‘Details,’ Ramsay told him, leaning in closer. ‘Those little extras Corrigan might be holding back and perhaps a few details about Corrigan himself.’
‘And why would I tell you?’ Donnelly demanded.
‘Because we’re both getting close to retirement, Dave,’ Ramsay reminded him. ‘You want to try surviving on a sergeant’s pension? Got any kids at university?’ Donnelly said nothing. ‘Listen. I can get us both a very nice gig in our retirement. All you have to do is work with me on this, give me what I need.’
‘Oh aye,’ Donnelly stared at him with deep suspicion. ‘And what would this gig be?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Ramsay insisted. ‘Not yet. But it’s not working as an investigator for some shitty company or as a glorified security guard. It’ll be good work and not too taxing. You won’t do better.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Donnelly told him.
‘You do that,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘I hear the whispers about you and Corrigan. You owe him nothing.’
‘I said I’ll think about it,’ Donnelly repeated, irritated.
‘Well, don’t take too long,’ Ramsay warned him. ‘There are other detectives on the SIU.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Donnelly asked, though he knew exactly what was meant.
Ramsay ignored the question and got to his feet. ‘Stay in touch,’ he told him.
Donnelly watched him make his way to the exit. No sooner had he passed through the door than DC Zukov entered. Seeing Donnelly, he made straight for him, sliding next to him on the bench and eyeing his food and drink jealously.
‘You all right, Dave?’ he asked unpleasantly.
‘You want something to eat or drink?’ Donnelly replied, ignoring Zukov’s sarcasm.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Still got work to do, you know. I’ll get something later – when I’m finished.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Was that DCI Ramsay?’ Zukov asked with suspicion.
‘Aye,’ Donnelly answered warily. ‘Didn’t know you knew him.’
‘Our paths have crossed a couple of times,’ Zukov shrugged. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘Same as most people in here,’ Donnelly tried to dismiss it. ‘Having a drink.’
‘Why not use a pub nearer to London Bridge?’ Zukov pushed.
‘Too busy, maybe. How the fuck should I know?’
‘Only asking, Sarge. Only asking.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly moved on. ‘Never mind. How’s the door-to-door going?’
‘Maybe if you helped knock on a few doors yourself, you’d know,’ Zukov told him.
Donnelly stared at him in contemptuous silence for a while. ‘I’m here to supervise, remember? Not wear the soles of my shoes out. That’s your job.’
Zukov scowled. ‘You’ll be needing a lift back to the Yard then?’
‘Don’t worry yourself,’ Donnelly told him. ‘I’ll walk to London Bridge when we’re done and get the rattler home from there. Anyway, you were about to tell me how the door-to-door’s going.’
Zukov shrugged. ‘Plenty people have seen Dalton around over the last few weeks. Plenty people know of him, but no one really knew him. We’re not getting anything about the night he was killed, other than one of the night staff at Borough Underground says he recognized him from the photo. Says the victim came home most nights between ten and eleven and is pretty sure the night he was killed was no different.’
‘So it looks a sure thing he used the tube and not the bus,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Thank God for small mercies. CCTV from the stations and the route he used will be easy enough to track. If he’d been jumping on and off buses it would be a nightmare.’
‘The Underground staff have been told to preserve the CCTV footage for the last week,’ Zukov assured him.
‘Good,’ Donnelly replied, taking another sip of his beer. ‘Keep at it. Hopefully someone will come up with something useful.’ His phone chirping and vibrating on the table stole his attention. He read the text. It was from Sean. ‘You better get back to it,’ he advised Zukov. ‘The boss is on his way.’
‘Corrigan?’ Zukov asked.
‘Who else?’ Donnelly replied. ‘And that’s DI Corrigan to you.’
Zukov didn’t move – a troubled expression spreading across his face. Donnelly couldn’t tell whether it was real or fake.
‘Well. What you waiting for?’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Zukov explained, ‘about you and the guv’nor.’
‘Oh?’ Donnelly asked and immediately regretted leaving a gap for Zukov to walk through.
‘I’ve heard things, you know.’
‘Aye,’ Donnelly said, sensing trouble. ‘Like what exactly?’
‘Like you and he aren’t getting along too well right now,’ Zukov told him. ‘Since the Goldsboro shooting.’
Donnelly couldn’t help but tense at the sound of someone else saying that name, but he tried not to show it. ‘Bollocks,’ he replied. ‘You shouldn’t listen to any of that shit.’
‘Some people say,’ Zukov continued regardless, ‘the shooting didn’t have to happen – that the guv’nor manipulated the situation so you’d have no choice but to shoot Goldsboro. He created the circumstances and you pulled the trigger.’ Zukov let his words hang in the air.
‘And that’s what you think, is it?’ Donnelly asked after a few seconds.
‘I don’t think anything. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.’ Zukov paused for a second. ‘I’m one of the senior DCs on this firm now,’ he reminded Donnelly. ‘If there’s a serious problem between the DI and his DS, then it could impact on the rest of us. I’m just trying to look out for the rest of the team. I’m sure you understand.’
Donnelly swallowed his seething resentment at Zukov’s veiled threats, but what hurt more was that it was the truth. He cursed Sean every hour for making him take a life and constantly thought of other ways they could have taken Goldsboro down without killing him. Again and again he kept coming back to the same conclusion: Sean had wanted it that way. Things had happened exactly as Corrigan wanted them to happen. Donnelly may have been the one pointing a gun at Goldsboro, but it felt like it was Sean who’d pulled the trigger.
Conscious that Zukov was waiting for an answer, he told him, ‘You worry about doing your own job,’ he warned him. ‘I’m still the senior DS and it’s my job to look after the team – not yours. You clear on that?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ Zukov smiled unpleasantly. ‘Enjoy your supper,’ he said as he got to his feet and headed for the exit, leaving Donnelly alone with his drink and his thoughts.
Sean approached the two young uniformed constables who’d drawn the short straw and been left to guard the scene. He held up his warrant card for them. ‘DI Corrigan,’ he identified himself. ‘Special Investigations Unit. This is my crime scene.’
The tall, fit-looking young man who was holding the Crime Scene Log looked down to check the information in his book. ‘Will you be going into the scene, sir?’ he asked nervously.
‘Yeah,’ Sean answered. ‘I need to take a look at something.’
‘No