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“Let’s get back. I need to think.”
And buy myself some new clothes. Because I can’t wear these for much longer.
Was it wrong to spend work time buying new clothes? Charlie decided it wasn’t, given how he had lost every garment he possessed in the service of his job. He allowed himself half an hour online bought the essentials gave the police station as the delivery address, pressed Pay and gave them his bank card details. Not the way he wanted to spend his working day. Patsy Hargreaves and Mags Jellicoe had gone to start enquiring about the missing students, Eddy was on the phone to the owner of the white van, and the front door to the police station was once again, locked. Time to unlock it. He could think while he answered the phone.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised that the first call he answered was from Tom Pennant. He had left a card with his mobile number after all.
“Tom,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
There was a silence from the other end.
“Tom?”
“Sorry. I probably need to apologise, if I came on a bit strong last night. And I wanted to know how you were?” Tom added.
“No need for apologies, and I’ll be fine.”
“Could I take you for dinner? Because I think I do need to apologise.”
Would you wear the suit? Or come with the tats on show and the lumberjack outfit? Not sure which I’d prefer. But FFS would you think about how it might look?
“Tom. Think about it. The police and the college management are—possibly—recovering from a major collusion and cover-up scandal. Let’s not start another one, hey?”
“But that was nothing to do with either of us!”
“You think the media would notice that? Do you think your Vitruvious guy wouldn’t make a point of calling them?”
“Maybe you’re right, but I would like to get to know you better.”
Charlie thought that dinner with Tom might be a nice way to spend an evening, but what he wanted and what he could have were two very different things. The image of his grandma telling his mother that Charlie never asks for sweets when we’re out came into his mind. He never asked, because his mother didn’t like children who ‘demanded.’ She didn’t approve of sweets either, come to that. She would probably approve of Tom, or at least approve of his status as the principal of an important institution. If she did, she would assume… oh to hell with his mother.
“Sorry, Tom, but it’s really not a good idea.”
“Perhaps when this is all over then.”
This is never going to be over. But he didn’t say that. And he didn’t know whether he was thinking about the state of policing in Llanfair, or his bloody mother’s disapproving voice in his head.
When Charlie’s phone rang again, he almost didn’t answer. He had failed to expel his mother’s disapproval from his mind, so he assumed it was her. There had been demoralisation enough for one day. But before he could cut her off, he saw that it was an unknown number. Probably a fake parcel delivery, but he answered anyway.
“DS Rees? This is Nigel Harrington-Bowen. Inspector Harrington-Bowen. We need to talk. When can you be available?”
That would be Inspector Nigel Harrington-Bowen, suspended for being up to his eyes in the cover up of the assaults on young women.
“I think you need to talk to Superintendent Kent about that, sir.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rees. You need to understand what’s going on in Llanfair, and who has been doing the proper police work in this town. Kent has no idea. In fact, Kent and his friends may not be around to cause trouble for much longer.”
“Is that so, sir?” Charlie said, as woodenly as he could. “I’ll be pleased to talk to you.” Which was a complete lie. “Perhaps I could call you back?” Charlie had no intention of ever calling back.
The office where Charlie was now sitting had the name ‘Inspector Harrington-Bowen’ on the door. The room was even smaller and more cluttered than the space outside. The top of the desk was covered in paper, mostly brown cardboard files, scribbled-on writing pads and indecipherable post-it notes. To use the computer keyboard, Charlie had moved drifts of paper, and had to dust the monitor with a piece of kitchen roll. The room had another one of the tiny windows, admitting next to no light. To be able to see, the overhead fluorescent tube was on, despite the faint buzz it made. The only good thing about the office was the comfortable fabric covered seat, some kind of hybrid between an armchair and a desk chair. This space didn’t suggest proper police work to Charlie.
Charlie had no doubts about what was meant by Superintendent Kent’s friends. He was one of them. Kent’s reputation was of support for minorities — which included women, a minority in the police. He’d also gone out on a limb, more than once, to root out corruption. So he wasn’t popular with the old guard, but Harrington-Bowen had sounded as if he knew something, something more than the usual schoolboy name-calling. Charlie added it to his mental list of things I need to find out -- though not by talking to Harrington-Bowen
Charlie made a pile of the cardboard files, sneezing as dust filled the air. He started to go through them one at a time, intending to sort them into those needing action, and those that could be left. Half an hour, and many sneezes later, he had two files he considered important. Both were marked No Case. They were both complaints about sexual misconduct by Harrington-Bowen’s sergeant, Jared Brody. The rest were interesting, in that they threw light onto what Harrington-Bowen thought was important. He opened the desk drawers in search of a pen and paper. He found them. He also found a data stick with a playboy bunny logo, a half bottle of whiskey, a multipack of rolls of mints, a toiletries bag with shaving kit, toothbrush and cologne (Lynx. Lynx for a grown man…) a comb and a packet of condoms. In another drawer was a badly folded shirt in a plastic carrier bag, When Charlie lifted it out, a pair of well-washed navy-blue poly cotton boxer shorts fell onto the floor. He had a bad feeling about the data stick, and it didn’t take much in the way of his detective skills to work out that Harrington-Bowen used his office to get ready for assignations. With some trepidation, Charlie pushed the data stick into the computer and pressed play. It was porn. Porn featuring a faceless man masturbating in front of a frightened-looking woman.
I’m going to have to watch this. In the full knowledge that it was probably planted, because who would leave it to be found in their desk drawers?
This just got worse and worse.
