by Roger Busby
When Detective Constable Malloy returned to his partitioned cubbyhole in the CID general office he found a familiar face lounging in his chair puffing on a Bolivar Corona which he had purloined from the cedar wood cigar box Metal Mike kept tucked away in his desk drawer.
“Hey Mike, how’s your luck,” the face, a DC on the Flying Squad greeted him with easy familiarity. They were old section-house buddies who used to play snooker together back in their singlemen days, but Malloy considered the interloper helping himself to one of his prized cigars a dead liberty.
“Not allowed to smoke in here Dave,” he said pointedly. The cigars had been hand rolled on the inside of a dusky maiden’s thigh, or so he had been led to believe.
The Sweeney DC blew a smoke ring. “No problem, matey, I was never here, so I don’t count.” He grinned, “anyway, my team just got called in on this little tickle of yours so I thought I’d drop in, sort of on the QT as you’re an old buddy, and let you have a goosy at these smudges.” He spread a selection of photographs across the desk.
Malloy stared at them in stunned silence. They were shots of Donnelly’s scrap yard. “This one in particular,” said the DC, dropping ash as he slid the last picture across the desk. It was a close up of Malloy himself coming out of the office.
“What’s all this?” Metal Mike wanted to know, blinking in surprise, and the detective winked conspiratorially. “Thought I’d just mark your card, amigo; my guv’nor would crucify me if he knew I was telling you this, but it would be a poor state of affairs if we couldn’t help each other out in the job, eh?”
“That’s me there, “ Malloy couldn’t help blurting the obvious, “what’s going on?”
“Alex Donnelly,” the DC confided, leaning forward.
“Alex Donnelly?” echoed Metal Mike, his voice rising in alarm.
“Shh, not so loud, this is need to know only.”
“What about Alex Donnelly?” Molloy asked in a hoarse whisper.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” said the DC, “He’s a Flying Squad target.”
“What?”
“Twenty four hour surveillance.”
“What for?” Metal Mike put the question with an edge of desperation.
“Zatopec,” the DC whispered.
“Jesus,” Malloy breathed the expletive; it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Just a word to the wise old mate,” the DC counselled with a wink as he dropped the cigar into the wastepaper basket, “in case some guv’nor up the line starts wondering how come you’re so pally with a squad target, puts two and two together and comes up with five and you’ve got the rubber heels from Professional Standards breathing down your neck. So like I said, I was never here, OK? If anyone should ask, you haven’t seen me in years.” With a sweep of the hand he spirited the pictures into an inside pocket and was gone before the incredulous Metal Mike could question him further.
With a low moan, Malloy slumped into his chair, his mind reeling. Alex
Donnelly, his brother-in-law a Zatopec target! It wasn’t possible. Had he just dreamed it? Had it been some apparition there in the office? Some quirk of his overheated imagination? Metal Mike rubbed his eyes. Yes, that must be it, the adrenalin rush of his contribution to the burka bandit briefing was playing tricks on him. His wife’s brother a Sweeney target? It wasn’t possible, he must have dreamt it. He wrinkled his nose; what was that acrid smell? Something was burning! His eyes fell on the wastepaper basket from which blue smoke was curling.
ooOoo