by JOHN STANLEY
Chapter seven
Shortly before 7.30pm, Detective Superintendent Roland Connor stood in the police station corridor for a few moments, sighed, gave the lightest of knocks on the door to Radford’s office and walked into the room without waiting for the inspector to speak. Radford looked up from his paperwork and gave his direct superior a welcoming smile. He had known Connor for fifteen years and it had proved an enduring friendship; they regularly played golf and their wives socialised.
It had been Connor who recommended him for DCI; the new broom to sweep away the detritus of corruption after CID imploded, Connor had said at the time to anyone who would listen. And so the superintendent had always thought. He had staked his career on Danny Radford’s integrity but now the doubts were crowding in.
‘Take a pew,’ said Radford, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. ‘I can guess why you’re looking so solemn.’
Connor sat down. A thin man, he had the appearance of a bank manager, an impression strengthened by his smart suit, balding pate and horn-rimmed glasses. Behind the staid appearance, though, lurked a hard-headed detective who believed in locking villains up. It was where Radford and Connor connected but tonight the superintendent could not conceal the worried expression on his face as he surveyed his friend.
‘They tell me you’ve lifted Neil Garvin,’ said the superintendent.
He wanted to shriek, shout, scream. ‘What the fuck were you thinking of, you daft bastard?’ he wanted to cry but that had never been his way. Besides, he was fearful of the answer.
‘We have,’ said Radford. ‘For assaulting the vicar. He’s down in the cells.’
‘Talking of assault,’ replied Connor, trying to retain his composure, ‘I understand that you knocked Garvin out and loosened three of his teeth. Struck the first blow, from what I hear.’
‘That what Gaines says?’
‘Gaines saw nothing. Funny that, eh?’
‘Loyalty runs deep, Roland. Always has around this place. You know that as well as anyone.’
What did I tell Gaines about always telling the truth? It was looking the other way that fucked things up in CID to start with. That’s why we are in this mess. Don’t give the top brass anything to use against you.
‘I am not really bothered about Gaines and his little games,’ said Connor. ‘It’s what everyone else says that worries me. Mr Clean turns bad.’ The superintendent hesitated. Took a deep breath. ‘Some folks reckon that you did it on purpose, Danny. That you planned to do it.’
‘And why on earth would I do that?’ said Radford, trying to look offended.
‘To compromise the inquiry. Gives Garvin the perfect comeback, doesn’t it? All he has to do is plead police brutality and no jury in the world would convict him.’ Another pause. ‘And it keeps your mate Jason out of it, does it not?’
‘Oh, come on, Roland, surely you are not going to listen to barrack-room talk? I thought we agreed that keeping close to de Vere made sense. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.’
‘Some people think you’ve got too close, Danny. That you’ve turned.’
‘You know me better than that, Roland. Garvin went for me. End of story.’
‘Thought I knew you, Danny. The barman claims Garvin was trying to get away and that you were the only one who threw a punch. If Garvin submits a formal complaint…’
‘Then we’ll deal with it.’
‘Less of the we. I will probably have to suspend you, I take it you know that? At the very least, take you off the inquiry. Even then, the investigation will be compromised. What evidence have you lifted him on anyway?’
‘Circumstantial at this stage – he and Cranmer were seen near the church – but he did it alright, Roland.’
‘Why if so sure, did you hit him, for God’s sake?’
‘We all do daft things in the heat of the moment.’
‘In my experience, you do not have a heat of the moment.’
Silence settled on the room as the men eyed each other. The silence was eventually broken by Connor.
‘I take it you heard about what happened in the church after you left?’
‘Yeah, I heard. Charlie Ferris ok?’
‘Fifteen stitches. He’s a right mess, apparently. Look, is not this David Roberts a more likely bet?’ He looked hopefully at the DCI. ‘Gets us all out of a difficult situation.’
‘What happens changes nothing,’ said Radford firmly. ‘Neil Garvin is our man. I’d stake my career on it.’
‘I can’t help feeling that you already have, old son,’ sighed Connor.
The chaplain was sitting in his office, sipping on his second glass of whisky of the evening when the desk phone rang.
‘It’s Michael Gaines again,’ said a voice. ‘There is something you are not telling me.’
‘About what?’ The chaplain started to doodle on his pad. A stick image of a hangman.
‘James Rowland seems remarkably reluctant to help us find his attackers. I think he may be worried that we might find out about something else.’
‘Like what exactly?’
‘Whoever did it may have left a Bible with a passage marked about rich men entering the Kingdom of Heaven.’
‘Very dramatic. Luke 19.24, if I am not mistaken.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Comes with the territory, Sergeant. I can quote passages from the Bible until the cows come home. I’m a wow at dinner parties.’ The chaplain lowered his voice, trying to sound conspiratorial, keep the act going. ‘Look, you did not hear this from me right?’
‘Go on.’
‘Our Reverend Rowland has been dipping his sticky little fingers into the collection plate. The last thing he wants is you asking awkward questions.’
‘How much has he taken?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Hundred?’
‘Thousand.’
