they?’
‘They’ll be ten and twelve now. And I’m trying to get hold of Leanne Colquhoun’s ex, to see if he might have a motive.’
‘Tick tock, Staffe. Tick tock.’
There’s a knock at the door and before either Staffe or his boss can respond, Pulford strides in. He stands proud, legs apart, arms crossed. Anybody would guess he had come for a commendation. His expression changes the moment Pennington begins to speak, his voice scarily quiet.
‘What makes you so special, DS Pulford, as to be able to swan roughshod over the simple rules that the rest of us mortals have to follow …’
‘I fully support what DS Pulford did, sir,’ says Staffe. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pulford’s head hang, like a scorned schoolboy. ‘Given the urgency of this case, sir …’
‘Don’t be clever with me, Staffe. I want good evidence that we can present to a court of law. Good evidence and admissible statements, Staffe.’ Pennington gets up, puts Staffe’s pen into his inside pocket and adjusts his tie.
He closes the door behind him, softly, and Pulford says, ‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Shut up, Pulford. Just bloody shut up.’
Stanley Buchanan smells of mint which is unable to mask all the drink. Leanne Colquhoun’s eyes are red and it is clear that the truth is beginning to set in.
‘I understand you took Calvin and Lee-Angelique to Margate last weekend,’ says Staffe.
‘It was nice weather. So what?’
‘You took them there with your ex, did you? Calvin and Lee-Angelique’s dad?’
‘You got to be jokin’. He’s a waste of space.’
‘He never went? Must have been hard work for you on your own.’
‘Not as much as if he’d gone fightin’ or on the piss or trying to screw some slag.’
‘He’s got a temper, has he? Holds a grudge?’
‘I’m better off without him, is all.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Rob. Rob Boxall.’
‘But Karl was more of a help was he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one would know, would they? Easy enough to slip away to the seaside.’
‘You’re out of order, DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan.
‘Why would Lee-Angelique lie? She said Karl went with you.’
‘You said I could see them.’
‘I just need a few more questions answering.’
‘DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan. ‘That sounds like an inducement.’
But Staffe’s watching Leanne. Her spirit is breaking and she murmurs into her lap, ‘He’s not like what they said. He’s not.’
‘Where can I find your ex – Rob?’
‘Dalston, if he’s not banged up. Try the Rag.’
‘The Ragamuffin pub?’
She nods, sniffing the tears away. Staffe goes across to the desk, puts his finger on the ‘stop’ button of the tape machine. ‘Last question, Leanne. Where did you stay in Margate?’
‘The Old Dickens.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘It’s a shithole.’ She looks up at Staffe, pleading. ‘He didn’t do nothing, my Karl. He never done nothing to my babies. It’s all lies.’ Leanne wrings her hands in her lap.
Staffe presses ‘stop’ and feels like a complete bastard. Even Stanley Buchanan gives him a look as if to say ‘How low can you get?’
Leadengate incident room is practically empty, just a couple of uniformed officers sharing a joke by the water cooler and DI Rick Johnson at a desk, surrounded by paper, head in his hands. All the other uniformed officers are either on another knock and note around the Limekiln estate, or searching the bins and crannies in a four-hundred-yard radius.
Leadengate was built a hundred and twenty years ago and is unsuited to the technological rigours of twenty-first-century policing. The incident room is a cross between a local history society exhibition and a computer auction room. But Staffe knows the importance of having one hub, one place where all the information comes together.
If a case is going to be closed quickly, the key connection usually has to be established within four or five days of the crime. The skill is to be
‘They’ll be ten and twelve now. And I’m trying to get hold of Leanne Colquhoun’s ex, to see if he might have a motive.’
‘Tick tock, Staffe. Tick tock.’
There’s a knock at the door and before either Staffe or his boss can respond, Pulford strides in. He stands proud, legs apart, arms crossed. Anybody would guess he had come for a commendation. His expression changes the moment Pennington begins to speak, his voice scarily quiet.
‘What makes you so special, DS Pulford, as to be able to swan roughshod over the simple rules that the rest of us mortals have to follow …’
‘I fully support what DS Pulford did, sir,’ says Staffe. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pulford’s head hang, like a scorned schoolboy. ‘Given the urgency of this case, sir …’
‘Don’t be clever with me, Staffe. I want good evidence that we can present to a court of law. Good evidence and admissible statements, Staffe.’ Pennington gets up, puts Staffe’s pen into his inside pocket and adjusts his tie.
He closes the door behind him, softly, and Pulford says, ‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Shut up, Pulford. Just bloody shut up.’
Stanley Buchanan smells of mint which is unable to mask all the drink. Leanne Colquhoun’s eyes are red and it is clear that the truth is beginning to set in.
‘I understand you took Calvin and Lee-Angelique to Margate last weekend,’ says Staffe.
‘It was nice weather. So what?’
‘You took them there with your ex, did you? Calvin and Lee-Angelique’s dad?’
‘You got to be jokin’. He’s a waste of space.’
‘He never went? Must have been hard work for you on your own.’
‘Not as much as if he’d gone fightin’ or on the piss or trying to screw some slag.’
‘He’s got a temper, has he? Holds a grudge?’
‘I’m better off without him, is all.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Rob. Rob Boxall.’
‘But Karl was more of a help was he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one would know, would they? Easy enough to slip away to the seaside.’
‘You’re out of order, DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan.
‘Why would Lee-Angelique lie? She said Karl went with you.’
‘You said I could see them.’
‘I just need a few more questions answering.’
‘DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan. ‘That sounds like an inducement.’
But Staffe’s watching Leanne. Her spirit is breaking and she murmurs into her lap, ‘He’s not like what they said. He’s not.’
‘Where can I find your ex – Rob?’
‘Dalston, if he’s not banged up. Try the Rag.’
‘The Ragamuffin pub?’
She nods, sniffing the tears away. Staffe goes across to the desk, puts his finger on the ‘stop’ button of the tape machine. ‘Last question, Leanne. Where did you stay in Margate?’
‘The Old Dickens.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘It’s a shithole.’ She looks up at Staffe, pleading. ‘He didn’t do nothing, my Karl. He never done nothing to my babies. It’s all lies.’ Leanne wrings her hands in her lap.
Staffe presses ‘stop’ and feels like a complete bastard. Even Stanley Buchanan gives him a look as if to say ‘How low can you get?’
Leadengate incident room is practically empty, just a couple of uniformed officers sharing a joke by the water cooler and DI Rick Johnson at a desk, surrounded by paper, head in his hands. All the other uniformed officers are either on another knock and note around the Limekiln estate, or searching the bins and crannies in a four-hundred-yard radius.
Leadengate was built a hundred and twenty years ago and is unsuited to the technological rigours of twenty-first-century policing. The incident room is a cross between a local history society exhibition and a computer auction room. But Staffe knows the importance of having one hub, one place where all the information comes together.
If a case is going to be closed quickly, the key connection usually has to be established within four or five days of the crime. The skill is to be
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