Jewel shrugged. “You don’t get any medals for pissing in the wind these days.”
“I’m talking about in here.” Fletcher tapped his chest. “Call it personal satisfaction or professional pride… call it what you like. And I’m buggered if I’m going to let some lunatic who’d stick a screwdriver into a kid like that until she looked like a colander, then dump her body in a recycling bin, get away with it. If I start backpedalling this one I wouldn’t sleep nights, and you know it.”
Jewel rolled his shoulders again. “All you’ll get yourself is an ulcer, my friend. Tell you what, run it by me and maybe something’ll come to mind. What’ve you got so far?”
“Well, first off, we’ve got the car spotted on the street camera, old Astra. Lots of blood in the boot that’s a DNA match to the vic and the back seats are missing, so that could be where it happened before she was dumped. Doc reckons she was dead best part of five days before the bin men found her, so matey’s got a head start.”
“How about the motor… any good?”
Fletcher pulled a face. “You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? We got the owner right away and put him through the mincer. His story is he was away on holiday and left the car in the street outside his drum, and somebody must’ve nicked it because the first thing he knows is he comes home and there’s the law beating down his door.”
“Sounds like a good enough story to put him in the clear. How’s it stand up?”
“That’s the trouble,” Fletcher said. “It’s cast iron and watertight. He’s got about a thousand witnesses backing up his alibi and we can’t shake ’em. Looks like he’s telling the truth or he’s got a lot of clout somewhere to rig a thing like that.”
“What’s he like?”
“Tasty, CRO with form as long as your arm,” Fletcher said. “Rape, indecent assault, drug dealer by trade. Complains against the police for a pastime. Hits you with harassment if you look sideways at him. A right charmer – was one of the brothers who used to run with the Ace of Spades crew. If his story wasn’t so rock solid he’d be right there in the frame. I’d have him strung up by his thumbs. But after the riots we’ve got to treat ’em all with kid gloves. Came down on tablets of stone.”
“That’s the way it goes,” Jewel said. “Tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime.”
“Ha-ha, don’t make me laugh. Burn down a furniture store, kick in a few shops, throw a few petrol bombs… and our lords and masters are having a ginger fit. How about associates? Maybe he’s got some running dogs of similar persuasion. Maybe he loaned some face his motor.”
“Well, if he did,” Fletcher replied, “he’s not about to be telling us. He’s as cunning as a barrel-load of monkeys so we’re not going to be able to pull any flankers with him or he’ll just lawyer up and there’ll be white forms coming down like a blizzard.”
“What else’ve you got?”
“What would you like?” Fletcher asked. “We’ve got hours and hours of street CCTV to wade through, a few possible witnesses to boot, and background on the girl to go through. But once it hit London Tonight the brass suddenly took an interest, leaping about trying to put on a big show of dedicated police work. Every bugger so busy hustling their image, I can see this job going right out of the window.”
“Don’t take it so personally,” Jewel said, “you’re going to lose your objectivity.”
“Advice like that I can do without,” Fletcher said. “Now are you going to stop playing with your fags and give me some help on this or not?”
“I’d like to.” Jewel softened a little, gazing reflectively at the image of the rotting lung. “Only I can’t see any way I could squeeze it without some joker upstairs noticing.”
“Bottom line, Dennis,” Fletcher said “Just one decent D would do me. All my blokes have been yanked off on this Weeting thing and I just need someone to watch my back.”
“That phone hacking nonsense is a total balls-ache all right.” Jewel turned the pack over in his hands as the craving for a nicotine hit increased. He’d tried the patches, gum and even hypnosis, but the addiction of a lifetime was stubborn. “One D, eh?”
“At a pinch, yes.”
“Tell you what, Fletch,” Jewel said, “I’ve got a transferee come in from Kent who hasn’t been assigned yet. Bloody good detective by all accounts.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I could maybe loan you Helen Ritchie.”
Fletcher felt the blow in the pit of his stomach coupled with a sudden lightness behind the eyes. “Oh, Christ, Dennis, that’s below the belt.”
“Best I can do.” Jewel was grinning openly now. “Take it or leave it. Do you want her or not?”
Fletcher groaned. “I’ve got no choice, have I?”
“Nope.”
Fletcher reached across the desk and retrieved the bottle of whiskey. “For a low trick like that, you don’t deserve my hospitality.”
“That’s all right,” Jewel said, amused at his friend’s discomfiture. “I switched to gin anyway… smoother on the old tubes.”
Fletcher stared at the bottle; felt like he needed a shot. “How is Helen anyway?” he said. “I haven’t seen her in years, not since she left the Met.”
“How’d you mean?” Jewel asked, still enjoying himself. “Job-wise or what?”
“You know what I mean, Dennis,” Fletcher said. “How the hell is she?”
“Well,” Jewel said, “I always got the feeling something must’ve soured Helen way back. Oh, she still looks terrific, but inside,” he tapped his temple, “hard as nails…who knows what goes on in there? I just get the impression that somewhere along the line some smooth-talking bastard slipped her something nasty and she’s never got over it. I heard she was a sweet kid back along, but you’d know better’n me, eh, Fletch? You were on the old Peckham robbery squad with her in those long-gone days, weren’t you?”
“Sure,” Fletcher said, still staring reflectively at the bottle, “back when we were young and impressionable and everybody was breaking their neck to prove what a great thief-taker they were.”
“Good times, eh?” Jewel said. “So who’d you think slipped Helen a crippler?”
“How would I know?” Fletcher said. “I was only on the squad six months before I got posted to the Yard.”
“Oh, yeah, I recall,” Jewel said. “You were a flier in those days. We used to sit here in the weeds, chewing on our straws watching your career take off. First the Yard, then Bramshill and all that clever stuff…you were the blue-eyed boy back then, all right, Mark.”
“Didn’t last though, did it?”
“Oh, come on.” Jewel settled back in his chair. “Don’t tell me you’re getting bitter and twisted too?”
Fletcher crossed to the door and Jewel followed him with his eyes. “So how about Helen,” he called after him, “d’you want her or not?”
“I’ll let you know,” Fletcher said as he went out.
Marian was putting the kids to bed. He knew that from the familiar noises in the house, a nondescript semi on Brunel Road just down from Rotherhithe Overground station. Mark Fletcher sat at the IKEA desk in the spare bedroom, which served as his study. It was after eight when he got home from the job and he was tired to the point of exhaustion. He’d told his wife that all he needed was half an hour’s peace and quiet, and he’d gone up to his study taking the bottle of Old No. 7 with him. After a few minutes he’d broken the seal and poured himself a drink. He nursed the glass for a moment, reflecting on his thickening waistline, the result of too many beers, too many snatched sandwich lunches, the unmistakable evidence of approaching middle age, then swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. Fletcher poured himself another.
It was unusual for him to act in this way. Normally he would never shut himself away from his family, he had precious little time with them anyway. Neither would he dream of drinking alone, he’d seen too many go down that road, but then tonight was different. Tonight he was fortifying himself against a deep melancholy as his memory transported him back across the years and conjured up images from the past… images of Helen Ritchie. Had all those years really slipped by in the blink of an eye? All those years she had dwelt somewhere deep in his memory, waiting for the right moment to return and settle the score. Mark Fletcher massaged the moisture from his eyes. It all seemed like yesterday.