Don’t speak to us as if we were new recruits you can bully. Sir.’ She held her ground in the middle of the floor and tried not to look into the sun. ‘So, can you tell us your whereabouts on the evening of Monday seventh December?’
Wallace said nothing. His face was now red. A tic beside his left eye made him appear to be winking.
‘And you did not much care for Mr Denzil Burke,’ Baggo suggested.
‘Not a man of his word. Is he dead too?’
‘He is.’
Wallace shrugged. ‘I thought I told you to fuck off.’ He wheeled himself towards the door, forcing the officers to move. Baggo nearly tripped over his briefcase, which he had set down on the floor beside him. He looked towards Flick, who gave a nod.
‘Thank you for your time. We can see ourselves out. Sir.’ Flick’s tone was icy.
‘I do hope your car’s all right,’ Wallace replied, then watched as they closed the door behind them.
Leaving the block of flats, they noticed four hoodies sitting on a wall, swinging their legs, watching. A Tesco van drove in and parked. The driver and his mate both eyed the youths apprehensively.
On the open road, Baggo said, ‘I should feel sorry for him, but I don’t.’
‘But he’s not our murderer,’ Flick replied. ‘He will probably be strong in his upper body, but he’s too weak in his legs to have killed three able-bodied people.’
‘He is lethally trained, Sarge. And when I dropped my notebook, I could not help noticing that the soles of his shoes are worn.’
‘Oh really?’ Flick said. ‘Interesting.’
* * *
‘When are you going to arrest someone, Osborne?’ Everything about Chief Superintendent James Cumberland, known throughout the Met as ‘Jumbo’, was big. Except his voice, which was high and squeaky.
Osborne shifted in his chair. He and Palfrey had been summoned to Scotland Yard to report on the literary agent murders, and there was little to say.
‘It’s a challenging inquiry, sir,’ Palfrey said.
At least she backed me up here, Osborne thought.
‘More challenging for some than for others,’ Cumberland snorted. Apart from being physically intimidating, he did not hide his dislike of Osborne.
‘It’s not an easy case to crack, and that’s assuming we have only one killer,’ Osborne said. ‘But good, old-fashioned police work will get us there in the end.’
‘The press have started to give us a hard time.’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘Do you have any leads?’
‘We’re following up one this afternoon, but it’s too early to say how it’ll go.’
‘There’s just this literary agent angle, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing that could be sensitive, like race or religion?’
Osborne suppressed a groan. Jumbo was the Met’s High Priest of political correctness. ‘No. If there is, I can’t see it.’
‘I’m keeping a very close eye on that aspect,’ Palfrey interjected.
Cumberland looked thoughtful. ‘Who’s on your team?’
Osborne said, ‘There’s Sergeant Fortune …’
‘She’s very sound. An English graduate,’ Palfrey interjected.
Osborne carried on, ‘Then there’s the DCs, Peters, Bag … Chandakarvup. And uniform, of course.’
The Chief Superintendent’s eyebrows shot up his pallid, dome-like forehead.
‘You mean Chandavarkar,’ Palfrey hissed.
‘Oh, sorry, ma’am. He likes everyone to call him Baggo, though.’
Cumberland sighed. ‘So you say. At least it sounds like a well-balanced team. But I expect results, Osborne. Before someone else gets killed. And before either of you asks, I don’t have the resources to give you any more detectives.’
‘Everyone’s too busy filling in forms to do proper police work. Sir.’ Osborne found himself copying Fortune’s way of insulting a superior.
‘Keep me in the loop, Palfrey. And remember, Osborne, I want a good record kept of this investigation. That’s all.’
While Palfrey made soothing noises, Osborne simply got up and left. Years ago a bastard
Wallace said nothing. His face was now red. A tic beside his left eye made him appear to be winking.
‘And you did not much care for Mr Denzil Burke,’ Baggo suggested.
‘Not a man of his word. Is he dead too?’
‘He is.’
Wallace shrugged. ‘I thought I told you to fuck off.’ He wheeled himself towards the door, forcing the officers to move. Baggo nearly tripped over his briefcase, which he had set down on the floor beside him. He looked towards Flick, who gave a nod.
‘Thank you for your time. We can see ourselves out. Sir.’ Flick’s tone was icy.
‘I do hope your car’s all right,’ Wallace replied, then watched as they closed the door behind them.
Leaving the block of flats, they noticed four hoodies sitting on a wall, swinging their legs, watching. A Tesco van drove in and parked. The driver and his mate both eyed the youths apprehensively.
On the open road, Baggo said, ‘I should feel sorry for him, but I don’t.’
‘But he’s not our murderer,’ Flick replied. ‘He will probably be strong in his upper body, but he’s too weak in his legs to have killed three able-bodied people.’
‘He is lethally trained, Sarge. And when I dropped my notebook, I could not help noticing that the soles of his shoes are worn.’
‘Oh really?’ Flick said. ‘Interesting.’
* * *
‘When are you going to arrest someone, Osborne?’ Everything about Chief Superintendent James Cumberland, known throughout the Met as ‘Jumbo’, was big. Except his voice, which was high and squeaky.
Osborne shifted in his chair. He and Palfrey had been summoned to Scotland Yard to report on the literary agent murders, and there was little to say.
‘It’s a challenging inquiry, sir,’ Palfrey said.
At least she backed me up here, Osborne thought.
‘More challenging for some than for others,’ Cumberland snorted. Apart from being physically intimidating, he did not hide his dislike of Osborne.
‘It’s not an easy case to crack, and that’s assuming we have only one killer,’ Osborne said. ‘But good, old-fashioned police work will get us there in the end.’
‘The press have started to give us a hard time.’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘Do you have any leads?’
‘We’re following up one this afternoon, but it’s too early to say how it’ll go.’
‘There’s just this literary agent angle, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing that could be sensitive, like race or religion?’
Osborne suppressed a groan. Jumbo was the Met’s High Priest of political correctness. ‘No. If there is, I can’t see it.’
‘I’m keeping a very close eye on that aspect,’ Palfrey interjected.
Cumberland looked thoughtful. ‘Who’s on your team?’
Osborne said, ‘There’s Sergeant Fortune …’
‘She’s very sound. An English graduate,’ Palfrey interjected.
Osborne carried on, ‘Then there’s the DCs, Peters, Bag … Chandakarvup. And uniform, of course.’
The Chief Superintendent’s eyebrows shot up his pallid, dome-like forehead.
‘You mean Chandavarkar,’ Palfrey hissed.
‘Oh, sorry, ma’am. He likes everyone to call him Baggo, though.’
Cumberland sighed. ‘So you say. At least it sounds like a well-balanced team. But I expect results, Osborne. Before someone else gets killed. And before either of you asks, I don’t have the resources to give you any more detectives.’
‘Everyone’s too busy filling in forms to do proper police work. Sir.’ Osborne found himself copying Fortune’s way of insulting a superior.
‘Keep me in the loop, Palfrey. And remember, Osborne, I want a good record kept of this investigation. That’s all.’
While Palfrey made soothing noises, Osborne simply got up and left. Years ago a bastard
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