Then it began and the gates of hell opened for Easton.
Henry Christie was almost home when he received the call. With a groan he u-turned the car and drove to the garage premises to which the stolen and very mangled Ford Escort had been towed for safe keeping. He knew the firm well, respectable and reliable, and through twenty-four-hour call-outs and the rota garage system, the police had put a lot of business their way over the years. This garage in particular was one which would always turn out, any time of day, and had never yet let the cops down.
Henry pulled up outside and strolled into the office, staffed by a single female — Joyce — the wife of the proprietor. Henry had known her for a long time, had lost count of the number of cars he had sent her way.
‘Oh my God, Henry Christie!’ Joyce rose from the swivel chair behind her desk and Henry tried to disguise the fact that his male antennae had registered the voluptuous and curvaceous lines of her well-stacked body. She was approaching fifty — not necessarily a bad thing, Henry thought, as he too wasn’t that far away from that landmark — and was built like a racing yacht, all the curves in all the right places. She pulled down her tight figure-hugging woollen sweater, accentuating everything even more perfectly. It was no secret that she had been trying to bed Henry for a long time now. For himself, he was terrified of being devoured.
‘Hi, Joyce.’
‘Haven’t seen you for quite a while.’
‘I’m too important now,’ he laughed.
She literally batted her heavily mascara’d eyelashes. ‘I’ll bet you are.’
‘I’ve come to see the car involved in last night’s accident.’
‘Out back, darling. One of your crime scene guys is with it.’
‘Thanks, Joyce.’ Henry paused, unable to prevent his eyes giving her a critical once-over. ‘You’re looking well, by the way.’
‘You do know I’m ripe for an affair right now, don’t you?’ She looked demurely at him. ‘Particularly one based purely on sex. . very dirty sex.’ Her voice had the timbre of a gravel driveway.
‘Joyce!’ a man’s voice called from the office behind. ‘Leave him alone, you’ll scare the poor bugger to death.’
Her lipsticked mouth turned down with disappointment as her husband, Lee, emerged from the office.
‘Morning, Lee,’ Henry nodded.
‘Henry. . keep your hands off her, she’s mine, all mine,’ Lee said dramatically and grabbed her from behind, his arms encircling her. She melted her ass into him and Henry beat a hasty retreat. He moved quickly through the reception area into a yard at the back of the premises. Beyond this was a security-fenced area, inside of which was a variety of vehicles. Henry went through the open gate and found the smashed-up Escort, next to which stood an individual Henry recognized as one of the crime scene investigators based at Blackpool. Dressed in a white paper suit pulled up over his clothes, he was bespectacled, rather short and a bit ugly, the complete antithesis of his American counterparts portrayed in the slick TV series, CSI.
‘Hello, sir,’ he said.
‘Hello, Tom. You got something of interest?’ Henry stifled a yawn.
‘Am I boring you?’
‘Just been on the go a long time.’
The CSI reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a clear plastic bag, about four by four inches, with a strip-seal across the top. Resting in the bottom corner of it was a misshapen blob of metal, not much bigger than a thumbnail.
‘Bullet,’ the CSI announced. Henry had already recognized it as such. ‘Found embedded in the back seat of the car, having entered same through the front windscreen.’
Henry peered at it. ‘Any idea of calibre?’
The CSI shrugged. ‘Maybe a thirty-eight.’
‘Well found,’ Henry congratulated him. ‘Do what you have to do with it, will you?’
‘Yes, I know my job.’
‘And for that we’re all thankful.’ He bade farewell and headed back to the main garage building, entering reception as Joyce emerged from her husband’s office looking rather flushed and ruffled. She gave Henry a wry smile as she straightened her jumper. Despite himself, Henry could not prevent his investigatory instincts from noting that when he had first seen her she was definitely wearing a bra; this had now disappeared.
She sat down at her desk and said, ‘Could’ve been you, Henry.’
He was out of the door real sharpish.
‘Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I be so bold as to refresh your memories?’ Sharp smiled at Easton. ‘You were the senior investigating officer in charge of the inquiry into the murder of Jackson Hazell. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct,’ Easton responded guardedly.
‘So,’ the QC said, his brow furrowed, ‘you were the person who was responsible for the policy log. . the log, that is, which decides the route and key decisions made in the investigation?’
‘With others,’ Easton said, a little too hurriedly, ‘but yes.’
Sharp screwed up his face, looked pained — all for effect, obviously. ‘But you made the final decision?’
Easton sniffed and shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, but all decisions are outlined and backed up with sound arguments based on facts, information, intelligence and good practice. As you know, the policy log has been scrutinized on several occasions during this trial.’
Sharp nodded sagely. The policy log had stood up well to the rigours of the scrutiny.
‘So, basically, though, as SIO, you decide the direction of the investigation?’
‘I think we have ascertained that,’ the judge interceded, a slightly impatient note in her voice.
‘Quite, Your Honour,’ he conceded. He faced Easton again and smiled humourlessly. ‘As investigations proceed, numerous calls are received from members of the public. Is that correct?’
‘Thousands, sometimes,’ Easton agreed, then closed his mouth. The rule was that you should never offer an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked.
‘How many phone calls were received from members of the public in this investigation, Superintendent?’
‘I don’t know the exact number.’
‘Ballpark figure.’
‘Nine hundred, a thousand.’
‘Every call logged?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Every one passed to the major incident room — that is, say, those calls received at other police stations?’
‘Procedure says that should happen.’
‘So if someone made a call to a police station other than to the one where your major incident room was situated, that call, or the details of it, would be passed to your murder team?’
‘That should be the case.’ A bead of sweat rolled down Easton’s spine, between his shoulder blades. He was trying to remain calm, resisting the burgeoning urge to shout, ‘What the fuck are you getting at here, you bastard?’ Only thing was, he had a feeling he knew what was coming. Sharp was smiling again.
‘Are all the messages received acted upon?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean by that, Superintendent?’
‘They are all scrutinized and assessed by experienced detectives and a decision is then made as to the value of the message. Sometimes no action is taken and messages are simply filed. Sometimes immediate action is taken. . basically the response to them is graded.’
‘I see,’ Sharp said thoughtfully.
‘It would be impractical to deploy an officer for every message received, so therefore decisions have to be made.’
‘But every call received is assessed in some way? Is that correct?’
Easton nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So, for example, if you received a telephone call from a member of the public saying that such-and-such had committed the murder you were investigating, and that named person was different from the one you suspected, or had arrested, how much credence would you give that call, Superintendent? How would you assess that call?’
Easton swallowed something which felt like a huge, rough stone, and reached for the glass of water next to him.
The hold-up seemed to go on forever. Whitlock, sitting high in the cab of his vehicle, perched on the lip of the ramp off the ferry, with a view of the line of cars and trucks ahead of him, had moved on internally from mere heart attack and breathlessness. He was shaking uncontrollably now, his whole body dithering and weak. His left foot quivered visibly whilst resting on the clutch and he wondered how the hell he was going to press the bloody thing in.