by Carole Pitt
'Will I have this for life?'
'I can't predict that,' Dr Lang said. 'We'll do regular blood samples while you are taking these pills. Try to be positive of the outcome and don't assume the worst. Yes, you'll have periods of remission, should it get to the point where the joint deteriorates there's always surgery. Just look after yourself.'
Elizabeth felt mildly disappointed. 'Is that it then, I can go?’
'You can but if it gets worse come straight back. Once you start the medication, you should begin to feel much better. Try not to over exert the joints, be a bit precious with your wrist and knee and I recommend a massage. Many of my patients swear it helps. If you take care of yourself, the body will start to repair, which it can do very effectively.'
Dr Lang printed off a prescription and handed it to her. Elizabeth felt dazed and feeling so scared had blurred her eyes. Outside the rain had stopped and the sun was out. She stopped and breathed in the fresh air. At least I'm not about to die, she thought, as she headed towards the Saab.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cordover Street Police HQ had come under a barrage of criticism regarding the interior layout. No one had complained of lack of space, if anything there seemed to be too much. All rooms, whether conference, briefing or offices were spacious and ultra modern, the problem lay with the misleading corridors linking them. Daly had voiced his opinions about the confusion using the infamous motorway system, Spaghetti Junction as an analogy. He recounted a story not long after its official opening in May nineteen-seventy-two when he had to drive to Birmingham. After hours going round in circles he’d ended up completely lost. After that first experience, he'd vowed to avoid it, and during its forty-two year history had never ventured there again.
Several weeks in the premises and he still couldn't find his way around. Each corridor looked exactly like another and combined with a lack of coherent directions had left him, once again going round in circles. His criticisms, which he spouted regularly to whoever would listen, focused on a deliberate plot by the designers. They had intentionally turned the place into a maze to exasperate every officer who had the misfortune to work there.
Daly had a vague recollection that Assistant Chief Constable Steve Reynolds' office was tucked away out of sight on the ground floor, as was the Chief’ Constable’s. Daly was glad the Chief was on holiday somewhere, leaving ACC Reynolds holding the fort, a man far easier to get on with, he was quiet, softly spoken and without an ego.
A couple of uniforms came towards him and Daly asked for directions.
The bulky cop looked amused and any other time, Daly would have put him firmly in his place. Instead, he listened carefully to the instructions. 'Carry on until you come to the conservatory, take a left and it's the third door on your right.'
Daly hurried away feeling incensed. Why did a cop shop need a bloody conservatory? Park Road didn't even have a back yard but it had brass nameplates on every door including the broom cupboards, not that the contents of the broom cupboards got much use. He had a sentimental moment as he pictured Doris the cleaner polishing the brass until it gleamed, and then he remembered he’d never seen her pushing a Hoover about. Park Road police station had an air of neglect and was permanently dusty. This place, Daly decided, smelt of some fancy air freshener and he imagined a hidden, complex piping system delivering the unpleasant aroma all over the building.
He arrived at his destination and knocked. Had this been the Chief Constable's office he would have walked straight in just to annoy him. He was about to knock again when Reynolds opened up. Daly followed him past his secretary who held a phone in one hand and a headset in the other. The Assistant Chief Constable of Gloucestershire's domain featured sliding patio doors leading into a formal garden, complete with stone structures, pyramids, obelisks and a fountain. Reclining chairs and wrought iron tables littered the area, obviously with visiting dignitaries in mind. Apart from that, Reynolds's office was much like his own with none of the trappings associated with his rank. Daly wondered where all the obligatory photos or awards were, but then Reynolds didn't need to prove himself.
He surveyed Reynolds’ choice in functional chairs, as opposed to the Chief Constable's deep-buttoned leather chesterfields. He stood, rather than make himself at home. He needed to be on his best behaviour.
'Take a seat Ted,' Reynolds said.
'Thank you for seeing me at short notice Sir,' Daly answered, mopping his brow with a freshly ironed hankie. Some idiot had turned the heating up and wandering round for half an hour hadn't helped. Why, he pondered, bother to install a sophisticated dual air-conditioning- heating system if its sensors didn’t work. 'Sorry sir, it's bloody hot in here.'
