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Authors: Alastair Gunn
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was more inclined to agree with Connor’s reaction. And
really shitty news
was putting it mildly.
Her gaze returned to the wing mirror she’d adjusted to frame the house thirty yards back, and the garden from where Connor had called the previous day.
This part of Silvertown, a residential area not far from Docklands, was also near London City airport, its relative tranquillity shattered every few moments by the sound of screaming jet engines. No wonder the locals got up early.
Foot and road traffic was slowly increasing. Unfortunately, none of it had yet carried any sign of their target. She unfolded her copy of the
Sun
and studied the grainy image of Jessica Anderton sitting next to the man they were waiting for.
‘You think he’s taken off?’ she asked the detective inspector in the passenger seat.
‘No way. This dude isn’t even
expecting
us.’ Mike grinned. ‘What’s the word Connor’s buddy used about this guy: a
fuckwit
?’
Connor’s contact, Ian, worked at the
Sun
, and had called yesterday to warn them what would be on the next day’s front page. Apparently Jessica-bloody-Anderton had been having an affair, and the Mediterranean-looking man outside the Andertons’ place was her boyfriend – the same boyfriend who, upon her death, had immediately sold his story to the
Sun
.
So much for grief.
The effects had been instantaneous. Kirby-Jones’ ability to convey extreme dissatisfaction without shouting was renowned, but that morning he’d sounded more like a concerned care-home worker.
Please sit down, Miss Hawkins, we have some bad news.
The crowd of reporters at Scotland Yard had tripled in size since yesterday, and the press office was about to implode. And now, supposedly grieving widower Charles Anderton had disappeared ‘on important business’.
The fact that Ian had risked his job by giving them the boyfriend’s address was small consolation; even smaller now they’d spent almost twenty-four hours staking the place out and the bastard still hadn’t come home.
And, as if to compound Hawkins’ misery, his choice to sell the story and splash his face across every coffee-shop table in the country reduced his chances of being the killer to almost nothing.
Her hand drifted to the door pocket of the car, to the pack of – as yet unopened – Marlboro Lights. She tapped a couple of fingers on the plastic wrapping and let out a long sigh. Things weren’t
that
bad.
Yet.
‘Anyway,’ Mike offered, ‘at least you aren’t up on that bridge with John.’
Hawkins forced a smile. Since they’d arrived an hour before to relieve Connor and a couple of the new recruits, who had been there all night, Barclay had been sulking on an overhead footbridge 200 yards behind them.
She felt guilty about sending him up there to cover the opposite end of the street. He’d probably turn up tomorrow with a rotten cold, but she’d tried making allowances for his increasingly bad health before, and nothing made any difference. Since joining the team, Barclay’s persistent state of sickness had earned him the nickname ‘Maraca’, thanks to the number of pills he took on a daily basis. The job soon showed newcomers, in every sense, what they were made of, and yet here he was. At least it had stopped raining. Besides, she’d done her share of purgatory as a junior detective, so why should anyone else get special treatment?
Mike turned to her. ‘Remember what happened the last time we staked out together?’
Hawkins looked back at the wing mirror, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I think we’d get
ourselves
arrested for doing that here.’
‘It was fun, though, right?’
She’d have to provide her own distraction. Fortunately one occurred.
‘Hold on, is that him?’
‘Where?’ Mike bit, shifting in his seat, trying to follow her gaze. ‘I can’t see past this goddamn van.’
‘Sit still, he’s coming straight for us. Thirty feet.’
‘We need positive ID before we move. You
really shitty news
was putting it mildly.
Her gaze returned to the wing mirror she’d adjusted to frame the house thirty yards back, and the garden from where Connor had called the previous day.
This part of Silvertown, a residential area not far from Docklands, was also near London City airport, its relative tranquillity shattered every few moments by the sound of screaming jet engines. No wonder the locals got up early.
Foot and road traffic was slowly increasing. Unfortunately, none of it had yet carried any sign of their target. She unfolded her copy of the
Sun
and studied the grainy image of Jessica Anderton sitting next to the man they were waiting for.
‘You think he’s taken off?’ she asked the detective inspector in the passenger seat.
‘No way. This dude isn’t even
expecting
us.’ Mike grinned. ‘What’s the word Connor’s buddy used about this guy: a
fuckwit
?’
Connor’s contact, Ian, worked at the
Sun
, and had called yesterday to warn them what would be on the next day’s front page. Apparently Jessica-bloody-Anderton had been having an affair, and the Mediterranean-looking man outside the Andertons’ place was her boyfriend – the same boyfriend who, upon her death, had immediately sold his story to the
Sun
.
So much for grief.
The effects had been instantaneous. Kirby-Jones’ ability to convey extreme dissatisfaction without shouting was renowned, but that morning he’d sounded more like a concerned care-home worker.
Please sit down, Miss Hawkins, we have some bad news.
The crowd of reporters at Scotland Yard had tripled in size since yesterday, and the press office was about to implode. And now, supposedly grieving widower Charles Anderton had disappeared ‘on important business’.
The fact that Ian had risked his job by giving them the boyfriend’s address was small consolation; even smaller now they’d spent almost twenty-four hours staking the place out and the bastard still hadn’t come home.
And, as if to compound Hawkins’ misery, his choice to sell the story and splash his face across every coffee-shop table in the country reduced his chances of being the killer to almost nothing.
Her hand drifted to the door pocket of the car, to the pack of – as yet unopened – Marlboro Lights. She tapped a couple of fingers on the plastic wrapping and let out a long sigh. Things weren’t
that
bad.
Yet.
‘Anyway,’ Mike offered, ‘at least you aren’t up on that bridge with John.’
Hawkins forced a smile. Since they’d arrived an hour before to relieve Connor and a couple of the new recruits, who had been there all night, Barclay had been sulking on an overhead footbridge 200 yards behind them.
She felt guilty about sending him up there to cover the opposite end of the street. He’d probably turn up tomorrow with a rotten cold, but she’d tried making allowances for his increasingly bad health before, and nothing made any difference. Since joining the team, Barclay’s persistent state of sickness had earned him the nickname ‘Maraca’, thanks to the number of pills he took on a daily basis. The job soon showed newcomers, in every sense, what they were made of, and yet here he was. At least it had stopped raining. Besides, she’d done her share of purgatory as a junior detective, so why should anyone else get special treatment?
Mike turned to her. ‘Remember what happened the last time we staked out together?’
Hawkins looked back at the wing mirror, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I think we’d get
ourselves
arrested for doing that here.’
‘It was fun, though, right?’
She’d have to provide her own distraction. Fortunately one occurred.
‘Hold on, is that him?’
‘Where?’ Mike bit, shifting in his seat, trying to follow her gaze. ‘I can’t see past this goddamn van.’
‘Sit still, he’s coming straight for us. Thirty feet.’
‘We need positive ID before we move. You
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