‘They’re always late. It’s their way of showing how important they are,’ Kevin grumbled, trying to find a spot under the block of flats that didn’t feel like the working end of a wind tunnel. ‘Where’s Sam?’
‘He’s gone out to Temple Fields to see if he can pick up Kerry. You never know, she might be ready to grass him up for all those years of misery.’ Paula exhaled a long sigh of smoke. It seemed to dissolve straight into the concrete. ‘I just don’t get how you keep your mouth shut when a man starts abusing your child.’ Kevin opened his mouth to say something, then shut up, seeing her minatory shake of the head. ‘I know all the feminist arguments about being beaten down and victimised. But you have got to know that there is nothing more wrong than this. Nothing worse than this. Frankly, I don’t understand why they don’t all top themselves.’
‘That’s a bit harsh for you, Paula,’ Kevin said, once he was sure she’d finished. The lift doors groaned as they opened. A couple of lads in hoodies and low-slung sweat pants slouched past them in a waft of cannabis and sweet wine.
‘What would you do if you found out someone had been abusing your kids, and your wife had known and done nothing about it?’
Kevin’s face went into an awkward lopsided expression. ‘It’s a stupid question, Paula, because it wouldn’t happen that way in our house. But I get what you’re saying. You’ve got to know in your head there’s a huge yawning gulf between loving the very bones of them and abusing them. I’m glad I’m not Tony Hill and I don’t have to let that kind of shit contaminate the inside of my head. And speaking of Tony, has anybody heard how he’s doing? With the house and all that?’
Paula shrugged. ‘I don’t think he’s in a good place. As much because of the chief as the house. And of course, he’s upset about Chris.’
‘Any news on that front?’
‘Elinor texted me a while back. Nothing’s changed, and apparently the longer it stays that way, the better her chances of avoiding major lung damage.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then, his voice soft, Kevin said, ‘When she gets to the far side of this, I don’t know that she’ll thank them for saving her.’
It was no more than Paula had already considered. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t go there. Imagine what it’s going to be like for the chief.’
‘Where is she, anyway?’
‘I have no idea. Frankly, I feel like we’re well out of it. And here we go,’ she said, pointing down the walkway to a group of half a dozen officers jogging towards them in tactical support gear. Stab vests and forage caps, door ram and a couple of semi-automatic weapons. Paula turned to Kevin. ‘Did you ask for firearms?’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘That’ll be Pete Reekie, grandstanding.’
The black-clad officers reached them and milled around, jaws up, trying for hard. None of them was displaying numbers or rank on their jumpers. They made Paula feel nervous.
‘My operation,’ Kevin said. ‘We’re going to do this the old-fashioned way. I’m going to knock on the door and see if Eric Fletcher is at home and whether he’ll invite us in. If he doesn’t, you can do the knock,’ he said, tapping the door ram with his knuckles. ‘Let’s go.’ He pressed the lift button.
‘We should use the stairs,’ the apparent leader said.
‘Please yourself,’ Paula said. ‘I’m on twenty a day and Eric’s on the sixteenth floor. See you there,’ she added, stepping through the opening doors, followed by Kevin. ‘At some point in history, I signed up for what was nominally the same job as them. Doesn’t that feel scary to you?’
Kevin laughed. ‘They’re just boys. They’re more scared than the villains are. We just need to keep them well away from the action.’
They waited by the lifts for the elite squad to make it up the stairs. Paula used the time to smoke another cigarette. ‘I’m nervous,’ she said, catching Kevin’s disapproval.
At last the tactical group arrived and were deployed around the landing. A swirl of rain blew into their faces as Kevin and Paula walked along the gallery. The door of 16C had been badly painted so many times it looked like an entry for the Turner Prize with its array of drips and blisters and scuffs of different colours. Now it was mostly royal blue with dirty white plastic numbers.
Kevin knocked at the door and at once they heard the shuffling scuffle of feet in the hallway. The door was opened in under a minute, bringing a waft of bacon and cigarettes with it. The man who stood there wouldn’t attract much attention at first glance. He was a couple of inches taller than Paula, with fine mousy hair that reminded her of a child’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that revealed pale, doughy arms. His face was pudgier than his body, and there was nothing remarkable about his pale blue eyes. But there was an intensity in his manner that was instantly obvious. If they were right about him being the killer, Paula was surprised that he managed to get prostitutes to come along with him so willingly. In her experience, most of the street women had a pretty good instinct for a punter who was a bit off. And Eric Fletcher screamed ‘off’ to her.
They identified themselves and Kevin asked if they could come in. ‘Why do you want to do that?’ Fletcher said. His voice was dull and grating. He cocked his head at an angle, his stare challenging without being defiant.
‘We need to talk to you about your daughter,’ Paula said.
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve got nothing to say about my daughter. She doesn’t live here no more.’
‘We’re concerned about her well-being,’ Kevin said.
Fletcher raised one corner of his top lip in a sneer. ‘Well, I’m not, ginger.’
‘Do you drive a car, Mr Fletcher?’ Paula asked, hoping a change of tack would unsettle him.
‘What’s it to you? First it’s my daughter, now it’s my car. Make your mind up, love. Oh, but wait. You can’t, can you? You being a woman, and all.’ He made a move to shut the door, but Kevin’s arm shot out and stopped it.
‘We can do this inside or we can do this down the station,’ Kevin said. ‘What’s it going to be?’
‘I know my rights. If you want me to come down the station, you can arrest me. Otherwise you can fuck off.’ Fletcher smirked, catching the look between Kevin and Paula. It was as if he knew how little evidence they had and he wanted to taunt them.
Part of Paula wanted to arrest him on suspicion of murder. Her years of experience told her he had something he wanted to keep hidden. But if she did that, the clock would start ticking and they’d only have thirty-six hours to question him before they had to charge him or let him go. ‘I think you should invite us in,’ Paula said in her toughest voice.
‘I don’t think so,’ Fletcher said. There was a determination in those four words that provoked Paula beyond bearing. She knew they were right and she wasn’t going to let him slip through their fingers.
Paula put her hand to her ear and tilted her head towards the hallway. ‘Can you hear that, Sarge? Somebody shouting for help?’ She moved forward till her leading elbow was touching Fletcher’s chest.
Now Fletcher showed some edginess. ‘It’s not shouting for help. It’s Match of the Day, you stupid bint. It’s football supporters.’
‘I think you’re right, detective,’ Kevin said, moving in behind her. Fletcher was going to have to yield or be pushed aside. He spread his legs and stood his ground. Kevin turned and shouted down the landing, ‘We’ve got someone in here shouting for help.’
And then it was all a blur of noise and movement and black. Paula flattened herself against the wall as the tactical squad batted Fletcher to the ground and cuffed him. They poured into the living room at the end of the hall like they expected Osama bin Laden’s ghost to be hunched over the gas fire. Two of them slipped back into the hall and busted into the first room. Paula saw the corner of a bathroom before the two men backed out and slammed open the door opposite. They stopped on the threshold and one said, ‘Oh, fuck.’