Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Get Cartwright

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid!’ Sam scoffed.

‘Gross misuse of official police records! Using her standing as a police officer to conduct private affairs! That ain’t just a slap on the wrist, Sammy boy, that’s the full disciplinary. Now – I think you’d better go out there and get them files off her. Put ’em all back on the shelves where they belong and forget all about them. Tell her to chuck that list of ex-coppers in the bin. And get her doing something useful round here, like dusting that plant with the big leaves outside the canteen – have you seen it? It’s a state.’

Sam threw up his hands: ‘You’re mad, Guv! Annie’s one of the best coppers you’ve got! And you’re going to flush her and her career and her life down the pan just because …’ He broke off, furrowing his brow, thinking hard. Almost to himself he said: ‘Wait a second …’

‘Don’t bother trying to change my mind on this, Tyler. Cartwright’s been a disruption in this department from day one. Her recent behaviour’s just the final straw.’

‘Wait, wait, wait a second,’ said Sam, realization dawning on him. ‘This isn’t just about Annie’s behaviour. It’s about what you’re frightened she’s going to dig up in those files!’

Gene stared at him, unblinking, fierce. In a menacing voice, he said: ‘There are dogs out there, Tyler. Big ones. Big, bastard ones with bad teeth, bad breath, and bad manners. And right now this very moment, them big, bad bastard dogs are fast asleep and dreaming of bunny rabbits – and whilst they’re asleep, so are all their grubby secrets, you see?’

‘You know there’s a cover-up in those files, Gene,’ said Sam, looking him straight in the eye.

‘Of course there’s a cover-up in them files,’ Gene answered in a low voice. ‘Hundreds of ’em. This is CID, what do you ruddy expect? But whatever Cartwright’s digging up is ancient history. It’s done with. So let’s leave them big, bad doggies snoozing, yes? Coz if some ’erbert steps on the wrong tail and wakes one of ’em up, then somebody somewhere’s gonna get bit. ’Orribly. Where it ’urts.’

‘Those sleeping dogs,’ Sam said, meeting Gene’s gaze. ‘One of them isn’t you by any chance, is it?’

Gene leapt to his feet and slammed his hands down on his desk. And then, with effort, he got control of his temper.

‘I’m ruddy Snow White compared to some,’ he breathed, shaking with rage.

And Sam could see that he meant it. He could also see that the Guv knew, or guessed at, some of the skeletons in CID’s cupboards. Perhaps he had some inkling about what went on back in the sixties, when Clive Gould had half the coppers in this place safely on his payroll.

The more Annie picks through those files, the further she walks out into a minefield – and Gene knows it, Sam thought. Maybe the Guv’s more concerned for her safety than he can bring himself to let on.

Not wanting to rile Gene up any further, Sam took a breath, pitched his voice low and level, and said: ‘I’ve heard what you had to say, Guv, and I’ve fully taken it on board. Leave it with me. I’ll see that everything’s taken care of.’

Gene glowered at him for a moment, then slowly sank down into his chair. The tension in the room eased – but only slightly.

‘Make sure you do take care of everything, Tyler,’ he said. And with that, he dismissed his DI with an imperious wave of the hand. He had things to get on with. The racing pages didn’t read themselves.

Long after the sun had gone down, and a cold night had settled over the city, Sam found himself drawn back to the church where Michael Carroll was still holed up with his hostages. The police laying siege to the place were bored, sitting in their patrol cars or pacing around, smoking. The lights inside the church were on, visible in the coloured glass of the stained windows, but apart from that there was no hint of life.

Sam flashed his CID badge and strode past the coppers, stopping at the edge of the churchyard. He felt a powerful compulsion to go up to the door, go inside, and confront Michael Carroll, and not just in order to break the siege. Sam wanted to know what Carroll had seen, what form Clive Gould had taken when he turned up, and what – if anything – Gould had said. His own future, and Annie’s too, were bound up with the events going on inside that church, with the mysterious fate of Pat Walsh, and the horrors that Michael Carroll had witnessed at first hand. Sam had to speak to him.

It was taking one hell of a risk to walk up to that door. Carroll had been half out of his mind when he’d first gone bursting in there – what state would he be in now? Would he be delirious from lack of sleep? Paranoid? Psychotic? At the first sight of Sam, would he start opening fire on the hostages like he’d threatened?

I’m risking a blood bath if I go in there … and yet, I can’t stay away. I need to speak to him.

Sam hesitated, nerving himself to move forward – and then heard a noise from behind him. The uniformed coppers were challenging a man who had drawn too close, telling him to move back behind the police cordon.

Glancing round, Sam recognised him at once.

‘It’s all right, I know that man,’ Sam announced, striding over to him. ‘And I believe he knows me.’

McClintock did not look at all surprised to see him. The House Master was dressed very soberly, in a dark coat worn over a dark suit, with a dark tie knotted tightly at its crisp white collar. And yet, in a way that Sam could not explain, McClintock just didn’t look right. He looked somehow depleted in civvies, like a demobbed officer. He was a man born to wear a uniform.

The two men – Sam and McClintock – stood looking at each other for a moment.

‘I know an absolutely revolting café just across the way,’ Sam said. ‘Would you care for a coffee?’

McClintock nodded slowly: ‘Aye, Detective Inspector Tyler, I would. And a wee chat too, if you could spare the time.’

They sat together in Joe’s Caff, Joe himself still frying eggs despite the late hour. The man seemed never to sleep.

Sam sipped a strong, bitter coffee. McClintock looked at the tepid brew in front of him, but never touched it. Up close, Sam could see just how severely starched his white shirt was. He wore his tie very tight, like a noose, and his collar was held in place with immaculate silver collar studs.

For some moments, neither of them spoke – until McClintock leant forward and said in a low voice:

‘I don’t know what brought me to that church. Something compelled me. And then, when I saw you, Detective Inspector, I felt not the slightest surprise.’

‘You can call me Sam.’

‘I’d rather not. I’ve never been comfortable with first names. It’s either what attracted me to a life in uniform, or else a symptom of too many years in that world.’

‘Very well, then, Mr McClintock,’ said Sam. There was something strangely endearing about this man’s need for formality. Perhaps it was the glimpse of vulnerability that it betrayed, the hint of the nervous little boy hiding in the heart of the man. ‘Our paths crossing here tonight – it’s no coincidence, is it.’

‘It’s no coincidence. Something drew us together before, in Friar’s Brook, and it has done so again this evening. I think we both understand each other.’

Sam hesitated, then said with care: ‘Understand each other how?’

‘This place we’ve found ourselves in,’ McClintock said, ‘it only appears to be 1973. But it isn’t. Not really. Is it.’

‘No. It’s not really 1973. It’s somewhere between Life and Death.’