rectangular windows set into each level at regular intervals, like enlarged arrow slits in a castle wall. In typography from around half a century ago, the sign announcing where we’d arrived sat on a thin concrete rectangle above the doors and stated simply: KENNETH STEELE HOUSE .
The inside of the building was startlingly different. It was state of the art, open plan, busy and slick. We were asked to wait on a set of low-slung sofas by a reception area. Nobody gave us a second glance. I went to the loo. I barely recognised myself in the mirror. I was gaunt, white, a spectre. There was mud on my face, and the gash across my forehead was livid and crusty with blood that had strands of my hair caught in it. I looked dirty and unkempt. I tried to clean myself up but it wasn’t very effective.
When I got back to reception, John was still on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging. I took my place beside him. A uniformed officer with a pink face and thinning grey hair came out from behind the front desk and approached us across the wide foyer.
‘It won’t be long,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody on their way down to fetch you just now.’
‘Thank you,’ John said.
JIM
Kenneth Steele House is where I work. It’s the CID headquarters for Avon and Somerset Constabulary. It’s not a pretty building from the outside, and neither is its location. It’s on a strip of trade and industrial estates behind Temple Meads Station in St Philip’s Marsh. It’s a flat inner city area with an isolated, wasteland feel because there’s no housing in the vicinity, and its boundaries are the canal and the River Avon. There’s CCTV everywhere and a fair bit of barbed wire.
I was at my desk by 08.05. I noticed the atmosphere straight away. There was none of the usual Monday morning chatter, only a tension about the place that you get when a big case is in. Mark Bennett – same rank as me but about a hundred years older – popped up from behind the partition that separated his desk from mine before I’d even turned on my PC. ‘Scotch Bonnet wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Soon as.’
Bennett had a bald shiny head, a thick fleshy neck and the eyes of a bull terrier. He looked like a bruiser. Truth was, he was anything but. We’d gone out for a drink once, when I first arrived in Avon and Somerset, and he told me that he’d never gone as far or as fast as he’d wanted to in CID. Then he told me that he thought his wife didn’t love him any more. I’d got out of there as fast as I could. You don’t want that mindset to infect you. ‘Scotch Bonnet’ was Bennett’s nickname for our DCI, Corinne Fraser. It was because she was Scottish, and female, and could be fiery. It wasn’t especially clever or funny. Nobody else used it.
Fraser was in her office. ‘Jim,’ she said. ‘Close the door. Take a seat.’
She was immaculately turned out as usual in a sharp business suit. She was eccentric looking, with frizzy grey hair that didn’t suit her short fringe and puffed out over her ears, but she also had an attractive, delicate face, and implacable grey eyes that could look right through you, or pin you to a wall. I sat down opposite her. She didn’t waste time:
‘As of zero eight hundred hours this morning I’ve got an eight-year-old boy who has almost certainly been abducted from Leigh Woods. We’ve got multiple scenes already, the weather’s been against us, and we’ve lost more than twelve hours since he first disappeared. We’re going to have the press trying to crawl up our arses before lunchtime. I’m going to need a deputy SIO to take on a lot of responsibility. Are you up to it?’
‘Yes, boss.’
I felt blood rush into my cheeks. It was what I’d hoped for: a high-profile case, a senior position. I’d been in CID in Avon and Somerset for three years, putting in the hours, proving myself, waiting for this moment. There were DIs above me in the pecking order, older, just as ambitious. Mark Bennett a
The inside of the building was startlingly different. It was state of the art, open plan, busy and slick. We were asked to wait on a set of low-slung sofas by a reception area. Nobody gave us a second glance. I went to the loo. I barely recognised myself in the mirror. I was gaunt, white, a spectre. There was mud on my face, and the gash across my forehead was livid and crusty with blood that had strands of my hair caught in it. I looked dirty and unkempt. I tried to clean myself up but it wasn’t very effective.
When I got back to reception, John was still on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging. I took my place beside him. A uniformed officer with a pink face and thinning grey hair came out from behind the front desk and approached us across the wide foyer.
‘It won’t be long,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody on their way down to fetch you just now.’
‘Thank you,’ John said.
JIM
Kenneth Steele House is where I work. It’s the CID headquarters for Avon and Somerset Constabulary. It’s not a pretty building from the outside, and neither is its location. It’s on a strip of trade and industrial estates behind Temple Meads Station in St Philip’s Marsh. It’s a flat inner city area with an isolated, wasteland feel because there’s no housing in the vicinity, and its boundaries are the canal and the River Avon. There’s CCTV everywhere and a fair bit of barbed wire.
I was at my desk by 08.05. I noticed the atmosphere straight away. There was none of the usual Monday morning chatter, only a tension about the place that you get when a big case is in. Mark Bennett – same rank as me but about a hundred years older – popped up from behind the partition that separated his desk from mine before I’d even turned on my PC. ‘Scotch Bonnet wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Soon as.’
Bennett had a bald shiny head, a thick fleshy neck and the eyes of a bull terrier. He looked like a bruiser. Truth was, he was anything but. We’d gone out for a drink once, when I first arrived in Avon and Somerset, and he told me that he’d never gone as far or as fast as he’d wanted to in CID. Then he told me that he thought his wife didn’t love him any more. I’d got out of there as fast as I could. You don’t want that mindset to infect you. ‘Scotch Bonnet’ was Bennett’s nickname for our DCI, Corinne Fraser. It was because she was Scottish, and female, and could be fiery. It wasn’t especially clever or funny. Nobody else used it.
Fraser was in her office. ‘Jim,’ she said. ‘Close the door. Take a seat.’
She was immaculately turned out as usual in a sharp business suit. She was eccentric looking, with frizzy grey hair that didn’t suit her short fringe and puffed out over her ears, but she also had an attractive, delicate face, and implacable grey eyes that could look right through you, or pin you to a wall. I sat down opposite her. She didn’t waste time:
‘As of zero eight hundred hours this morning I’ve got an eight-year-old boy who has almost certainly been abducted from Leigh Woods. We’ve got multiple scenes already, the weather’s been against us, and we’ve lost more than twelve hours since he first disappeared. We’re going to have the press trying to crawl up our arses before lunchtime. I’m going to need a deputy SIO to take on a lot of responsibility. Are you up to it?’
‘Yes, boss.’
I felt blood rush into my cheeks. It was what I’d hoped for: a high-profile case, a senior position. I’d been in CID in Avon and Somerset for three years, putting in the hours, proving myself, waiting for this moment. There were DIs above me in the pecking order, older, just as ambitious. Mark Bennett a
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