of bodies to do it with. Same old, same
old. I’ll bet it was the same where you came from, eh?’
‘West Mids?’ At last a smile. ‘They could be quite generous sometimes. Depended really.’
‘On what?’
‘On the state of the overtime budget. On whether or not the enquiry rang the right bells at headquarters. On racial implications.’
The smile again, warmer. ‘Same old, same old.’
Suttle got to his feet. He knew that Faraday had already fixed the first squad meet for six o’clock. By then Parsons would
have shipped a dozen Major Crime D/Cs across from the mainland, together with the civvy inputters who would staff the Major
Incident Room and bring the HOLMES system to life. By early evening, with a fair wind, the Major Crime machine would have
hit top gear, with outside enquiry D/Cs dispatched on action after action. At the heart of this operation lay the core management
team, of which Meg Stanley was very definitely part. Faraday was about to brief her about this evening’s meet over at the
MIR but Stanley got in first.
‘One thing I forgot to mention.’ She nodded towards the farmhouse. ‘We found an area of of excavation round the back.’
‘A what?’ It was Suttle.
‘A hole. Someone had been digging. We’ve no idea when or why but it’s not a small hole. If we’re looking for motive …’
She shrugged, then reached for an umbrella, still dripping into an empty catering tin of coffee beside the desk.
Faraday and Suttle followed her out of the caravan. The rain had eased a little by now. At the rear of the property, out of
sight of the farmyard, was a small garden. Beyond the garden, beside a wooden hut, was the hole.
It was about two metres across, maybe a metre and a half deep, with an inch or two of muddy water at the bottom. Beside it,
mixed with soil from the excavation, were sodden scabs of something that looked like dung. Faraday could smell it. A sweetness
that spoke of horse manure.
‘You’ve had a dog in here?’ It was Suttle.
‘Yes. Not the fire dog. We shipped in an Alsatian from the DHU.’
Dog Handling Unit. These were animals trained to hunt for drugs.
‘You’re thinking narcotics?’
‘I’m guessing it’s a possibility. Along with a million other things.’ She shrugged. ‘Money. Weapons. Whatever.’
‘What about a septic tank?’ Faraday was still looking down at the hole.
‘We checked that out, talked to the water people. You need all kinds of permissions.’
‘And?’
‘They’d heard nothing.’
‘What about the dog?’
‘Zilch, I’m afraid.’ She offered Faraday a brief smile. ‘Shame, eh?’
It was Mackenzie’s idea to go for a late-afternoon Chinese. He’d reached the point where no more alcohol could touch him and
announced that nothing in the world would be sweeter than a plate of king prawns in black pepper sauce. Winter, assigned escort
duties, had noticed this with Bazza before. Against every reasonable expectation, after half a bottle of vodka and whatever
else he’d necked, the man had the ability to suddenly sober up.
They walked across Gunwharf to a restaurant called the Water Margin: Winter’s choice. He came here often, with Misty in tow,
and the staff knew him well. One of them, a Hong Kong Chinese called Charlie, led them to a table at the back.
‘Nice to see you, Mr Winter.’ He flashed a smile at Mackenzie. ‘And you too, sir.’
Courtesy always made Bazza suspicious. He sat back in his chair, watching Charlie retreat to the bar.
‘What’s he want, mush?’
‘Nothing, Baz. It’s just a Chinese thing.’
‘What?’
‘Being polite.’
They ate from the à la carte menu. After an afternoon of abuse from Bazza for sticking to coffee, Winter treated himself to
a bottle of Tsingtao. After the waiter had gone, Bazza beckoned Winter closer.
‘Listen, mush, you want to know what
really
upset me?’
‘You mean apart from the ten squillion quid we’ve lost?’
‘Don’t be
old. I’ll bet it was the same where you came from, eh?’
‘West Mids?’ At last a smile. ‘They could be quite generous sometimes. Depended really.’
‘On what?’
‘On the state of the overtime budget. On whether or not the enquiry rang the right bells at headquarters. On racial implications.’
The smile again, warmer. ‘Same old, same old.’
Suttle got to his feet. He knew that Faraday had already fixed the first squad meet for six o’clock. By then Parsons would
have shipped a dozen Major Crime D/Cs across from the mainland, together with the civvy inputters who would staff the Major
Incident Room and bring the HOLMES system to life. By early evening, with a fair wind, the Major Crime machine would have
hit top gear, with outside enquiry D/Cs dispatched on action after action. At the heart of this operation lay the core management
team, of which Meg Stanley was very definitely part. Faraday was about to brief her about this evening’s meet over at the
MIR but Stanley got in first.
‘One thing I forgot to mention.’ She nodded towards the farmhouse. ‘We found an area of of excavation round the back.’
‘A what?’ It was Suttle.
‘A hole. Someone had been digging. We’ve no idea when or why but it’s not a small hole. If we’re looking for motive …’
She shrugged, then reached for an umbrella, still dripping into an empty catering tin of coffee beside the desk.
Faraday and Suttle followed her out of the caravan. The rain had eased a little by now. At the rear of the property, out of
sight of the farmyard, was a small garden. Beyond the garden, beside a wooden hut, was the hole.
It was about two metres across, maybe a metre and a half deep, with an inch or two of muddy water at the bottom. Beside it,
mixed with soil from the excavation, were sodden scabs of something that looked like dung. Faraday could smell it. A sweetness
that spoke of horse manure.
‘You’ve had a dog in here?’ It was Suttle.
‘Yes. Not the fire dog. We shipped in an Alsatian from the DHU.’
Dog Handling Unit. These were animals trained to hunt for drugs.
‘You’re thinking narcotics?’
‘I’m guessing it’s a possibility. Along with a million other things.’ She shrugged. ‘Money. Weapons. Whatever.’
‘What about a septic tank?’ Faraday was still looking down at the hole.
‘We checked that out, talked to the water people. You need all kinds of permissions.’
‘And?’
‘They’d heard nothing.’
‘What about the dog?’
‘Zilch, I’m afraid.’ She offered Faraday a brief smile. ‘Shame, eh?’
It was Mackenzie’s idea to go for a late-afternoon Chinese. He’d reached the point where no more alcohol could touch him and
announced that nothing in the world would be sweeter than a plate of king prawns in black pepper sauce. Winter, assigned escort
duties, had noticed this with Bazza before. Against every reasonable expectation, after half a bottle of vodka and whatever
else he’d necked, the man had the ability to suddenly sober up.
They walked across Gunwharf to a restaurant called the Water Margin: Winter’s choice. He came here often, with Misty in tow,
and the staff knew him well. One of them, a Hong Kong Chinese called Charlie, led them to a table at the back.
‘Nice to see you, Mr Winter.’ He flashed a smile at Mackenzie. ‘And you too, sir.’
Courtesy always made Bazza suspicious. He sat back in his chair, watching Charlie retreat to the bar.
‘What’s he want, mush?’
‘Nothing, Baz. It’s just a Chinese thing.’
‘What?’
‘Being polite.’
They ate from the à la carte menu. After an afternoon of abuse from Bazza for sticking to coffee, Winter treated himself to
a bottle of Tsingtao. After the waiter had gone, Bazza beckoned Winter closer.
‘Listen, mush, you want to know what
really
upset me?’
‘You mean apart from the ten squillion quid we’ve lost?’
‘Don’t be
Similar Books
