A hand clapped him hard on the back. He coughed, tried to get his breath and found it difficult. ‘We’ll be off, then, Jerry. Don’t worry. You probably won’t feel the flames. I dare say the Sux will have stopped your breathing by then.’
Frozen in place, Jerry stared at the stack of papers and magazines as his attackers walked calmly along the landing and down the stairs. The bottom one of the overhanging magazines and papers was already beginning to brown. Desperately, he tried to shift his body in the chair, but nothing happened. He drew a breath to try to shout, but his chest felt tight and restricted. ‘Hel—’ he croaked, then struggled to breathe in again. ‘He—’
‘Concealing evidence is a serious offence, Sergeant.’
DCI Adam Silverstone’s slim hands were flat on his desk as he stared at the man standing stiffly before him.
‘I haven’t concealed anything . . . sir. Tommy’s connection to Rosie Whitlock wasn’t relevant to the case. How could it have been? He’s been missing for six months, he hadn’t exchanged any messages with her since April and he’s thirteen years old. He wouldn’t have been driving the van. So I made a judgment call. As you know, every minute counts in cases like that. It was a question of either/or. Either I followed protocol or I gave Rosie Whitlock every chance of being recovered alive and well. I chose the latter. Was I wrong, sir?’ With difficulty, Detective Sergeant Pete Gayle kept his eyes on the wall above the station chief’s head.
‘Don’t push me, Sergeant. You’re on thin ice already. In fact, you’re a very small step away from being back on the beat. You’ve deliberately and blatantly flouted the most basic of rules. You cannot work a case involving a direct member of your family. But, knowing that, you hid your son’s connection to the victim and carried on regardless. Did you imagine there’d be no consequences to that?’
‘No, sir. I imagined there would be fatal consequences if I didn’t – for a thirteen-year-old girl whose case was all over the press at the time. And the girl’s own testimony suggests I was correct.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether he was a victim or a suspect, Sergeant. The fact that he was involved at all, and you knew it, is enough that you should have handed the case over instead of carrying on regardless. You are not the only competent officer in this nick.’
‘No, sir. But all the others were fully occupied on other cases and there wasn’t time for one of them to start again from scratch.’
‘That was not your call to make, Sergeant. It was mine or DI Underhill’s. And I distinctly remember telling you at the outset to keep DS Phillips up to speed so that he could take over if necessary.’
‘My understanding at the time was that he’d got to a critical stage in one of his own cases, sir. With all due respect to Simon, he couldn’t deal with that and take on Rosie Whitlock’s case at the same time, as urgent as it was. And any delay in our investigation would have meant the suspect getting away. To attack another victim. He’s already killed at least twice, sir.’
‘Which he blames on your son, Sergeant. With, at least in one case, the support of the pathologist’s report. And where’s he now, eh?’
‘I think that’s a question you should ask Simon Phillips, sir. He’s been trying to answer it for six months now.’
‘Enough!’ Silverstone’s hands slapped his desk as he came up out of his chair, face reddening. His dark eyes locked on Pete’s, jaw clenched as he pulled a deep breath in through his nose. He held it a beat, then slowly let it out. ‘I have been reminded by HR at Middlemoor that, before going back on active duty, you should have had a psych eval. Circumstances prevented it at the time, obviously, but that is no longer the case.’
‘Sir, I don’t . . .’
‘Do not presume on my patience, Peter,’ Silverstone snapped, overriding him. ‘You’ll find it severely lacking. This is not my decision and certainly not yours. You will attend Middlemoor HQ and report to the police psychologist at 0900 hours on Wednesday.’ He slapped a piece of paper down on his desk in front of Pete. ‘There are your orders. See that they’re obeyed.’
*
Silence descended as Pete walked back into the squad room. He ignored it, marching back to his desk, jaw clamped tight with the anger still seething inside him.
Bloody jumped-up clueless twat. How the hell did the brass ever imagine he was going to be any use to the force? Talk about piss-ups and breweries, as a manager he was as much use a chocolate teapot and there was no way he’d ever survive in a political environment. They’d wipe the floor with the arrogant, preening dick.
He sat down heavily, yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the file that he kept there. He slapped it open and stared at the page without focusing.
‘You all right, boss?’ DC Jane Bennett asked from the desk opposite.
Pete looked up and sighed. ‘I’m still here. For now.’
DC Dave Miles straightened up in his chair, next to Jane’s. ‘Even he’s not stupid enough to sack you while the press is still singing your praises.’
‘No, but you know what the press is like, Dave. News is only news for a day or three. Then they get bored and move on.’
‘Be back for the trial, though, and that won’t be for a few months at least. Bit of luck, FTP’ll have been promoted out of here by then.’
One of these days, Silverstone was going to catch somebody calling him that, Pete thought. It was just a question of whether he would realise it was him they were talking about. Which would probably depend on whether they used the initials, as Dave had, or the full version, Fast-track Phil. If the latter, what he’d just endured would be nothing in comparison . . .
He shook his head. ‘If we get a conviction then he might get his promotion. Not until then.’
‘What do you mean, if?’
‘Nothing’s certain in this life, Dave. Anyway, now’s not the time to be taking the piss out of the chief.’
‘Feeling sensitive, is he?’ Dick Feeney, the oldest member of the team, asked with a grin.
‘Distinctly tetchy would be closer to the mark. So, what have you lot been up to while I was getting my balls chewed off?’
Pete had explained the situation to his crew before he’d reported the email and text links between his still-missing son, Tommy, and Rosie Whitlock, the victim of the abduction they had been investigating. The team had understood and supported him but they’d all known that DCI Silverstone would not.
It was now just over a week since the girl was rescued and Dave arrested the suspect after a brief car chase through the streets of Exeter. When the tech team at Headquarters had found the link between Rosie and Tommy on her computer, Pete had kept it to himself. He knew it was against the rules, but, as he’d said to the DCI, it was a judgment call. There was no way that Tommy could have snatched her and there wasn’t time to waste on following protocol when the girl’s life was at stake. Or, at least, that was what he’d told himself.
Thinking it through afterwards, he’d accepted that DI Colin Underhill could have taken over. He was a bloody good copper – had taught Pete everything he knew – but, having only just stepped back into the fold after five months’ compassionate leave following Tommy’s disappearance, the last thing Pete had wanted was to be pushed straight back out to the sidelines.
And, in the end, he’d been right. They’d nailed the guy. He’d been arrested before he could harm anyone else, including Rosie.
‘You know how it is, boss.’ Dave leaned