Harry could detect last night’s stale Scotch on his breath.
‘Anyone seen DC Dean?’ he asked loudly, adding a trademark ‘Eh? Eh? Eh?’ MacKenzie squared his shoulders and jerked his head back. ‘Harry,’ he went on. ‘We need to do some covert work down at the snooker hall. Get yourself over there, paint yer head red and you can hide out on the table amongst the balls.’
‘Very droll, sir.’
The Scot pulled back his chin as if preparing to launch it.
‘Very cold?’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Aye, you’ll feel the cold looking like that, my son. Better ask the duty sergeant to lend you a helmet on the way out.’
Harry grinned weakly at his feeble badinage and walked on, leaving the laughter echoing behind him. He didn’t mind the piss-taking. He had created the target, so why not take it? The senior officers’ canteen was ahead of him, but as Harry strolled past the Intelligence Unit he remembered he had work to research and wandered in. The unit was run by Peter ‘Plato’ Sharpe, a civilian. A few years before he would have been known as Peter the Poof; but nicknames like that were for private thoughts and muttered conversations between close pals rather than open expression nowadays.
Harry didn’t mind Plato. He didn’t hide his sexuality, or make a big deal of it, he wasn’t overly camp or in the least bit predatory, and he knew the ins and outs of the Intell world backwards.
‘Hi Plato,’ Harry said. ‘Can you run these names down for me – CRO, voter checks, the lot, mate. I’ve got a fraud to sort out at the Felixstowe shipping company; no rush.’
Peter, a sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties who walked with a limp, ran his eye down the list of names, some of which had dates of births and/or addresses. He couldn’t be expected to know that the last entry, Dawn Grogan, was the maiden name of Harry’s first wife.
6.13pm. Harry was sitting alone in the CID office, typing the finishing touches to a set of case papers on his computer. The office was a mess. Discarded paper tea and coffeecups littered every desk, there were piles of files in all directions and the white board was a mass of scribbles relating to a grisly murder on the outskirts of town. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come,’ Harry muttered, and Plato hobbled in, clutching sheets of paper in his hand.
‘There you go, DC Dean,’ he said in a clipped estuary accent. ‘I’ve done the best I can. Only one with a criminal record and the rest no trace. I’ve got a few possibles off of the voters’ register, though.’ He put the papers on Harry’s desk and turned to leave.
‘Why do they call you Plato, Pete?’ Harry asked. ‘Is it a reference to your brain power or the fact that you only have platonic relationships with the ladies?’
‘Apart from the one I married, you mean.’
‘You were married?’
‘Briefly. I didn’t mind the decorating but the bed-times …’ he grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t have thought many people here know what platonic means, friend. Probably think it’s a kind of trance. No, Plato comes not from the ancient Greek but my abnormal feet, me “plates of meat”. Station wit, so cutting edge, don’t you think?’
Harry laughed. ‘Goodnight, Pete. Thanks for turning this round so quickly.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Good man.’
Harry appreciated Plato’s dedication. If only every civilian he had to deal with was this professional. Harry cast his eye down the list. His heart skipped a beat as he speed-read to the name Dawn Grogan. There she was: The Pantiles, 25 Fullarton Crescent, South Ockendon, Essex. Harry knew Ockendon. It was a dreary and insular, largely Dagenham overspill. What was she doing there? He read the address three or four times, as if weighing up what to do with the information. This was a dangerous game to start. Sometimes he felt he had a death wish, other times he knew that was why he was so good at what he did. Harry
‘Anyone seen DC Dean?’ he asked loudly, adding a trademark ‘Eh? Eh? Eh?’ MacKenzie squared his shoulders and jerked his head back. ‘Harry,’ he went on. ‘We need to do some covert work down at the snooker hall. Get yourself over there, paint yer head red and you can hide out on the table amongst the balls.’
‘Very droll, sir.’
The Scot pulled back his chin as if preparing to launch it.
‘Very cold?’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Aye, you’ll feel the cold looking like that, my son. Better ask the duty sergeant to lend you a helmet on the way out.’
Harry grinned weakly at his feeble badinage and walked on, leaving the laughter echoing behind him. He didn’t mind the piss-taking. He had created the target, so why not take it? The senior officers’ canteen was ahead of him, but as Harry strolled past the Intelligence Unit he remembered he had work to research and wandered in. The unit was run by Peter ‘Plato’ Sharpe, a civilian. A few years before he would have been known as Peter the Poof; but nicknames like that were for private thoughts and muttered conversations between close pals rather than open expression nowadays.
Harry didn’t mind Plato. He didn’t hide his sexuality, or make a big deal of it, he wasn’t overly camp or in the least bit predatory, and he knew the ins and outs of the Intell world backwards.
‘Hi Plato,’ Harry said. ‘Can you run these names down for me – CRO, voter checks, the lot, mate. I’ve got a fraud to sort out at the Felixstowe shipping company; no rush.’
Peter, a sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties who walked with a limp, ran his eye down the list of names, some of which had dates of births and/or addresses. He couldn’t be expected to know that the last entry, Dawn Grogan, was the maiden name of Harry’s first wife.
6.13pm. Harry was sitting alone in the CID office, typing the finishing touches to a set of case papers on his computer. The office was a mess. Discarded paper tea and coffeecups littered every desk, there were piles of files in all directions and the white board was a mass of scribbles relating to a grisly murder on the outskirts of town. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come,’ Harry muttered, and Plato hobbled in, clutching sheets of paper in his hand.
‘There you go, DC Dean,’ he said in a clipped estuary accent. ‘I’ve done the best I can. Only one with a criminal record and the rest no trace. I’ve got a few possibles off of the voters’ register, though.’ He put the papers on Harry’s desk and turned to leave.
‘Why do they call you Plato, Pete?’ Harry asked. ‘Is it a reference to your brain power or the fact that you only have platonic relationships with the ladies?’
‘Apart from the one I married, you mean.’
‘You were married?’
‘Briefly. I didn’t mind the decorating but the bed-times …’ he grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t have thought many people here know what platonic means, friend. Probably think it’s a kind of trance. No, Plato comes not from the ancient Greek but my abnormal feet, me “plates of meat”. Station wit, so cutting edge, don’t you think?’
Harry laughed. ‘Goodnight, Pete. Thanks for turning this round so quickly.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Good man.’
Harry appreciated Plato’s dedication. If only every civilian he had to deal with was this professional. Harry cast his eye down the list. His heart skipped a beat as he speed-read to the name Dawn Grogan. There she was: The Pantiles, 25 Fullarton Crescent, South Ockendon, Essex. Harry knew Ockendon. It was a dreary and insular, largely Dagenham overspill. What was she doing there? He read the address three or four times, as if weighing up what to do with the information. This was a dangerous game to start. Sometimes he felt he had a death wish, other times he knew that was why he was so good at what he did. Harry
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