Thursday legends

20

Dan Pringle sat behind his desk, like a bear in his lair, when there was a single sharp knock on the door. Before he could call out, 'Yes', it swung open and Alan Royston, the police force's Media Relations Manager burst into the room, clutching a newspaper. Royston was a mild-mannered man; the Superintendent had never seen him roused to anger before. Still, he reacted to being on the end of it.

'What the hell's this, Alan?' he demanded as the door closed. 'You might have fucking wakened me, bursting in like that.'

'I'm sorry about that, Dan,' the Press Officer retorted, 'but I do not like it when officers go behind my back, making unauthorised statements to the media. It undermines me and, frankly, it makes me look like a bloody Charlie.' He waved the tabloid in the air; Pringle could see from the mast-head that it was a copy of Edinburgh's 'other' daily, the Evening News.

He unrolled it and laid it on Pringle's desk. There, on the front page, was the e-fit likeness which the Superintendent had sent for publication a few hours before. 'They gave us a good show,' he grunted.

'Fine,' Royston snapped. 'But look at the heading, Do you know him? Police fear they never will. Look at the copy too, at this line in particular.' He picked up the paper. 'Listen! Senior officers investigating the case admitted privately that they are pessimistic over their chances of ever identifying the mystery man, far less finding his killers? And this. The victim 's face was battered to a pulp, he had multiple fractures and several toes and fingers had been cut off. None of that stuff came from me, Dan, none of it. I used only the statement that we agreed, saying that we were confident of a speedy identification and of further progress thereafter. I said that the man had died of serious head injuries, and no more than that. I didn't give any details, far less all that material. You've got a tip-off man on your team.'

Pringle nodded, his own anger simmering now. 'Aye,' he growled. He stepped over to the door opened it and crossed the corridor to the CID general office. He threw the door open. 'Sergeant McGurk,' he bellowed, 'My office!'

The tall young sergeant followed him, crossing the corridor in a single stride. Pringle grasped the News and thrust it at him. 'Read that crap,' he barked, 'and tell me if any of it came from you. Because if it did, the Head of CID and I have made a big mistake and you're in for the fastest demotion in the history of this fucking police force!'

McGurk went white as a sheet; he tore the paper from Pringle's grasp and began to read. 'None of it, gaffer,' he exclaimed when he had finished. 'Not a word of that came from me. I swear on a stack of Bibles.'

The Superintendent stared up at him, eyes narrowed. 'A big stack?' he growled.

'As big as you like.'

'Do you know the guy who wrote the story?' McGurk nodded. 'Paul Blacklock. He's my brother-in-law.' 'Then get him to phone me and swear the same thing. Do it right now, Jack: get going.'

The Sergeant nodded, and left the room on the double.

'Anyone else?' Royston asked.

'Only the divers and the ambulance crew, and they're hardly senior officers investigating. I'll check them all out though. Apart from them, as far as I can remember, the only people who got a close look at that body were the Head of CID and me. I'm really sorry about this, Alan.'

The Press Officer smiled. 'In that case, do something for me. Call Andy Martin and tell him about this; rather you than me.'