Roscoe came to a sudden halt.
‘I understand your sentiments, Mark. It’s only natural you want to get whoever burned Dave, but that’s going to be properly organised in the morning as it happens. There’s nothing more we can do evidentially at the moment, that’ll be for the morning people. Our job is to get Joey Costain — and if I ever hear you using a racist term like “Paki” again, your job will be on the line — OK?’
‘Ugh!’ The DS gasped as though sucker-punched.
‘Now come on, let’s get this job sorted.’ She walked on to the parade room.
The number of officers surprised her pleasantly. Six uniforms rustled up by Henry, plus her three detectives, the DS and herself. Pretty bloody good, she thought. The only trouble was that Henry Christie himself was sitting at the front of the room, chatting intently to one of the detectives. Probably one of his old mates, one of the lads. Sod him, damn him, Roscoe thought. She took a breath, put her head down and decided to get on with things.
The briefing was short and succinct and Roscoe thought it went well enough. No major hiccups, no drying up. The officers had been divided up randomly into the two arrest squads. The team of six — Alpha Sierra 1 — was headed up by Roscoe. They were going to take the Costain family home. The second squad of five were allocated the flat Joey was known to rent in South Shore.
Ten minutes later, Roscoe and her team were parked in two unmarked cars round the corner from the target premises which was situated pretty much in the dead centre of the Shoreside Estate. The area was quiet now, nothing stirring in the night other than cops on the prowl. The debris on the streets, left over from the disturbances, was the only indication of what had been going on earlier.
The other team — Alpha Sierra 2 — was a spit and a stride away from Costain’s flat.
Henry Christie — having had the foresight, or luck, not to stand down the PSUs which had come to assist earlier — was sitting in the passenger seat of a personnel carrier on the outer edge of Shoreside. Six officers in full riot kit were in the back. Another carrier full of more sweaty cops was parked on the far side of the estate. They were here because the raid on the Costain home could easily be the trigger for further trouble on the streets. As soon as Roscoe gave the go-ahead to hit the house, Henry and his little army would become a very visible presence.
‘Alpha Sierra 2 to Alpha Sierra 1. . in position,’ DS Evans radioed in.
‘Received — likewise,’ Roscoe acknowledged. ‘Sierra 1 to Inspector.’
‘Also in position,’ Henry said.
‘OK,’ said Roscoe. A tinge of excitement crept into her voice as she said, ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Sierra 2 responding.’ In the background of the transmission there was the scream of an engine being revved.
Thirty seconds later, Roscoe and her team were outside the Costain house, disgorging from their transport, running up the path. Two of them made straight for the back door to prevent escape. Ten seconds after that the front door was battered open, cops streamed through and were on the premises and Roscoe’s heart was in her mouth.
The first sign of opposition was Joey Costain’s elder brother, Troy, who had been sleeping on the settee in the living room. He had woken up feeling mean and ready to fight.
‘Alpha Sierra 2 to Alpha Sierra 1.’
‘Go ’head,’ said Roscoe. Maybe they had got him.
‘No joy,’ DS Evans said over the radio. ‘The flat’s empty.’
‘Has everything been thoroughly turned over?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Roger. In that case, stand down and make your way back in.’
‘How are you doing?’ Evans asked.
‘Still searching,’ she said. She was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking up into the square black hole that was the loft entrance. A pair of legs appeared and a detective eased himself out and dropped lightly onto the landing floor. He brushed himself down. ‘He ain’t up there.’
Roscoe hissed with frustration. A blank. ‘Thanks.’
In the lounge, several generations of Costains had assembled, roused from their various sleeping arrangements. There were more people than Roscoe could have imagined the house was able to accommodate. Rather like an extended Asian family under one roof, though they would have been furious at the comparison. They had actually been quite compliant with the exception of Troy who had been smothered and subdued before he became a problem. He had come very close to being locked up.
The living room smelled awfuclass="underline" stale, boozy breath, body odour and flatulence combined to make a foetid aroma.
Roscoe walked in and, without exception, they glared at her. Including, she was certain, the babe in arms being cuddled to the bare, floppy breast of one of the womenfolk.
The room betrayed their gypsy origins. It was all very clean and well cared for, but the leather furniture, ornate horse brasses and outrageous fittings gave the game away. Everything was larger than life and twice as tacky — even down to the massive TV and video set in the corner of the room with speakers that would not have looked out of place behind a rock ’n’ roll band.
‘OK, we’re done,’ she announced. ‘The only damage caused was to your front door and I’ve got a before and after photo of it. A joiner will be round later to fix it at our expense.’ She smiled. ‘Would anyone like to tell me where I can find Joey? It would be in everyone’s interests. That way we won’t have to keep coming back and hassling you.’
‘You must be fuckin’ joking,’ came a reply from somewhere. Roscoe could not pinpoint the mouth. For a moment she thought the babe in arms had uttered the immortal phrase. No doubt they would be the first words the little dear would speak.
‘Thought as much,’ said Roscoe. ‘Thanks for your cooperation. The necessary paperwork’s on the mantelpiece — underneath that lovely candlestick. Bye.’ She gave them a royal wave and left. Once in the car, en route to the station, she called Henry on the radio. ‘Negative, both addresses.’
‘Thanks for that. I’ll stand our helpers down now. Everything seems to be QT.’
‘Roger,’ Roscoe said. She sat back, head against the headrest, feeling the energy draining out of her. Time to go home and get some sleep. The arrest of Joey Costain could wait until she could think clearly again.
The personnel carrier dropped Henry off at the front of the police station. He went up the steps, strode across the concourse which separated the station from the Magistrates Court and let himself in through the front door at ground level. He had to trot down a flight of stairs to the basement level to get to the custody office, a location he was heartily sick of already. Once he had finished his business there he promised himself a twenty-minute break during which he would savour a wonderful cup of tea and put his swollen feet up.
Coming in the opposite direction, out of the garage, dragging her feet, was a jaded Jane Roscoe. She was less than ecstatic to see him.
‘Thanks for all your help tonight, Henry,’ she said, trying not to sound too begrudging.
‘Cheers. I’m just sorry you didn’t get a result — but I’m sure you’ll pick Joey up sooner rather than later. He doesn’t exactly keep a low profile.’
‘Yeah — if I ever wake up, that is.’ She yawned widely. ‘I’m going to phone the hospital before I go to see how Dave’s getting on, then I’m going home to sleep — unless I nod off in the car on the motorway, in which case you’ll find me in a ditch.’
Henry was standing in front of her in the narrow passage, impeding her progress. There was a hesitant pause between them.
‘Could I just. .?’ Roscoe intimated she wished to proceed.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Henry babbled, realising he was stopping her. He twisted sideways and they passed within an inch of each other, not touching. When the manoeuvre was complete, Henry said, ‘By the way, Jane — I was probably out of order earlier. I know it’s not your fault you got my job. If it means anything, I think you’re a bloody good DI on tonight’s performance.’ He shrugged with a hint of embarrassment and pouted.