Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

Of course. This government, careering from disaster to disaster, was so terrified of accusations of sleaze or incompetence it readily abandoned those closest to it at the first hint of impropriety. And this was much more than that. I realized that Simpson, friend or no friend, had been ordered to cut me loose.

‘I’ll have to think about this, William. You’ve taken me by surprise.’

‘If that’s true, then you’re not as politically canny as I supposed you to be. Give it some thought but don’t take too long. If you don’t resign at lunchtime, the press will really go to work on you, I’m sorry to say.’

At the time I thought Simpson was merely making an observation about the workings of the press. Only with hindsight did I see it was a threat.

T he debrief was a joke. It was past midnight when it started and just before one when it ended, and in between Sarah Gilchrist heard nothing of value. She sat with Philippa Franks at the far end of the conference table, Harry Potter sitting upright on the other side of Franks, and watched in appalled fascination as Charlie Foster, the silver commander, struggled with a debriefing sheet he’d clearly never seen before. She could smell his fear, rank right down the table.

Philip Macklin sat stiffly beside Foster, eyes fixed on his tightly clasped hands. Macklin had a dual role – gold commander and the main representative of Force Command. Sheena Hewitt, the Assistant Chief Constable in overall charge of operations, also represented Force Command.

Gilchrist liked Hewitt. She didn’t take any shit from the men but she was also determinedly feminine. Hewitt was in her forties but still wore her hair long. Gilchrist wouldn’t have, but she recognized that Hewitt was pretty enough to carry it off.

Hewitt was wearing casual trousers and a silk blouse – she’d been having dinner with her husband in The Ginger Man when she’d been summoned. She’d grimaced when she entered the room, walked to the window and opened it as wide as it would go. Foster wasn’t the only one who was giving off an odour.

Hewitt looked round the table from one officer to the next.

Nobody was saying much, which is why it was a joke and why Hewitt was irate. The unit had closed ranks. Nobody admitted to firing the first shot although several officers admitted to joining in after that. Their weapons had been tagged and ammunition counted. However, since no record was usually kept in the armoury of who took which weapon and how much ammunition was taken out, that wasn’t going to be very useful.

Any kind of auditing to do with the armoury had long been abandoned. There hadn’t even been an official armourer for the past two years. Savings.

Gilchrist watched the big man with the missing teeth she’d encountered in the kitchen in Milldean. His name was Donald Connolly and he was based at Haywards Heath. The smirking man, who was sitting diagonally across the table from her, was Darren White, also at Haywards Heath. Finch was beside him, slumped in his seat, sick as a dog.

Connolly, biceps bulging, was sitting to the left of her, his body angled towards Foster and Macklin. At one point, sensing her stare, he turned and looked back with hard eyes.

She was the first to turn away. The man’s apparent hostility could be put down to the same prejudice against women officers that Finch shared. Or it could be something else.

The fate of the object in the dead man’s hand in the kitchen was niggling at her. She hadn’t done a proper check under the cupboards but she hadn’t been able to see anything. She’d checked the evidence room before she’d come here. Nothing had been deposited in connection with the man killed in the kitchen. She was wondering if, against all procedures, any of the three policemen who’d joined her in the kitchen had taken whatever the object was.

Macklin wasn’t saying much of anything. Gilchrist guessed why. He’d already pulled up the drawbridge. He’d authorized this operation. He’d made a judgement on information he’d apparently received from DC Edwards, who in turn had received it from his snitch. Macklin was responsible. And she guessed that therefore all he was thinking was how to save himself.

As silver commander, Foster had run this woebegone operation. He too was in deep shit. Gilchrist thought him a good man, a moral man. She knew he would feel ultimately responsible. His sense of guilt was palpable. Five deaths were a heavy burden for any conscience to bear. Whilst he was clearly frustrated with everybody’s reluctance to speak, he didn’t seem to have the energy to take it further.

It was left to the increasingly exasperated Hewitt to be the heavy. She brought her palms down heavily on the table.

‘Jesus, we’re on your side. Talk to us and maybe we can figure out what to do. When the Hampshire police arrive they’re not going to be anywhere near as gentle.’

Her eyes swept the table. They stopped on Gilchrist.

‘Gilchrist?’

‘I was downstairs, ma’am. I heard the shots. We had checked the ground floor rooms and they were secure so my colleagues went upstairs to support the other unit.’

‘But all the rooms weren’t secure, were they?’ Hewitt looked at the notes in front of her. ‘This man appeared…’

‘It was a cupboard under the stairs. The door was concealed. Ma’am, I should mention that he had something in his hand.’

‘What?’

Gilchrist flicked a look at Connolly, White and Finch. They were all staring at the table.

‘I thought it was a weapon at first but after I wasn’t sure.’

‘You didn’t examine it when he had been shot?’

‘It fell from his hand and – well – ma’am – I couldn’t immediately locate it without contaminating the crime scene.’

‘I’ll make a note for the scene of crime officers. Thank you, Detective Sergeant.’

Hewitt turned to Foster.

‘We don’t know who any of these people are? Do we at least know if one of them is Bernard Grimes?’

‘Not yet, ma’am,’ Foster said.

‘Only two of them were carrying identification,’ Potter said. ‘We have their names and OPS1 is having them traced. But none are known to us, that’s correct, ma’am.’

OPS1 was the designated title for whichever high-ranking officer was on shift in charge of the Operations Room. The Operations Room was the focal point of police operations each day and night.

‘Where’s DC Edwards?’ Macklin said. ‘He should be here. It was his informant who started this off.’

Nobody answered. Macklin shuffled papers whilst Foster stumbled through the remaining questions on his sheet.

The ‘hot debrief’ petered out ten minutes later.

‘All of you are off-duty as of now,’ Hewitt said, rising.

‘Suspended, ma’am?’ Foster said.

‘Pending an enquiry, it’s inappropriate for any of you to continue with your duties. But hold yourself available for questioning from tomorrow by the investigating officers from the Hampshire police force.’ She looked round the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is about as bad as it gets. It does you no credit to avoid saying what exactly happened in that house.’

She looked at Macklin.

‘Philip, perhaps we could use your room for our meeting?’

He nodded, his face grim. He’d rather be anywhere but here. Hewitt nodded at the room and followed Macklin out. Those who remained avoided each other’s eyes. As Connolly, the big man, rose, Sarah leant over. She could smell his aftershave. Sweet. Noxious.

‘Excuse me.’

He ignored her. She reached out and gripped his bicep.

‘Excuse me.’

He looked at her hand on his arm.

‘I’m spoken for but I’m sure you’ll find one of the other lads willing.’ He sniggered. ‘Try Finch – he isn’t too fussy, I hear.’