’t tell your boss you’ve been round upsetting me.”

“Do you own a beige van?” Michelle asked.

“What? I don’t own a van at all. Dark blue Corsa, if you must know.”

“Ever done time for burglary?”

“You’ve read my form. Did you notice anything about burglary?”

Michelle hadn’t. So Wayman most likely wasn’t responsible for the damage to her flat and the attempt on her life. Somehow, she sensed he didn’t have the subtlety to do what had been done with the dress, even if his employer had told him about Melissa. He clearly wasn’t the only villain on Shaw’s payroll. Michelle sensed DC Collins paying rapt attention beside her. She glanced at him and he raised his eyebrows. “Look,” she said, wishing she could sit down. Her shoes were killing her. But it wasn’t worth catching something. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Des. GBH is bad enough in itself, but against a copper, well… you don’t need me to tell you…”

For the first time, Wayman looked worried. “But I didn’t know he was a copper, did I? Do you think I’d have done something like that if I’d known who he was? You must think I’m crazy.”

“But you did it, didn’t you?”

“Where’s this going?”

“Up to you, Des.”

“What do you mean?”

Michelle spread her hands. “I mean it’s up to you where it goes from here. It could go to the station, to the lawyers, to court eventually. Or it could end here.”

Wayman swallowed. “End? How? I mean… I don’t…”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“You promise?”

“Only if you tell me what I want to know.”

“It goes no further?”

Michelle looked at DC Collins, who looked lost. “No,” she said. “This bloke you and your friend assaulted last night, what did Shaw tell you about him?”

“That he was a small-time villain from up north looking to get himself established on our patch.”

“And what did Detective Superintendent Shaw ask you to do?”

“Nip it in the bud.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Shaw didn’t want to know. I mean, he’d just asked me to handle the situation, do something about it. He didn’t tell me how, and he didn’t want to know.”

“But it usually meant violence?”

“Most people understand a thump on the nose.”

“That’s your understanding of the situation?”

“If you like.”

“So that’s what you did?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out he was in town?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye out. I recognized his car from when he was down here last week.”

“And how did you know where he was that evening?”

“I got a call on my mobile in the Pig and Whistle.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Go on.”

“He said our mutual friend was drinking in a pub down the street, and if an opportunity presented itself… well, I was to have a quiet word, like.”

“But how did he… Never mind.” Michelle realized that Shaw must have been using his whole network of informers to keep an eye on the comings and goings in the Graham Marshall investigation. But why? To hide the truth, that the great local hero Jet Harris was a murderer?

“So what did you do?”

“We waited outside and followed the two of you back to the riverside flats. We were a bit worried because we thought he might be going in to get his end away, like, no disrespect, and we might not get back to the Pig and Whistle till they’d stopped serving, so it was all sweetness and joy when he came straight down those stairs and into the street. We didn’t muck about.”

“And the beating was your idea?”

“Like I said, it gets the point across. Anyway, we wouldn’t have hurt him too much. We didn’t even get a chance to finish. Some interfering bastard walking his dog started making a lot of noise. Not that we couldn’t have dealt with him, too, but the bloody dog was waking the whole street up.”

“And that’s everything?” Michelle asked.

“Scout’s honor.”

“When were you ever a scout?”

“Boys’ Brigade, as a matter of fact. What’s going to happen now? Remember what you promised.”

Michelle looked at DC Collins. “What’s going to happen now,” she said, “is that we’re going to go away, and you’re going to the Lord Nelson to drink yourself into a stupor. And if you ever cross my path again, I’ll make sure they put you somewhere that’ll make the Middle East look like an alcoholic’s paradise. That clear?”

“Yes, ma’m.” But Wayman was smiling. The prospect of a drink in the present, Michelle thought, by far outdid any fears for the future. He wouldn’t change.

“Do you think you can tell me what all that was about?” asked DC Collins when they got outside.

Michelle took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Of course, Nat. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark so long, but I think you’ll understand when you hear what I have to say. And I’ll tell you over a pie and a pint. My treat.” She looked around. “But not in the Lord Nelson.”