Gaines gave a low whistle.
‘And why,’ he said, ‘did you not tell me this last time we spoke?’
‘We had rather hoped to handle it in-house. You can imagine the damage that something like this can do to the church, especially when James Rowland is so popular. Hardly the kind of attention we would want.’
‘But it’s theft. What’s more I am pretty sure that it breaks one of the Ten Commandments.’
‘It’s also a PR disaster,’ said the chaplain. ‘Keeping things quiet rather appealed to us.’
‘Well you can forget that,’ said Gaines. ‘Besides, from what he has told us, keeping things quiet seems to be the last thing on his mind. It seems that he has something dramatic to impart to the media.’
‘Has he now?’ murmured Charles Garfield, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle, his smile having faded.
Jason de Vere had been sitting in his office at City Hall for twenty minutes, turning the options over and over in his mind, sometimes sighing, sometimes cursing beneath his breath. De Vere did not like being out of control. Eventually, he walked across the room and fished his mobile phone out of the pocket of the jacket hanging on a peg behind the door. Walking back to his desk, he flicked through his contacts until he came across the words ‘Radford Personal’.
De Vere gazed thoughtfully at the number for a few moments. Would it be a mistake to call in a favour from the inspector? Maybe he did not even need help from Radford. But what if his lawyer could not keep him out of it? Too many people knew what had happened for de Vere’s peace of mind. What if someone talked and the fact that Radford assaulted Garvin counted for nothing? What if Radford did it for his own selfish ends? Simply wanted out of the inquiry? Wanted to put himself in a position where he had no favours to give? Release the pressure? De Vere could not get the idea out of his head as he sat staring at the name on his phone.
His finger hovered over the call button for several minutes. The council leader had always made it a rule never to under-estimate anyone but the game was afoot and suddenly he did not know the rules. And he was acutely conscious th
at Danny Radford did. He put the phone back on the desk.
‘I take it you know that Neil Garvin is a city council employee?’ said Connor.
‘Yeah, Gaines told me.’ Radford studied the superintendent’s features, seeking out hidden meanings in the comment. ‘So, I imagine, are Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck but should it matter? The city council is fair game, surely?’
‘In a fair world.’
‘But?’
‘But it isn’t a fair world, is it? We have to be whiter than white.’ Connor was no longer able to contain his exasperation. ‘Oh, don’t look like that, Danny. We all know that Garvin has done Labour’s dirty business for years and there’s no way that de Vere will stand by and let us charge him. What the fuck were you thinking?’
Radford shrugged again.
Don’t show all your cards, that’s what England always says. Let the game play out and if friendships are among its victims then so be it.
‘If I didn’t know better…’ said Connor, his tone softer now, more understanding, the tone of a concerned friend. His voice tailed off.
‘Know what?’ Radford’s voice was hard-edged now. ‘Go on, spit it out. Say what you came to say.’
‘People remember what happened to your predecessor. It damned near tore this department apart and no one want to see that happen again. And Peter England is already asking awkward questions. And if Peter England knows, the Chief knows and there is no way that he will jeopardise his Queen’s Police Medal for the sake of a dirty cop. He’ll hang you out to dry. That’s what England says.’
Radford tried his best to look anxious.
I would expect nothing less of Peter. It’s what we agreed. Throw his weight around. Slam a few doors. Utter a few dire threats. Make it look good. Make sure that it gets back to de Vere. Me to take the hits, him to help keep the cover intact, always keep the cover intact. It’s his mantra.
‘What kind of questions is England asking?’ The inspector’s tone of voice contained just enough of a hint that he was concerned.
‘He is worried that we may have to release Garvin.’
Radford looked at him intently. ‘And should we, Roland?’ he asked. ‘Should we drop it?’
‘Hell, no, I want Garvin,’ said Connor, standing up and walking to the door. ‘And I’m not going to let some DCI with shit for brains fuck it up either.’
Radford watched him head out into the corridor and listened as the sound of his footsteps faded away. When his friend had definitely gone, he smiled.
As long as there’s one good man.
He thought of Gaines and frowned.
Looking the other way? Damn it, why not just tell the truth? You saw what happened. Have I taught you nothing in our time together? Play it straight down the line and they can’t touch you.
‘Pot or kettle, Danny boy?’ he murmured. ‘Jesus, even I don’t know where the line is any more.’
He stared into the middle distance for a few moments then smiled as his desk phone rang.
Now I wonder who can this be, as if I didn’t know?
‘Connor given you his sword of truth speech yet?’ said a gruff voice when the DCI lifted the receiver.
‘Just left.’
‘He do the trembly voice bit?’ asked the chief superintendent. ‘I’ve got a tenner with the chief that he did the voice thing when he talked about your friendship.’
‘He did, yeah.’
‘Time for a chat then.’
‘I guess so, Peter. Twenty minutes. Usual place.’
Radford replaced the receiver, stood up and unhooked his suit jacket from the back of the chair.
Game on.
