Cooper asked: ‘You want to apply to hold him for longer?’
They had Ramirez for twenty-four hours before they had to charge or release him, but higher authority could extend that up to ninety-six. Or fourteen days if they could angle towards a terrorism offence, which Gondal made a joke about doing. But Mac told them to hold off until tomorrow, when they knew more, if anything.
That wasn’t the end of the bad news.
* * *
Before heading home, Mac dropped by the incident room, just to see if the worker ants on the phones and computers had learned anything that would make him groan. Brand new murder case, so the room was bustling with activity, most of the team bleary-eyed because they’d been up all last night on another case and had been woken by the call to arms. On-call detectives knew they could be summoned to a moonlit murder – but they hoped for a daylit discovery. In he walked, and there on the incident board was a printout from a car sales website featuring a dark blue 1999 Volvo V70 estate for ￡1,200. What the hell?
‘Where’s this from?’ he shouted at the room, his finger stabbing the picture.
A young DC looked up from a file she was studying at her desk, and raised her hand like a kid about to ask for the toilet. In fact, everyone was looking in their direction. A rare outburst from a usually introspective team leader. ‘I printed it off. I found it. Someone called it in.’
A helpful member of the public, she explained. A man had seen all the police activity around Tile Kiln Lane and had remembered a suspicious car because it had been driving close to the scene with three men in dark clothing inside. He’d noted the registration and had called in with it. She had interrogated the PNC, the Police National Computer, and discovered that the owner had reported the vehicle stolen four days ago.
Now that she’d explained, she was smiling, perhaps thinking she’d get a compliment – because this was a big lead, right?
‘Don’t just pin stuff on the board without telling a superior,’ Mac roared at her. ‘What if I didn’t see this for a week?’
She didn’t know what to say, but managed: ‘I’m sorry. It just came in. Five minutes ago—’
‘And what if I’d already had information about this car from another source, but the report said a BMW? I’d be out there looking for a BMW, wouldn’t I? While all along you knew it was a Volvo. How much time would that have wasted?’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. You and DS Gondal were busy downstairs. I was going to say when you came back.’ Those watching tried to pretend they were busy minding their own business.
‘From now on, all of you, anything important that comes in comes straight to me. Within one minute. Understand?’
A chorus of acknowledgement.
Mac stormed out. Which meant he didn’t see the DC, Downey, take a stroll to the kettle. Downey didn’t want a drink, though: he wanted to see the details of the car pinned on the board. Back at his seat with a coffee he wasn’t going to touch, Downey took out his phone and sent a text to someone very interested in how this investigation was progressing.
Thirteen
Karl
Karl arrived at his street twenty minutes later. He checked the time and figured he wasn’t much later than he would have been if he’d continued on to the Wilmington job, so there would be no need for a bullshit story to tell his wife. Unless he walked in the door and she straight out accused him of being spotted with a woman in his van.
This was the moment of truth, then. He got out and walked casually to his gate. If bad guys were lying in wait with knives or guns, running for the front door wouldn’t help him. Better he got killed out here instead of inside where Katie was.
No gunshot. Nobody jumped out from behind a car. No deadfall was sprung. Of course not – Liz Grafton was letting her paranoia dictate her actions. Karl walked to his front door and unlocked it. He had to use two hands on the key to keep it steady. He looked up and down the street one last time. Once inside, he locked up and set the house alarm, and waited until enough anxiety had sluiced away that Katie wouldn’t feel it pulsing off him like an electrical charge. Then he went upstairs to pretend everything was five-star in their world.
* * *
Katie was in the bedroom, tucked up in bed with just her head and arms showing. Her long dark hair was splayed on the pillow like black blood from a vicious head wound. She was on her electronic tablet again, probably looking at fireplaces: her new obsession now that they’d bought everything they needed for the back bedroom. He stopped in the doorway. She hadn’t seen him yet. He took a breath, cleared his head as best he could, and spoke up.
‘Apparently the British Medical Journal said athletes live longer lives than the average person by two-point-eight years,’ he said, referencing their ongoing joke.
She lowered her tablet and grinned at him. ‘That right? Well, Doctor Jane will help by fixing their injuries.’
‘Decathlete Gold Medal-winner Michael won’t be injured.’
‘Maybe Doctor Jane could toss javelins in her free time.’
‘Decathlete Michael could read medical books on the treadmill.’
Her grin widened. She held out her arms for him. Carefully, he laid atop her, bracing himself with his arms so he barely touched her belly. She kissed his nose. ‘Any problems tonight?’
He was glad their faces were close because he was certain she would have read the whole damn story in his eyes. He dampened a rising fear that she somehow knew what had happened earlier. Just an inert question, the same asked of husbands by wives all across the city after a working day.
‘I cancelled. Too dark to put an alarm in this late. I’ll go another time. He won’t mind as long as his car isn’t nicked tonight.’ The lie, as it passed his lips, tasted foul.
But what could he do? The truth was a bad idea. No way was he going to burden her with the possibility of vicious criminals intruding into their lives. End of. He’d get rid of Liz tomorrow and forget her, and Katie need never know. As long as that was the end of it.
She kissed his nose again and said: ‘I need water,’ which was perfect timing because the pinball of worry was back. Now he had an excuse to go and check out the windows. He kissed her nose right back and headed for the door.
Downstairs again, he flicked off the living room light so he wouldn’t be exposed with his face pressed up against the window. Nobody out there. Liz had been wrong. There were no gangsters after him. But what did he expect, a line of bad guys on the street, staring up at him?
Or maybe they didn’t know who or where he was. Yet. He pushed that thought from his mind and went back upstairs. At the last second, he veered into the rear bedroom to check that window, slave to a wild idea that intruders were lurking in the back garden. But he didn’t reach the window. He stood and looked around. On the bed covers, on the walls, on the shelves, Peppa Pig glared back at him. Michael – or Jane, if Katie got her wish – was three months yet from the world, and already possibly in danger? No, no, no. The worry transformed into anger. His fists clenched by his sides.
‘Did you come up?’ Katie called. ‘Where are you?’
He headed back to the bedroom and produced a Peppa pillow from behind his back like a magician. ‘I thought Michael could sleep with Peppa tonight.’
‘Oh, Jane says bring, bring, bring.’
He gave her the pillow, and she balanced it on her belly. Karl laid his ear on Peppa’s snout. ‘Even through this I can feel – ow!’ He jerked upright.
With a face as innocent as her unborn child’s, Katie said: ‘Did you feel a kick?’
‘Kick? You slapped me in the head, girl.’
She laughed. ‘So didn’t. It was Jane, probably telling you she’s not happy that you hope she’s a boy.’
He climbed over her legs carefully and lay beside her. ‘If that was a real kick, Michael’s showing us how good he’ll be as a decathlete.’
‘Did you get my water?’