Reynolds nodded and opened the sliding doors. 'About time they sorted this place out.’
Daly nodded in agreement.
Reynolds pulled his chair closer to the desk. 'Bring me up to speed on the investigation first. Since the Chief went on holiday I haven’t caught up with a lot of things.’
Daly kept the progress report to the bare minimum. Years of experience had taught him that Assistant and Chief Constables didn’t have time to listen to the finer detail. He waited politely for Reynolds’ comments.
'Good man. I have a meeting in an hour, so I suggest you tell me the real reason you're here. He pressed a button and asked his secretary for two coffees.
Reynolds surprised him with a compliment. 'You're looking very smart these days Ted.'
'Thanks Sir, living in London helped.’
Daly knew Reynolds didn't want to discuss the Yeats case. They hadn't actually worked together but had crossed paths occasionally at the height of the affair.
'I won't take up much of your time Sir. I don't even know whether you can make a decision as the Chief's not here.'
'I know how you operate Ted so don't assume I'm going to automatically sanction whatever it is you're after.'
'Daly removed the crumpled wad of A4 print outs from his inside pocket. 'Cast your eyes over that Sir, before you tell me to bugger off.'
To begin with, Reynolds had asked legitimate questions and pointed out the inevitable pitfalls. Daly had put forward his counter arguments. The result, Reynolds had left his office to make a private call followed by asking Daly to step outside while he dictated a letter. Daly wandered into the garden; confidant his first request was about to be sanctioned. If it was, he saw the challenge ahead as an important stage in his career even though it would be fraught with problems. Park Road was awaiting demolition and the company hired to do the job wouldn't appreciate his presence.
Ten minutes later Reynolds called him in and presented him with the necessary authorisation. Daly hurried back to his own office; his first priority was to ring his wife. Rather than take the risk someone would hear him he headed to the car park clutching his mobile.
Jean Daly answered immediately. 'I know, I know, you won't be home until late.'
'I’ll try, but I need you to do me a favour.'
His wife sighed. 'I'm not going back to the supermarket for beer. I've just got in, so you'll have to pick some up yourself.'
'There's plenty of beer in the shed. What I need you to do is ring the desk. Ask Tom to ring me in incident room one and pretend to pass on a message.'
'You promised me you’d given up playing Bond.’
'Just do it woman. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.'
Her attitude didn’t surprise him. She regularly protested about CID's shenanigans. 'Do you want me to do it now?'
'Give me a couple of minutes to get back.'
'So what time will you be home?’ She asked, her tone still disapproving.
'About six.'
'Good, after we eat we'll take the dog out, so make sure it is six.’
Daly promised and said goodbye. He wasn't in the mood for an argument about dog exercise. Back in the incident room, he made himself look busy. Everyone had their eyes glued to their computers and ignored him, so when Tom rang through with the clande
stine message he was confident everyone could hear his responses. When he ended the call, he announced he had to leave, his wife had fallen and sprained her ankle and needed a ride to casualty.
He could always rely on Jean's inventiveness.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A metal security fence surrounded Park Road Police Station. Daly got out of the car and studied the estate agent's advertisement for the new residential development aptly named Park Rise. Architectural drawings showed the five and six bed roomed detached properties set amongst mature trees and landscaped gardens. He was mystified about the abundance of trees in the advert. The only one currently on the property was in the car park, a half-dead Beech which needed chopping down. Another notification caught his eye, this time from Cheltenham County Council reminding the public of the building's imminent demolition. The rest were the usual hazard warnings courtesy of the security firm, dog patrols and prosecution for anyone unlawfully entering the site.
Daly carried on towards the blocked off entrance to the car park. He glanced up at the shabby building and felt a pang. It wasn't in that bad a condition and could have been done up. But according to the surveys, the cost was prohibitive. With no room to extend, the building was a financial liability. Daly had sussed the real reason a few years ago when he'd first heard the rumour it was expendable. On either side of the old HQ stood enormous nineteenth century detached houses and the nearest well-heeled residents had complained that the police station was becoming an eyesore.
