Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

“We’re all going back to the boozer, boss,” he said. “This one calls for a real celebration. And you, Mac. You’re included. You’d be very welcome...”

The Scotsman wiped the back of one hand across his eyes, rubbing away the tears, and managed a wan smile.

“I know I would, and I thank you for that, young man,” he said. “I thank all of ye, and I’d be glad if you’d pass that on to the rest of your lads and lassies. I thank you for everything that you’ve done. But I’m not in the mood for drinking, I’m afraid. I want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.”

“I understand, Mac,” said Phil, his voice gentle, and he reached out with one hand to touch the Scotsman lightly on the arm. Phil really was quite a sensitive bloke, for a burly rugby-playing cop, Karen reflected not for the first time.

“You’ll come though, boss, won’t you?” he continued.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Phil,” Karen responded. She was actually not as keen on these kinds of communal boozing sessions as she had once been, but she knew she really had to be seen taking part in this one. It was, however, her avowed intention to stay a scant hour or so and drink just a couple of beers.

Good intentions, like promises, are all too easily forgotten.

It was a good do, a particularly good do. Somebody had even done a fairly impressive quick phone round, it seemed, following Marshall’s conviction. A number of Devon and Cornwall Constabulary veterans, now in retirement or working elsewhere, turned up to drink to Richard Marshall’s ultimate demise, most notably Bill Talbot, who made a beeline for Karen as soon as she walked in.

“Congratulations, Detective Superintendent,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “You’ve achieved what I failed to do for more than twenty years.”

Karen smiled and shook her head, denying the compliment.

“I had a little help, Bill, help you didn’t get,” she said. “From a chance diving expedition, from the elements, from an old shipwreck. Oh, and from the Rolex watch company.”

Bill grinned at her. “Ah yes, the Rolex watch company — fast becoming a stalwart ingredient of the British legal system.”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He was in control — Karen had never known him not to be, he was that sort of man — but she could tell that he’d already had several drinks. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame any of them. And glancing around the gathering of happy-looking policemen she knew it was going to be difficult, after all, for her to show the forbearance she had promised herself she would. Good results, certainly on this scale, were all too few and far between.

“Champagne?” enquired Bill, gesturing towards a magnum sitting in a bucket on a table just behind him. “This is a celebration, after all.”

She hesitated for only a split second. “Why not?” she asked. And as she took the first welcome sip of the icy-cold bubbly liquid she reflected that it was a whole lot more interesting than a couple of beers.

She stood talking to Talbot for the best part of half an hour. She had liked working for him, more than that, she had learned so much of what she knew from him, and he had been one of her greatest supporters in her career; instrumental, she was well aware, in the speed of her promotion through the ranks. Also, she always enjoyed his company socially, and this was a very special night for both of them.

Everyone in the bar seemed to want to have a drink with her, which was par for the course. It had been a team effort through and through, but she was after all the senior investigating officer. Champagne was the order of the day. And when she finally considered going home, and checked her watch she realized that a good two hours had passed in a blink. She also realized that she had probably already drunk the best part of a bottle of champagne. Her car would have to remain in the station car park overnight again. It was not something she made a habit of, and in fact it would be the first time since that Indian meal she had shared with Phil Cooper on the day they had arrested Marshall the previous summer.

Special occasions called for special arrangements, she told herself as she made her way to the bar. But she wasn’t keen on drinking anymore in the assembled company in case she made a total fool of herself in front of her team. She had seen that happen often enough with senior officers, and knew all too well what good sport it always was for the rank and file. She was therefore determined to remove herself while still in reasonable shape.

“Steve, get me a taxi will you, darling,” she called to the landlord, raising her voice above the hubbub.

“What? You can’t go yet. We’re only just getting going,” said a voice in her ear.

Karen turned to find Phil Cooper right by her side. She had hardly seen the detective sergeant all evening. He had been ensconced at one corner of the bar with his rugby-playing colleagues. In one hand he carried yet another bottle of champagne and in the other an empty glass which he filled and held out towards her.

“Go on, have one more,” he said. “You don’t get too many days like this in this job.”

It was true. Without protest Karen accepted the glass and took a deep drink. She had already drunk enough to be highly susceptible to further temptation.

“You’re right about that, Phil,” she said. “This one’s in a class of its own. I’ll drink to that.”

She raised her glass and looked enquiringly at Cooper, who reached across the bar and lifted a pint glass of clear liquid to his lips.

“May the bastard stay locked up forever,” he pronounced, as if making a toast.

Karen muttered: “Hear hear,” followed by: “What on earth’s that you’re drinking?”

“Lemonade,” muttered Cooper almost apologetically. “That bastard on the Met team who crocked me last week did a really good job. He raked his studs right down my leg when he decided to stand on my ankle. The weals he left behind just won’t heal and we’ve got the big cup game next Saturday. Doctor’s put me on antibiotics. If I drink they won’t work properly and the rest of our team will tear me to shreds.”

“Good God, when will little boys grow up,” grinned Karen. “And now you have to sacrifice a bloody fine piss-up for the good of the police rugby team. Ra, ra, ra! It’s tragic, that’s what it is. Absolutely tragic.”

Cooper grinned back. “I’ll make up for it after the match,” he said. “It’s not too much of a sacrifice, actually. This is just such a great day I can get drunk on the atmosphere in here, I don’t need any alcohol.”

Karen glanced down ruefully at her glass.

“Wish I could say the same,” she said.

“Don’t worry, boss, I’m only trying to convince myself. Here, have a drop more.”

“What? You’re not trying to get me drunk, Detective Sergeant, are you?”

Cooper put the bottle he had lifted down on the bar, and stood to a kind of mock attention.

“Would never even consider doing such a thing, ma’am,” he said, his face set, mouth fixed in a straight line.

Karen giggled. Here we go again, she thought. The dangers of laughter.

“You know, Phil Cooper, you’re not a bad guy for a copper,” she heard herself say.

“And you, Ma’am, are not a bad guy for a copper, either,” he responded.

Karen’s giggles developed into full-blown laughter then. Good God , she thought, I’m standing here in a bar full of half-drunk policemen flirting with my number-one sergeant. This will never do, it really won’t. With a tremendous effort of will she attempted to pull herself together and be sensible.

“You’re good company, Phil, but I must go,” she said, then called across the bar once more. “Steve, I need a taxi, could you give ’em a shout for me.”