Paul Finch - Sacrifice

Gemma pondered this. There was no doubt she was torn. If Heck’s actions leading to the fatal accident were reckless, he’d also showed exceptional bravery, which was something she valued in her officers.

‘Even if the suspects had got away, ma’am, I couldn’t afford to lose that van,’ he added. ‘It was chock full of physical evidence.’

‘Celebrating its capture hardly seemed appropriate, given that two men had died.’

‘I know that.’

She sat back. ‘It won’t surprise you to learn that Max Humphreys has distanced himself – by some margin – from the comments Bob Hunter made on the hospital steps.’

‘No, that doesn’t surprise me.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Max Humphreys of the Thames Valley Police, nominal SIO in the M1 Maniac enquiry, had struck Heck from the outset as an uninspiring leader; too old and tired, too disorganised, and alarmingly prone to avoiding responsibility. For all that, Bob Hunter’s triumphalist attitude in front of the press had been very ill-advised, given the errors that would later emerge.

‘Now in actual fact,’ Gemma said, ‘I’m not too concerned that you were involved in that extremely injudicious press conference. I know you were acting under Hunter’s orders, and I’ve already had it verbatim from DCs Quinnell and McCluskey that you were against the idea. But I’m very concerned at the way this investigation ended overall. What should have been a feather in our cap has brought ridicule on us. The press are ripping us a new one.’

Heck snorted. ‘To be fair, ma’am, the press did their own bit to turn the M1 Maniac into a monster. They created the name, they caused the anti-gay panic. In fact, the whole thing’s ended too quickly for them. They wanted more and more – a show-trial, exemplary sentences, maybe a protracted appeals process. And now they can’t have it, and they’re looking for scapegoats …’

‘Have you finished?’ she asked, eyebrows arched. ‘Because anyone would think you believe the investigation was handled well!’

He shook his head. ‘Ma’am, Chief Superintendent Humphreys …’

‘I’m well aware of Max Humphreys’ shortcomings. He’ll be getting exactly the same bollocking up at Thames Valley that you lot are getting now. But Max Humphreys is a carrot cruncher, whereas we’re supposed to be experts. We were advising him, leading the enquiry, and by the looks of it, missing stuff that was right under our noses.’

Heck nodded, unable to disagree. ‘That’s why I spent three days going back through the files. I’d never known any case before where we just weren’t getting anywhere.’

‘And it was good initiative. So congratulations. And I mean that, Heck.’ She sighed, the annoyance finally sapped out of her. ‘If you hadn’t done what you did, God alone knows how this thing would have ended. But … and I appreciate it may not seem very important after how close you came to getting killed, this is not the way the brass want the Serial Crimes Unit portrayed. Like some redneck posse charging around. Especially not after the investigation was botched. Needless to say, the Savage family is pushing for a public enquiry. The coroner exonerated us of any wrongdoing, the case is officially closed and it’s in no one’s interest to rake over it again, so I’m sure we’ll be spared that … thank God. But at the end of the day it’s about professionalism. We need to keep the mayhem to a minimum.’

‘Has anyone told the criminals that?’

She arched an eyebrow again. ‘Are you trying to be clever?’

‘No, ma’am … but, it’s not an irrelevant point.’

‘One way or another, the criminals will go down. My concern is that SCU may go down with them.’

‘How so? We stopped the M1 killers …’

‘We also stopped the Nice Guys Club, and look at the bad publicity that caused.’

‘That was Laycock.’

‘And he paid the price,’ she said. ‘Which should be a salutary lesson to all of us.’

Heck pursed his lips, nodding. There was no question that she was right on that score. The Nice Guys enquiry, in which he had played an integral role, had led to several deaths on both sides of the law, and an embarrassing internal investigation, which eventually saw National Crime Group Commander Jim Laycock demoted in rank and removed from his post for gross negligence. If Heck had got his own way, Laycock would have been investigated for criminal activity, but there hadn’t been sufficient evidence of that.

‘The point is that attention is now focused on us ,’ Gemma said. ‘On SCU. We’re a key facet of the National Crime Group. We’re part of the bright new future for British law enforcement. Or at least we were, until we started initiating cock-ups on a regular basis.’

‘I wouldn’t call it regular …’

‘One is too many, Heck! Two is a total clusterfuck.’

That was a sure proof of how upset she was: Gemma almost never swore. She took another moment to compose herself. ‘So the first thing I’m going to do is appoint a full-time Media Liaison Officer.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Just for us,’ she added. ‘A civvie … a real pro. Someone who can give us a far more professional face.’

‘Does the budget extend to that?’

‘It wouldn’t do normally, but as you know, Des Palliser’s retiring at the end of next month. If I don’t replace him we can manage it.’

‘You’re going to replace an operational DI with a civvie?’

‘He’s hardly operational. He’s been acting duty-officer for the last eighteen months, which means filing paperwork and manning phones. I’m sure we can live without him.’

‘Someone’ll have to do that job.’

She eyed him carefully. ‘Bob Hunter.’

Heck thought he’d misheard. ‘You’re taking Hunter off the streets?’

Gemma shuffled the paperwork on her desk. ‘Bob’s better days are behind him. Milton Keynes wasn’t the first time he’s shown a lack of judgment recently.’

‘But we’re already under-strength, ma’am.’

‘Bob Hunter’s grounded for the foreseeable, and that’s all there is to it. We are under-strength, I agree … but the last thing I need at present is a loose cannon out in the field. Now let’s get back to work. We’re all busy.’ Heck stood up. Gemma was already engrossed in checking another report. He headed for the door. ‘Well done on the case,’ she said to his back. He glanced around, but she didn’t look up. ‘I said I meant that, and I do. But none of us smell of roses right now. And I have to take any action necessary to put that right.’

Heck nodded and left.

If nothing else, Kate was glad it was spring.

Okay, some parts of Liverpool didn’t look great at any time of year, and Toxteth was undoubtedly one of them, especially when rainy as today. But just standing outside the front of the shop this evening and not having to wrap up like an Eskimo was a boon.

To call the winter that had just passed ‘bitter’ would have been a big understatement. An arctic air-stream had caused record lows and persistent whiteouts across the whole of the UK from mid-December until well into February. Great fun, of course, for the kiddies, whose schools were repeatedly closed. But there were an awful lot of people for whom those conditions were a living hell. The flotsam of the city – the lonely, the homeless, the sick, the drug-addled – did well to get through their average day and keep warm, dry and fed, but rotting cardboard boxes, piss-stained sleeping bags and windy concrete underpasses offered scant protection when the ice and snow bit with that much savagery.

Kate chuffed on her cig, and considered it a miracle that any of her charges had survived this last winter at all – and they weren’t totally out of the woods yet. It was seven o’clock now and today’s inclement weather appeared to be clearing at last, though it still felt dank and chilly.