So there you go, Daly thought, a blot on the bloody Cheltenham landscape. The place had been his second home for a long time and held great memories as well as bad ones. He remembered driving out of the car park with his old partner Rizla, given the nickname because he chain-smoked roll ups. During rush hour, it was hell trying to get out on to Lansdowne Road so they'd turn on the sirens and barge into the traffic regardless. Looking back Daly wondered how they never caused a serious accident. Those days were gone of course, political correctness had taken over and now they were under permanent scrutiny. He stopped reminiscing, he had a job to do and felt buoyed up and didn't want to lose the feeling. It was time to make amends, close that yawning chasm between justice and injustice. Make up for every guilty criminal he never saw prosecuted.
The security bloke at the booth nodded to him assuming he was just a passerby. Daly walked up to him, flashed his ID and gestured towards the building. 'I need to get in.'
The guard was about to argue when Daly thrust the envelope at him. 'I have authorisation to enter the premises. Go on, take it to the boss and make it quick.’
'Sorry mate, only a couple of us on duty,' he explained, but Daly was already in his face so he picked up the phone and spoke to someone called Nigel.
Daly stood patiently. The rain had eased off and the sun had broken through the clouds. The prospect of going inside where it would be dark and damp made him feel cold.
'I presume you've got generators to power the lighting?’ Daly said when the guard looked up.
'Ask him,' he replied.
Daly assumed it must be Nigel. He looked about thirty with an attitude problem. 'I'm showing an engineering company round. You'll have to make an appointment for next week.'
'This is police business.' Daly said and snatched the envelope from the guard and handed it to him. I want to access the basement so you better have some bloody lights on down there.'
Nigel sounded affronted. ‘I’m the assistant manager here. I had to come over to look at some potentially dangerous joists.'
'We only moved out after Christmas so there can't be that much damage,’ Daly said.
'Rats and mice,' Nigel said. 'Eating their way through everything, electrical wires included.'
'Must be hungry buggers,' Daly answered. 'We saw the odd mouse but never any rats. They must have moved in after we left.'
'I'm warning you, they have taken over the basement.'
Daly didn't like that idea for two reasons; one, he didn't fancy a confrontation with a monster rat, two, he hoped the bastards hadn't chewed through their evidence store. He knew the majority of the contents had moved to Cordover Street, but some of the archived stuff hadn't. If what he was after had disappeared, someone's head would roll. Daly remembered Brotherton’s words. 'Every cop knows evidence disappears, usually it's down to incompetence, disorganisation, or simply hasn't been processed correctly. Then there's the other type of missing evidence, but that’s a different problem.’
Nigel had finished reading the letter. 'I'm sorry, can you confirm your name.'
'DCS Daly and I'd like to be in and out of there quickly. I don't want to overstay my welcome.'
'I'll come down with you. My associate Marcus is also extremely busy.'
Daly imagined Nigel and Marcus as full of their own self-importance. They were planning to tear down a place close to his heart. He stared at Nigel and felt like punching him on his polished chin or pulling out his manicured nails.
From the time Park Road HQ opened its doors in September nineteen-fifty-six, the evidence rooms had occupied the basement. Before they left, it had almost reached bursting point leaving them forced to rent a warehouse to house old or archived case histories. Back in those days, police officers managed the evidence rooms, now it was customary to employ civilians to ease the burden. How they kept track of everything bewildered Daly. Whenever he’d gone into the basement previously, the ceiling high shelves were always overflowing. The prospect of tracking down a specific case number was difficult enough while they were still operating there, now, his head hurt at the prospect.
Nigel had left Daly alone in the semi-dark and gone off to find a minion to organise some lighting. Daly looked around at the empty spaces; now that most of the fixtures and fittings had gone, the place looked derelict. He was tempted to visit his old office for the last time but when he stood at the bottom of the stairs, his legs refused to move. He closed his eyes and visualised a busy day at Park Road. As the images tumbled into his head, he heard phones ringing, hostile arguments at the desk and howls of protest from the custody suite. He opened his eyes and the images weakened, but the aroma drifting from the canteen lingered.
