‘I say yes,’ said Makin.
Karl Donaldson nodded.
‘I don’t have a choice,’ Henry said. He checked his watch. It was one minute before midnight.
WEDNESDAY
Nineteen
The slow, almost sensual removal of his epaulettes was something that gave Henry Christie a great deal of pleasure. Opening a drawer in the desk in the inspectors’ office and letting them drop from between his finger and thumb, closely followed by his black, clip-on tie, was a wonderful feeling. As was the unbuttoning of his shirt collar. Not that he was under the impression that his days as a uniformed inspector were over, far from it, this was just a blip.
He looked at Dermot Byrne, who was watching this little ritual, feeling that Henry would have burned the items on a bonfire if he could have. ‘Congratulations,’ Henry said. ‘Bit like a field promotion for you.’
Byrne smirked. ‘A necessity for the organisation, nothing more. There isn’t even time to get me a white shirt and one pip,’ he said, talking about his temporary promotion to the heady rank of acting inspector. ‘Having said that, I won’t say no to it. I’m not stupid enough to believe that I wouldn’t get a black mark against my name if I did — so, anyway, it’s been a pleasure to work with you, Henry, even for such a short space of time. It’s been interesting to say the least.’
‘You talk like I’m gone for good. I’ll be back with you on Saturday night.’
Byrne had a sceptical expression on his face. ‘Don’t kid yourself, boss. That uniform won’t have you in it again.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ Henry said.
He did not feel he had time to go to the flat and change into civvies. He wanted to get straight on with the job, despite the time of day. There was an argument, he supposed, that there would be very little that could be done, but he would have felt incredibly guilty getting some sleep and starting again at eight in the morning without having at first thought about the job. Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans were just as missing at midnight as they would be then. He had decided that at the very least he would do what he could now, then maybe get some rest.
At 12.30 a.m. he — in his white shirt and black uniform trousers — together with Donaldson and Makin convened in FB’s Gold Command room. Henry had pinched a free-standing flip chart from somebody’s office on the floor below, together with some felt-tipped pens, and set it up at the front of the room.
Makin had filtered some fresh coffee. She passed a steaming mug of it to Henry. ‘We’ll be operating on this for a while,’ she said.
Donaldson sat down and looked expectantly at Henry. Makin sat down next to the American, but seemed a little distracted, constantly checking her pager as if she had missed a message.
Henry was not feeling confident, but he was comforted by the two people sitting in front of him. Donaldson was an outstanding detective. His successes as an FBI field agent had been tremendous and his time as the FBI legal attache in London had resulted in some major-league international criminals being snaffled in Europe. Henry did not know Makin, but he had every reason to believe that at the very least she would be a competent detective.
‘I don’t have a good sense about this one,’ Henry said, curling the fingers of his hands as though trying to grasp thin air. ‘The whole set of circumstances is odd and unsettling. I believe that if we don’t act quickly and push — ’ he accentuated the word with a jab of his fist — ‘there will be tears shed.’ He saw Makin check her pager again. ‘So let’s have a quick look at what we’ve got, then take it from there.’
He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Basil Kramer came in.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ he said.
‘Actually you are,’ Henry said. ‘Police work, actually.’ He hoped Kramer would get the message. Obviously the ruse did not work.
‘Won’t keep you long.’ He pointed at Makin and beckoned her. ‘Andrea, can I have a quick word out here, please?’
A hard-edged expression came over her face. Reluctantly and very annoyed, she slowly left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Does that wanker have carte blanche to go wandering around the police station unchecked?’ Henry demanded of Donaldson. ‘Gets on my tits, it does.’
‘So it would seem,’ Donaldson said mildly. ‘What does “wanker” mean? Another quaint olde English expression for loathing, I guess?’
‘It means,’ Henry said, leaning forwards — but his vivid explanation did not get off the ground. The door opened and a flushed Makin came back in and sat down. She looked vexed.
‘Everything OK?’ Donaldson asked.
She nodded. ‘Yeah, let’s get on with it.’ She smiled warmly at Henry. ‘Over to you, Inspector.’
‘OK, so what have we got?’ He picked up the felt-tipped pen. ‘Let’s have a bit of a brainstorm — or do they call it a board-blast, in these days of political correctness? I understand brainstorm is offensive to lunatics.’
‘I suggest you stick to brainstorm, then,’ Donaldson said.
Henry chuckled. A few minutes later the flip chart was full. There was enough things on it for a full team to get their teeth into. For three people there was far too much.
‘Who’s going to do what?’
Makin jumped in. ‘I’ll start looking at the MO aspects of the crime itself. I’ll send a message to all forces asking if they’ve had similar crimes committed, say, in the last year — undetected, that is. That could give us a start.’ She peered at the chart for something else, struggling to read Henry’s spidery scrawl. ‘I think the key to this is finding out who Jane talked to before she disappeared — ’ she held up her hands defensively — ‘I know it’s obvious, but I think that’s where you two should be looking. Y’know, trying to track down this “military type”.’
The men nodded agreement. ‘We should start in the street Joey Costain lived in,’ Donaldson said. ‘See if any lights are on, then maybe knock a few people up. He sounds like he could be a well-known sorta guy.’
‘I wonder if there’s a neighbourhood watch in that area? Maybe a word with the co-ordinator wouldn’t go amiss. I’m sure he or she wouldn’t mind a phone call under the circumstances. Could save us some leg work. I’ll check with communications,’ Henry said
A silence descended. Triple brain power in action. Lots of heat being generated by grey matter, but little else.
‘The husband aspect needs to be checked out,’ Donaldson pointed out. ‘You said Jane Roscoe told you she had an argument with her husband in the morning — could her disappearance be connected?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ Henry conceded. His mouth turned down. ‘Doesn’t explain Mark Evans’ disappearance.’
‘Unless they were having an affair and the husband has killed ’em both, or Mark Evans’ wife has killed them or they’ve eloped together,’ Makin said. ‘Most murders have a domestic connection and we shouldn’t overlook that side of it, even though we’re pretty sure it’s not the case here.’
‘True,’ said Henry. ‘And at the very least, Jane’s husband and Mark’s wife need to know what’s going on and be asked a few searching questions. I’ll fix up for some personal visits.’
‘Yeah,’ Donaldson said speculatively, ‘this could just be a very tacky domestic situation, nothing whatsoever to do with Joey Costain.’
‘Well, let’s keep an open mind,’ Henry said. But he did not believe that the home life of either of the missing officers had anything at all to do with the present circumstance. He was drawn back to the two words on the flip chart at the bottom of all the others which he believed reflected the true situation. The words were: ‘abducted’ and ‘murdered’.
Donaldson excused himself and announced he needed to pay an urgent visit to the loo. The excess of coffee, he said, was playing havoc with his bladder and bowels. Henry and Makin were left alone. Makin held her pager in the palm of her hand, checking it, tapping the display with a fingernail.