Standring shrugged philosophically and got to his task with a smile.
Ten minutes later all the prisoners, with the exception of Nevison, were eating a lukewarm breakfast of sausage, beans and toast. PC Standring returned to Nevison’s cell with a breakfast and let himself in. The smell of Nevison was almost overpowering. Sweaty feet, putrid armpits, bad breath and blood-soaked hair all combined to turn up the officer’s nose in disgust.
Nevison was deep asleep. It took several minutes of shaking and slapping to rouse him. Eventually he sat up, coughing horribly, holding his sore head in his hands, moaning. His skull apparently hurt like hell.
‘Want some breakfast?’ Standring asked, offering the plastic plate which had an unappetising display of food on it.
Nevison glanced at it and retched. ‘No thanks. I’ll have a brew though — shit, I feel fuckin’ awful.’
‘Bad news, Kit, you look awful too.’
‘Thanks.’ Nevison touched his bandaged head and winced, then took the plastic mug from the officer containing weak, but very sweet tea. He sipped it gratefully.
‘Come on,’ Standring coaxed him. ‘We’ll get you some aspirin, then you can have a shower and a shave. You’ll feel much better. After that I’m going to interview you.’
‘Eh?’ Nevison looked stunned. ‘What have I done?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘You don’t remember whacking somebody in a pub with a beer glass, then slashing a cop with a Stanley knife and holding a woman hostage?’
Nevison pouted as he thought about this. He truly did not recall any of these things.
‘Hence the bash on the head,’ Standring added.
‘Oh, that’s what it was.’ He rose unsteadily to his full height, towering above the constable who was no short-ass. Standring backed out of the cell, praying Nevison did not have a rush of angry blood.
The big man stretched, yawned and farted. As he relaxed he seemed to contract into himself, become hunched up and round shouldered, and very old-looking for his age. The years of excessive drink, drug and nicotine abuse had certainly taken their toll on him.
‘Shower’s down here,’ Standring pointed.
Nevison emerged from his cell and walked in front of Standring, who stayed and supervised the shower and shave, ensuring the safety razor was returned to the locked cabinet.
‘I need a fix now,’ Nevison said, towelling himself dry. ‘And I need to see the doctor and I want a fag.’
Henry’s meticulous timetable went to plan. At 9.02 a.m. he slid between the sheets in his darkened bedroom and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly.
Jane Roscoe had been stunned when FB announced she was to lead the investigation into Joey Costain’s murder. She had been expecting to be sidelined and ousted by the big boys.
At first she flushed with pleasure, but when she began to piece together the implications of the situation, she was swamped by them. If only by virtue of the way in which Joey had been slaughtered, media attention would be intense, certainly in the early days. If the possible racial element came out, always a hot spud for any police investigation these days, it would mean that Roscoe had drawn the shit end of the short straw — and maybe that was why she had got the job. Conspiracy by the rednecks! she thought.
Another issue which concerned her, but in which she had little say, was the way in which the few precious resources had been carved up. After Henry Christie had skulked out of the meeting, daggers were drawn and a messy fight had ensued which she had felt unprepared for. She’d said her piece, made her requests and then awaited the outcome which, when it came, had not been good from her point of view.
The problem was that everyone was making big assumptions about the direction the inquiry into Joey’s death would go. It was obvious that the first port of call would be the Khan brothers. Bring ’em in and get ’em charged had been FB’s simplistic approach. It would be that easy, he had reassured her. ‘Mmm,’ Roscoe had murmured to herself, unimpressed. And for that reason, FB had gone on to explain, she would not be getting half the resources available. Not even a quarter. She had ended up with four detectives. At least the administrative and IT side of the investigation would be shared between the two inquiries. Some consolation.
The meeting had dispersed about an hour later.
Roscoe stayed seated while everyone else left the room, deep in thought, wondering how she would kick-start the job. It was difficult to believe that the person whom she had been expecting to arrest for a murder that morning was now a victim himself, so topsy-turvy was the whole scenario.
Having had little sleep — she had only just got into bed before she had been called out again — and a fleeting but bitter argument with her husband about her apparent lack of commitment to home and marriage (again!), her grey matter was struggling to get going. She was only partly conscious of someone sitting down in the chair beside her. Only when an outstretched hand cut into her line of sight, did she react by jumping out of her skin.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’
Roscoe did not have a clue in hell who this person was. She had seen him earlier, standing at the back of the room — you could not fail to notice him. Tall, square-jawed, good-looking — drop-dead gorgeous, actually — in a Clark Kent sort of way, broad shouldered, athletic-looking physique, with his blond hair trimmed into a crew cut. He had a bright twinkle in his eye and looked so fit and healthy he made her feel like a slob.
She gripped his big warm hand, feeling herself go slightly giddy.
‘Name’s Donaldson, Karl Donaldson.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Her eyes quickly dropped to his left hand. She saw the wedding band on the appropriate finger. It was just a check for interest’s sake, she told herself. ‘I’m Jane Roscoe, detective inspector.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he drawled in his very pleasing American accent.
‘Er. . I was wondering — what’s your role in all this?’
‘Just liaison with the Metropolitan police. I’m a legal attache for the FBI. I work from the American Embassy.’
‘Oh wow — a spy.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Anyway — lovely to meet you,’ Roscoe said with finality, but he made no move to go.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, ma’am, but would you indulge me for one moment?’
When you call me ‘ma’am’ like that, she thought wickedly, you could indulge me for a good hour. ‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Could I be so bold as to offer you some advice? One law enforcement officer to another?’
Roscoe sat back. ‘I’d be rude not to listen.’
‘Thanks,’ Donaldson said with a smile that must have sent a thousand women’s hearts a-flutter, as well as their erogenous zones. She was wondering what the words of wisdom were going to be. She had a horrible feeling, nice and sexy as the guy was, she might be in for some down-home, good ole Yankee yee-hah balderdash here.
‘Having noticed you’ve been given a pretty tough assignment and seen your reaction to it-’
‘My reaction! What d’you mean?’ she demanded.
‘Your non-verbals screamed discomfort.’
‘I don’t think they did.’ Roscoe fidgeted haughtily, offended, her body language betraying her again.
Donaldson held up a hand to calm her down. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to be burning with the hot redness which flushed her. She gritted her teeth. Donaldson could see he had to get his say in quick.