Mark Sennen - Touch

She led him down the stairs and into the gallery where halogen light blazed from overhead. While he had been on the phone she had been having a nose around and from her expression she had discovered something.

‘There.’ She pointed at a picture on the wall. A little notice beneath said the painting was not for sale. Tatershall had to look twice to tell the image wasn’t a photograph.

‘And?’

‘The inscription.’

Tatershall looked again. The artist had signed her name and just above the signature were some tiny printed words: Netherston Cottage, South Hams, Devon, 1983.

‘An address, sir. No idea where, but I bet your new friends at Dartmouth nick could find out for you.’

Saturday morning and Savage had woken to the bed in motion; Jamie bouncing up and down and imploring her to get up.

‘Daddy is calling today.’

Jamie was right, Pete would call later. She had looked at the clock and noted the darkness behind the curtains. 6:30 am. Something like Christmas morning behaviour for Jamie. Nothing wrong with his enthusiasm, but considering her moorland excursion Thursday evening she could have done with a lie in.

Now it was mid-afternoon and Jamie and Samantha jostled in front of Savage’s laptop, Pete’s voice gurgling through the speakers, the kids’ own words tumbling forth in a stream of questions while at the same time Samantha Googled ‘Panama Canal’ and found a live webcam situated at the Gatun Locks. Pete told them about the passage up the coast of Chile and the journey through the canal and sent through some pictures of the ship navigating one of the locks.

Savage had spoken to him before calling the kids down and the only thing she could think of now were his opening words to her: ‘I’m coming home.’ Of course she had known already since the ship’s itinerary, barring unforeseen events, had been planned for months, but hearing the words had lifted her spirit and now she couldn’t stop smiling.

The children burbled on, Savage managing a word here and there, and then it was over, Pete’s ‘I love you’ echoing in the silence for a moment before Jamie asked for a biscuit and Samantha ran upstairs to text a friend.

For the kids Pete being away was nothing unusual. They missed him, sure, but they had grown up with his prolonged absences and a snatched call and a few emails each week was normality. Savage thought it stank and not for the first time she hoped he would settle for a desk job on his return. Improbable though and a little like her working fewer hours or not spending the coming night on Hardin’s undercover operation.

She went to the phone and dialled through to Stefan in the annex to remind him he was babysitting and then went upstairs to find something suitable to wear.

Savage entered the briefing room at the station at Charles Cross in the centre of town to a very strange sight. DC Carl Denton whirled around in the centre, dancing and singing, his mobile held to his lips like a microphone as he sang the first few lines from ‘Saturday Night’ by Whigfield. He ended with a fancy pirouette and sat down on Enders’s lap.

‘Anytime babe, anytime,’ Enders said, stroking Denton’s hair. ‘Only do you think you could lose the aftershave? I prefer my girls not to smell of old jockstraps.’

The station had never seen anything to match it. The room heaved with an assortment of colourful looking characters, some smart and suited and booted like Riley and some casual like Enders. Being as Sunday would be Halloween a few had even come in costume and Savage spotted two devils and a witch. As for Calter, she leant against a desk chewing gum, a right sight in a miniskirt Savage thought more suited for use as a belt.

‘Nano, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘It’s the new micro.’

‘Well I hope you’ve had your flu jab or you’ll catch your death in that.’

‘A rabies jab would be more appropriate,’ Enders said, ‘with the type of animal that’s going to be coming after her dressed like that.’

Calter proceeded to give Enders the once over, starting at his shoes and moving upward, nodding with approval at each item.

‘I’ve seen better looking jackets on a potato, but I am glad you’ve found a use for those Oxfam vouchers at last.’

Savage gazed around at the rest of the people in the room. They numbered around thirty-five in total, the younger members dressed for a night out clubbing, the older detectives wearing clothing more appropriate for dinner in a restaurant.

Hardin bounced about at the far side of the room greeting people, face red from the heat, the handkerchief in his hand in constant use wiping the sweat from his brow. She reckoned it had been a long time since he had walked the streets of Plymouth late at night because he wore a blazer and tie and looked like something from a yacht club do. At least nobody would mistake him for a policeman, just a right prick.

Hardin rapped on a table top and brought the meeting to order.

‘OK boys and girls operation Big Night Out is ready to go.’

A big cheer and a couple of whoops rang out and Hardin continued. He outlined how the operation would work. The bright young things would be inside the pubs and clubs, working in pairs, trying to spot anything suspicious. Some of the older detectives would be walking the streets as if they were going to or coming from the theatre or restaurants, and to back them up there would be four unmarked cars patrolling. Finally Davies and a couple of others would monitor events from the city-centre CCTV control room.

Savage heard Enders mutter something about it being ‘nice and warm in there’ but Hardin didn’t hear.

‘I would really like to end this night with these bastards banged up so let’s be especially vigilant.’

With that Hardin let them go and they trickled from the station in pairs heading out into the damp night air.

Savage found DCI Garrett and confirmed they would be walking a route that would take them down to the Barbican, across to the Theatre Royal and up to the university. From the uni they would return to the station and head out on a new beat.

‘This will be a long night,’ Garrett said.

‘Tell me about it. My feet are killing me already.’

Calter came off the dance floor to find a grumpy looking Enders leaning against a mirrored pillar waiting for her. Behind her a medley of songs was reaching a climax and hands rose into the air, fingertips disrupting a plateau of pale blue laser light that painted a horizontal curtain just above head height. Around the bar a crush of bodies jostled for the attention of the over-worked bar staff and the air smelt of perfume, sweat and beer. Calter grabbed her pint of bitter from Enders, took a gulp and held the glass against her forehead.

‘Hot work,’ she shouted across at Enders.

‘You’re not supposed to be enjoying yourself, Jane, we are on duty,’ replied Enders.

‘Just trying to blend in,’ Calter said, catching Enders take yet another glance down at her legs.

‘Fat chance of that, you’ve got half the guys in here gawping after your every move.’

‘Only half?’

‘Well the rest must be blind or gay.’

‘Or both,’ Calter giggled.

She scanned around the club. It was on several levels with the dance floor up one end, a long bar down one wall and a couple of raised galleries with little cubby holes where all manner of things could go on unseen. If their target chose to do his business up there they would have no chance of spotting him. They had already been here for over an hour and a half and the time was now after one in the morning. So far nothing of interest.

‘Come on, let’s go for another mooch about.’

She took Enders’s hand. His palm felt hot and sticky and she wondered why on earth he hadn’t left his jumper in the cloakroom. In the current situation he looked ridiculous.