Still limping and in pain from his knee, David Roberts reached the rundown terraced squat on the edge of the city centre shortly after 8pm, pushing his way through the unlocked front door and entering the dank mustiness of the hall. Although it was only half a mile from the church, it had taken him well over an hour to reach it as he constantly double-backed through back alleys to avoid the police patrols that had flooded the area in search of the man who put their colleague in hospital.
Picking his way through the darkened hallway, David turned left into the living room to see, amid the illumination provided by the streetlight outside the window, two young men sprawled on the threadbare sofas, dead to a world that they once knew.
He knew without asking who they were. The sallow, blond man was Guy Roper. Magistrate’s son, gaunt, bony, a derelict at twenty-one, his body racked with coughs and fever as the smack strengthened its hold on him. The dark haired one, a little younger, was Jonathan Farron. A university drop-out once destined for a successful career in business, just like his parents, but now a stranger to them, stick-thin and waif-like, wasting his days away injecting heroin from dirty needles into arms that were covered with scars. Like Roper, he was not destined long for this world. Lives in freefall.
Neither man acknowledged David’s presence as he walked over to the window and drew the shabby curtains, peering out through one of the jagged holes, fearful lest the police had followed him on the tortuous route that he had taken to the house. David knew only too well what awaited him if they caught up with him. His father had been a police officer, a beat bobby, something the local paper’s headline writers seized on with glee whenever his son appeared before the magistrates on drugs charges.
Recalling events in the church, David knew how the police pressure ratcheted up when one of their own was injured. It certainly had when his father received the blow to the head during a pub brawl that eventually led to him being invalided out of the force only to die three years later. David remembered one of his father’s shifts, recounting with intense satisfaction how the man who assaulted him ended up in hospital for six weeks after an incident in the cells following his arrest.
‘We look after our own,’ the officer had said. ‘Of that you can be assured.’
The attack on his father had happened around the time that David started taking drugs. Cannabis at first, bought from a spotty kid at college, then the harder stuff, crack and heroin from street dealers. When his father, by then just weeks from death although no one realised it, discovered that his son was taking drugs he refused to talk to him. Father and son never spoke again and two months later the father was dead. Heart attack, the doctors said, probably unconnected to the assault, but David knew that some of his ex-colleagues blamed it on the stress brought on by what they saw as his son’s betrayal. They had made that clear enough on the many occasions on which he had been subject to a stop and search in the months since his father died.
To David’s relief, the street was deserted.
Chapter eight
Radford drove through the night-time streets until he reached a set of park railings a couple of miles from the city centre where he got out. Glancing round to make sure that he had not been followed, the inspector walked through the gates, using the light from nearby streetlamps to pick his way along the deserted paths, past the dark waters of the lake and the dilapidated snack kiosk, then round by the play area with its vandalised equipment. Finally he reached the bandstand, the swirls of graffiti just visible in the half-light. Gazza in red, Pocky in bold blue. Memories flashed.
Just look at this place. I remember it from when I was a kid. Mum and Dad used to bring me here on Sunday afternoons, Dad still with his Saturday night hangover, head like the proverbial, Mum timid as ever, not speaking lest she spark his anger again, her black eye covered by sunglasses, more often than not, even on the gloomiest of days, and me in the middle. Always in the middle. Like now. Nothing changes. What would she think of what I’m doing? Always a big one for authority figures, was Mum. Looked up to them. No questions asked. What they said goes even if it makes no sense. Me, I reckon that you have to earn respect every day you’re on the planet, face down your critics. Be prepared to doubt even those closest to you. It’s why Connor and Gaines are right to ask questions about me. Why they are so disappointed.
Radford shook hi
s head to banish the thoughts – England had always told him to clear his mind of all distractions. Thought of the man made him turn his attention to the burly figure that had emerged from the shadows and was approaching the bandstand from the other direction. Peter England, the detective chief superintendent in charge of the entire force CID, a burly, down-to-earth dark-haired man in his late forties, a bluff Yorkshireman who was a veteran of numerous murder inquiries and an adept political practitioner in the corridors of power at headquarters. A man now playing the highest stake of his career. England was the rule-maker and the game was top of the superintendent’s agenda as he shook the inspector’s hand.
‘You OK?’ asked England.
‘Persona non gratis, Peter. There’s plenty of folks reckon I’m on the take.’
‘I’d think the same, sunbeam. So would you. Your behaviour has been absolutely shocking. Job’s a good’ un.’
‘I suppose so,’ Radford frowned. ‘I don’t like misleading them like this, though. Particularly not Roland. He’s a good friend and a good copper and it seems wrong to keep things from him. He beginning to doubt me and it’s hurting him. Gaines has been making no secret of his doubts for weeks. Just doesn’t quite dare say it.’
England sat down on the bandstand steps and lit a cigarette, which glowed in the darkness.
‘Connor is a good copper,’ he said. ‘So is Gaines. Jesus, never thought I’d hear myself saying that about Michael Gaines. You’ve worked miracles with the man, Danny. Look, Connor will get my job when I make ACC but we can’t risk him knowing too much. Not yet anyway. Not when we’re this close. Heard from de Vere yet?’