61
‘Ma’am, this is PC Dixon. Please don’t hang up . . .’
Daniels happened to be standing at the window looking out when she took the call. She’d seen him enter the car park in the pouring rain, a civilian jacket on, a mobile phone stuck to his ear. He stopped short of the station entrance, was just beneath her window now.
‘Ma’am? Are you there?’
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was harsh.
As if sensing the intensity of her gaze, the PC glanced upward, squinting as the rain fell even harder, a look of contrition on his young face as he saw her looking down on him. ‘I know you think I’m a piece of a shit. And I am, OK? But I need to see you right away. It’s very important . . .’
His voice was lost in a sudden rumble of thunder.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Daniels said. ‘Take my advice and keep well away from the station. You’re no longer welcome here.’
She hung up.
Dixon checked his phone and redialled. Almost immediately Daniels’ phone rang again. She hesitated. The drenched PC looked up at her window, held a hand to his chest, pleading with her to answer and stay on the line – a gesture so pathetic, she took the call. What he said next both surprised and excited her. Allegedly, he had information pertaining to the Ralph Street fire.
‘Station interview suite,’ she said. ‘Five minutes. It had better be good.’
Putting down the phone, Daniels went back to her desk to collect her mobile before heading downstairs. What the hell was Dixon on about? She’d observed his interview from the viewing room. Her colleagues had done well. Questions had been fired at him in quick succession, each one designed to trip him up. It took Professional Standards less than half an hour to break him, ten more minutes to get a clear admission of guilt. His explanation? He’d taken the money to impress a woman with expensive tastes. She’d since dumped him and was now refusing to take his calls.
So . . . bloody . . . what.
Daniels was curious. There had been no mention of information on Ralph Street at the time of his arrest. Although, now she came to think of it, as he left the charge room following his suspension from duty he’d asked to see her – for reasons she couldn’t fathom then. Still couldn’t. The custody sergeant refused, telling him that no one, least of all the DCI, was remotely interested in anything he had to say. He was an outsider now. No longer one of them. He’d crossed that invisible line and there was no way back.
On leaving court, Trent had called, letting Daniels know that Dixon had been bailed, despite an application from the CPS for a remand in custody. He’d been in the dock less than five minutes – probably the longest of his life – the focus of much press attention, more was the pity.
Daniels sighed. Bent cops sold newspapers.
The case had been adjourned so Dixon could seek proper representation. He’d elected trial at the Crown Court. Good move. Odds were he’d get a lesser sentence that way. He was young in service, but experienced enough to know that judges tended to be less punitive than magistrates when evidence was presented to them, even in cases where there had been an appalling breach of trust. He was facing a custodial for sure. But, in determining length of sentence, a judge would listen to all the evidence, properly weigh up the mitigating factors and take into account his previous exemplary record.
He’d be counting on that.
There was no longer even a slim chance of a future on the force and Daniels was finding it hard to understand what on earth possessed him to return to the station to face the vitriol of his former colleagues. It wasn’t anger she felt. It was sadness. Although Dixon had no one to blame but himself, the DCI took no pleasure in his downfall.
Still, the question remained: what the hell was he up to?
Dixon hung his head in shame as he was shown into the same interview room where he’d been questioned earlier. Daniels’ way of making a point, he thought. He felt like scum off the street as he sat back down. His eyes scanned the bare walls, the fly-infested fluorescent tube above his head, the digital recorder that had captured his full confession, a soundtrack that would be replayed in a court of law should he choose to plead not guilty. He could almost see the heavies sitting opposite, their wisdom as well as their contempt on show.
Dixon’s head was spinning, his face burning up with the heat in the room. His hands were ingrained with fingerprinting ink. It was in the charge room of the custody suite that the realization had dawned when he overheard two officers talking in low whispers about the Ralph Street fire. Not low enough. That snippet of station gossip had hit him like a brick. Daniels was looking for a female in uniform, a classy dresser, by all accounts.
Susan.
What a bloody fool he’d been.
After leaving court with his reputation in shreds, he’d gone home to remove his own uniform before making the most difficult journey of his life. He’d made one last attempt to contact Susan before the shit hit the fan. Then he’d driven back to the station for the final time, plucking up the courage to call Daniels instead.
Flinching as the door to the interview room flew open, Dixon stood to attention, force of habit in the company of a senior officer. Not that it mattered any more. Daniels charged into the room and didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. He knew exactly what she thought of him by the ugly expression on her face. He couldn’t feel any worse if she slapped him. Utterly ashamed of himself, he pushed an envelope across the table, George Milburn’s money inside. He wasn’t expecting thanks or sympathy.
Didn’t get any either.
‘I was duped, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Daniels pointed at the cash. ‘You’re a damn disgrace, Dixon. It was a shameful thing to do. Whatever possessed you? No, don’t answer that. Your girlfriend dumped you. I know, I heard. Get over it.’
Dixon looked at her, his face draining of colour. ‘She’s a firefighter, ma’am.’
Daniels sat down. He had her attention now.