Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

‘But running a small team, you can be hands-on, conduct key interviews yourself if you want to.’

‘I suppose.’

With infinite care and patience, he undid a couple of buttons on her blouse. ‘So what are you going to do at make-your-mind-up time? Resist — or submit?’

He put on such a comically lascivious expression as he unbuckled his jeans that she couldn’t help laughing. ‘Submit, of course.’ She leaned back against the sofa. The TV remote was digging into her thigh and she threw it on to the floor. As he eased himself on top of her, she whispered, ‘You never know, miracles happen. I may find I enjoy it.’

In bed that night, she rolled over and turned to face him. They had switched off the light, but the moon was shining in through a gap in the curtains. The fair hair was flopping over his face, the way she’d always loved, and she couldn’t resist giving his cheek a kiss. His skin was smooth and warm and smelled of lemon soap. He was a fastidiously clean man; that was something she’d liked about him early on, though now it counted for less. His eyelids were drooping and she almost let him slip out of consciousness, but there was something she wanted to get out in the open before it created a barrier between them.

‘Marc, I’ve been thinking. Suppose I accept this job…’

‘You should,’ he said sleepily. ‘It’ll be fine.’

She took a breath and summoned up her courage. ‘Okay, when I say yes, I’ll be asking the ACC if I can have Nick Lowther on the team.’

Marc lifted himself up and pushed the hair out of his eyes. He leaned on his elbows, staring at her. When he spoke, his voice was tight. ‘Why do you need him?’

‘He knows me, I know him. We can trust each other. That’s important, in a unit like this. God knows what the retired guru will be like. I don’t just want any old sergeant. I need someone who’s on my side.’

Marc grunted. ‘Just as long as…’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

He turned away. She put her hand on his bony shoulder. His whole body was taut with suppressed anger.

‘Marc, listen, you’ve got the wrong idea about Nick Lowther. We’re friends, that’s all. It’s never been any more than that.’

No answer.

She felt as though a rope had been pulled tight around her midriff, squeezing the breath out of her. She didn’t want to be trussed up, she had to break free.

‘Marc,’ she said, ‘Talk to me. I know you’re awake.’

‘Friends?’ he muttered. ‘He’d like to be more than that.’

‘He’s a married man.’

‘Ah, but is he a happily married man?’

‘Oh God, Marc. I can’t imagine why you’re so…so…’

He turned over again. ‘Jealous?’

The rope slackened a bit, now that the word was out in the open. Usually it lingered unspoken, somewhere in the air between them.

‘Protective.’ She was willing to compromise, but it took two.

‘He’d love to get into your knickers.’

‘You’re imagining it.’

Marc put his arm around her, started to caress her rump. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s not that I don’t trust you…’

Even as she closed her eyes, her thoughts were racing.

But that’s not true, you’ve never trusted me. Not altogether, not with Nick, not with any other man I admit a liking for. After all these years, why can’t you?

‘You’ve made the right decision, Hannah.’ The ACC beamed, magnanimous in triumph. Another tricky people problem resolved, another box about to be ticked. ‘I’m absolutely sure you won’t regret it.’

On a wet and windy morning, the breakfast TV weathergirl had warned of ridges of low pressure sweeping in from the west. The ACC’s room offered a temperate, climate-controlled refuge. Through the colour-coordinated blinds Hannah could see the rain slanting down on to the overflowing bins in the yard at the back of the headquarters building. This room was an oasis of calm, far removed from the incoherence of the world outside. A world where — yes, even in Cumbria, so proud of its modest rate of criminal activity — old people were mugged for the price of a shot of heroin, where men in anoraks hid in bushes beside lonely paths, waiting for young women to walk by in the twilight.

‘So where do we go from here, ma’am?’

Her tone was all brisk efficiency. When giving in, no point in doing so with a bad grace.

The ACC straightened the papers in her folder. She hated anything to be out of place. ‘We’ve already agreed a start date and that you can have Lowther as your sergeant.’

Hannah had briefly contemplated making a sacrifice for Marc’s sake. Why not forget about recruiting Nick for the Cold Case Review Team? But that would be absurd. Nick was perfect for the job; she couldn’t overlook him simply to please her partner. Marc would have to grow up. She wouldn’t cave in.

‘I’ve already sounded him out, ma’am, and I’m sure he’d be interested.’ Hannah paused, groping for suitable Lauren-speak. ‘Motivated by the opportunity.’

‘Marvellous. You’ll have four constables, working in a couple of teams so that you make best use of resources. Obviously you won’t want a group of idle uniform-carriers.’

‘So can I choose who I want?’

‘Provided they are available and happy to sign up. And then there’s your consultant. We’ve trawled through NROD.’

The National Retired Officers Database listed men (they usually were men) who had opted to leave the police and pick up their pension, only to weary of the prospect of watching daytime television until they dropped dead of boredom. Hannah supposed that they hankered after the camaraderie of the job, to say nothing of the chance of a bit more cash.

‘And?’

‘I’ve offered a contract to Les Bryant. Until a couple of years ago he was a Detective Superintendent with North Yorkshire Police. He’s headed several high profile murder inquiries over the years. The Whitby caravan shootings, yes? I’m sure we’ll benefit greatly from his experience.’

So he’s to keep an eye on me, Hannah thought, to make sure I don’t mess up like I did with Sandeep Patel.

‘I’m sure he will, ma’am.’

‘Very good.’ The ACC took a sheaf of correspondence from her in-tray to indicate that the meeting was at an end. ‘One more point, Hannah. With this kind of project, public profile is all-important.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Hannah wondered what was coming. A warning not to screw up again, on pain of being transferred to traffic control and enduring career gridlock?

‘The press office will be issuing a news release and we’re planning a media conference.’ The ACC put on a smile, as if rehearsing for the cameras. ‘I’m hoping for extensive press, radio and regional TV coverage. It may stir a few memories about cases of the past, and, just as important, we could do with all the positive publicity we can get after…recent events. So please, whatever you do, don’t walk out on the assembled media the way you did when the questioning over Patel got rather sharp. Everyone’s allowed one mistake, but two PR disasters in quick succession are simply unaffordable. Do we understand each other? Lovely. That will be all, Hannah. And please accept my congratulations on your appointment.’

‘Dream Policing,’ Nick Lowther murmured the next morning, over coffee in Hannah’s office. ‘Isn’t that what the ACPOs call it when they blend a team of serving officers with someone from NROD? Taking advantage of expertise that would otherwise be lost forever. Tapping into the investigative skills of senior officers who retired while still at their peak. Combining the talents of…’

Hannah grinned. ‘Or, to put it another way…’

Nick Lowther accepted the feed-line gleefully. ‘Alternatively, we’re being lumbered with some wrinkly has-been whose old lady is sick of him getting under her feet and who thinks that fingerprinting and grainy photo-fits are the last word in forensic detection.’