Nigel came through the double doors holding a powerful torch. He held it up. 'The generator's not powering sufficient light so you'll still need this.’
It was time to face the facts. The items he was after might not be here but he had to be certain. As Nigel had reminded him, they were due to start ripping the place apart within the week. The company hired to prepare the building for demolition had needed access to every room and had been in possession of the keys for almost two months on the understanding that the basement would be secure at all times. Whoever had handed over the keys so early needed hauling in front of a disciplinary panel.
At first, Daly felt disorientated. When was the last time he'd been down here? The room had one small window butted up against the ceiling but due to the layers of dust, very little daylight got through. The only metal shelving left covered one wall. He was shocked to see it was stacked high with cardboard boxes and bags. Nigel hadn't hung around, claiming he had too many critical issues to deal with. Daly switched on the torch and wondered where to begin. The remit was strict; as evidence arrived, and as it arrived most days, the manager carefully catalogued everything to preserve the chain of custody. Theoretically the visual chaos would have an order, whether alphabetical or dated, or both. Looking at the amount left behind, Daly wondered why they hadn't just shifted it all to the warehouse. He guessed there hadn't been sufficient space and until Cordover Street was ready to receive the rest, it had remained here. The truth was no one had known exactly what to do with it all.
After half an hour, and a thorough reconnaissance, he'd evolved a method. He dragged a set of ladders to one area he found particularly interesting. He climbed up and as he reached out, he heard the noise. Daly stood still and shone the torch onto the floor. Nigel hadn’t lied. The rats were big. A couple of them stopped at the b
ottom of the ladders their beady eyes glittering in the torch beam.
'Piss off you bastards,' he shouted.
He was amazed when they scuttled off. He found his heart was beating a little too fast and hung on to the shelf until it returned to normal. When he felt steadier, he removed a box and climbed back down. Graham Brotherton had given him vague descriptions. It had been a long time and Daly understood very few people could remember details that far back. This was a job only he could do and until he'd accomplished it, he could tell no one, other than Reynolds.
Daly stopped to catch his breath. Climbing up and down ladders for nearly two hours had made him sweat profusely. He eased out of his jacket and tie and feeling defeated, squeezed his backside onto the bottom rung. So far, he’d found nothing that resembled Brotherton's description. His determination to find the missing file had overcome his distaste for the rat infested bowels of his old headquarters. Cordover Street HQ with its clinical modernistic architecture and lack of atmosphere might drive him nuts, but it had one thing in its favour, the place was vermin proof.
Over the years, he had often stormed out of Park Road for one reason or another, but had never before felt this desperation to escape. He was not easily scared, but he'd noticed an atmospheric shift within his surroundings. The room felt as if it was shrinking in height and width and the rats appeared bigger. He'd screamed at them when they’d brazenly sidled up close and when that hadn’t worked thrown what missiles he could find. In the end, he summoned up enough courage to chase them into a corner. Once he had them trapped, he used a roll of plastic netting to contain them. He knew it was only a temporary measure as they started chewing the minute his back was turned.
Daly didn't subscribe to the supernatural but he needed a logical answer for his sudden unease. He wondered if there might be a chemical leak and the fumes had affected him. God knows what these demolition firms used. He knew the smell from bleach made him dizzy. Jean often used the product without diluting it so the smell lingered for hours. If ever she decided to murder him at home, the crime scene lot wouldn't find a scrap of forensic evidence anywhere. Thinking of his mortality galvanised him into leaving, he’d had enough and he was already late. On the way out, he mentioned the smell to the security guard and asked him to check their chemical stock. He also told him he wanted to see the boss and he’d wait by the barrier. He gazed at the old building with mixed emotions and felt deflated and angry that he hadn’t found Brotherton’s bloody file. It had to be somewhere else.