‘So what did you think of Fred Windsor?’ Bryant asked.
Dawson had been quiet while they’d fought their way out of Birmingham city centre.
‘Brave guy,’ he said, staring at Stacey’s empty chair. ‘He’s been through it, I’ll give him that, but I feel like there’s no hope.’
Bryant, for once, actually knew what he meant. And agreed.
The job they did, the energy they expended, was all based on hope. Hope they would rid the streets of bad people. Every person they put away was a grain of sand but it was an actual grain of sand. It was one fewer. It was tangible.
A person committed a crime, you caught him, put him away. Job done, tidy. But how to contain hate? How do you lock up an ideal that spreads around like a common cold? If it was true that no one looked like a murderer, then it was doubly true of a hatemonger.
They had learned that much from both Gary Flint and Fred Windsor.
He was reminded that Stacey had already warned them that real danger was not necessarily from the racists in plain sight.
‘Where the bloody hell is she?’ Dawson asked, taking out his phone. Bryant took a sip of his drink.
‘Ringing and then voicemail,’ he said, holding his phone in the air.
Bryant glanced at her desk. She hadn’t gone far. Papers were scattered over it, and her satchel was parked on the floor by her chair.
‘Canteen?’ Dawson said, pulling his chair back.
Bryant nodded.
Dawson sighed and left the room.
Their discussion with Fred Windsor had left them more in the dark than before. Having nothing back yet from forensics meant they were reliant on any type of snippet from Stacey. Why had these particular individuals been identified as hate crime victims? How had they been identified and chosen? Was there any link between the victims and the perpetrators?
Bryant realised how often they were in this position during big cases; relying on Stacey to uncover something that would point them in the right direction.
‘Not there,’ Dawson said, from the doorway. ‘Sheila hasn’t seen her all day.’
‘Try her mobile again,’ Bryant said, but Dawson’s phone was already out of his pocket.
‘Voicemail again,’ he said.
Bryant grabbed his office phone and called down to the front desk.
He put the phone on loudspeaker. ‘Hey Jack, you seen DC Wood today?’
‘What do you think I am?’ he asked in his customary grizzly manner that was not reserved only for arrestees being booked into the cells.
‘Jack, it’s important,’ Bryant pushed.
‘Tore out of here about an hour ago,’ he said. ‘Don’t know how long she was gone. Missed her coming back in.’
Bryant swallowed. ‘So, you don’t know if she actually came back in?’
‘Listen, mate—’
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Bryant said, ending the call.
Bryant followed Dawson out the door. They raced down the stairs and out of the building.
Dawson turned right, Bryant turned left; both scoured the area looking for anything that might offer them a clue.
They met at the rear of the building.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Ring her phone again,’ Bryant said.
The panic was churning his stomach.
‘Rings, then to voicemail,’ Dawson said. ‘So, it’s not switched off. So, maybe she can’t answer it,’ he added, confirming Bryant’s worst fears.
He began walking forward, away from the building and towards the road. There was a part of him that thought he might spot her walking towards him with an armful of sandwiches.
He looked left and right. Nothing.
Dawson was still holding his phone.
‘Fuck, Kev, where the hell?—’
‘Shhh,’ Dawson said, sharply.
Bryant stood still.
Vaguely, he could hear the theme tune to Game of Thrones. Stacey’s ringtone.
It stopped.
‘Ring it again,’ Bryant said, as the dread grew more sickly in his stomach.
The ringing sounded, and Dawson held out his phone as though it was some kind of homing beacon.
‘Over here,’ Dawson said, heading towards shrubbery at the edge of the car park.
The ringing grew louder.
‘Got it,’ Dawson said, pointing to an area of dirt at the edge of the kerb.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, no,’ Dawson said, as Bryant followed his gaze.
The front of the phone had been smashed and it was covered in blood.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
‘Gum?’ Travis said, offering the packet of spearmint towards her.
She shook her head. She couldn’t recall him being a chewing gum kind of guy.
Gum was one of life’s mysteries to her. What was the point? You couldn’t swallow it. It did nothing to satisfy hunger, so why bother?
He popped one in and began to chew.
Kim steered the car through the lunchtime traffic that was slowing her down. She hid her frustration.
‘Remind me why we’re going to the Preece home instead of going directly to Fiona Cowley’s address?’ Travis asked.
When something was biting at Kim’s gut, she grew intolerant to everything that couldn’t keep up with the speed of her thinking: motor cars, other drivers, traffic lights; other people, she thought, casting a sideways glance at a loudly masticating Travis.
‘Because that woman has not yet been truthful with us once. Why did she head straight there after we arrested her father?’
He shrugged.
‘If we ask her directly she’ll be caught off guard, momentarily, but she will recover quickly and come up with some kind of cock and bull story that we can’t disprove.’
‘So, basically, you want the opportunity to call her a downright liar to her face.’
‘Exactly,’ Kim said, pulling up on the drive of the Preece home.
She parked between a Lotus and a Bentley convertible.
‘Do you reckon she came to see Dale?’ Travis asked, as they got out of the car.
Kim nodded. They crunched across the gravel drive.
‘Those are the two powerhouses of these two families,’ she said, as they stepped onto the stone walkway at the entrance.
Kim raised her hand to knock. Travis spat his gum to the ground.
‘Charming,’ she said, as her hand hovered over the ornate knocker.
She paused: shouting from within, and a scream.
She tried the door handle. It opened on to a scene of chaos. The elderly Robson Preece lay in a heap on the stone floor. His wheelchair was upturned beside him.
Mallory Preece stood to the side, her hand at her throat as Bart placed a hand under each armpit.
‘Not like that, you damned fool,’ Robson cried.
For a frail old man, his voice was stern and cutting.
‘Turn me over, idiot,’ he boomed. ‘You’re far too weak to lift me.’
Travis stepped forward to assist.
Robson Preece raised his head as Mallory put up a hand.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he growled, trying to wriggle himself round the floor.
Travis met his gaze. ‘Mr Preece, please allow—’
‘Get out of my house, whoever you are. Get out.’
‘I’m so sorry, Dad,’ Mallory said, stepping forward.
‘Stop snivelling, woman,’ he shouted, and Mallory visibly flinched.