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‘Fitch was arrested by Walsh and Darby, and interviewed by Carroll. His statement was put into the Cartwright file, and after that Fitch disappeared from the records. Completely. No word of him.’
‘Are you saying he didn’t exist?’
‘If he did, he had the same talent for vanishing as the mysterious Dr F. Enderby. Look at all this stuff, Sam – it stinks of a cover-up. Files going missing. A dodgy coroner’s report. A miraculously convenient suspect interview that just happens to confirm the official story. And those same three names cropping up time and again: Carroll, Walsh, Darby.’
‘It certainly feels all wrong, Annie. But …’ He hesitated, fearing that the ears of Ray and Chris were flapping in their direction. Lowering his voice to a murmur, he said: ‘Why is it so important to you to find out what happened to PC Cartwright? Do you feel … close to him in some way?’
Annie paused, chewed her lip, and said: ‘I think so. I’m confused. Why does all this stuff feel so personal?’
‘Has the name McClintock turned up in those files?’ Sam asked. Here in this otherworldly 1973, McClintock was House Master of Friar’s Brook borstal. But, in life, he had not only been a serving police officer at the same time as Tony Cartwright, but he had died right alongside him on that awful night when Gould’s garage went up in flames.
‘Mr McClintock?’ Annie asked. ‘The House Master from Friar’s Brook borstal? I’d remember if I’d seen his name anywhere.’
‘No mention at all? That’s strange. Or maybe it’s not strange at all, given the way names come and go so freely in those files.’
‘This much I know, Sam – PC Cartwright died and his death was covered up,’ Annie said, her voice tight and constrained. ‘And the main culprit for that cover-up was DCI Michael Carroll.’
‘Well, at least we know exactly where he is and what he’s up to right now,’ said Sam. ‘Unlike your other suspect, DI Pat Walsh.’
‘And then there’s DS Ken Darby. We need to track them all down, Sam. We need to know exactly what happened, how they were involved, and why they covered it up.’
‘You need to know,’ Sam gently corrected her.
And now Annie looked up at him, her face drawn and pale, her eyes slightly bloodshot as if she had been crying.
‘Yes!’ she hissed at him. ‘I need to know. I need to know who I am and why all this is so damned important to me and what the hell’s going on!’
‘Shhh!’ Sam glanced over his shoulder at Chris and Ray, both of whom were pretending to do paperwork whilst in fact they were flagrantly ear-wigging. Drawing closer to Annie, Sam said in a low voice: ‘We need to talk.’
‘Well I don’t want to talk!’ Annie suddenly snapped at him. ‘I want to find out what’s going on and I want to do it my way!’
‘I did it myyyyy waaaaaaaayyyy!’ Chris suddenly bawled out.
Sam hurled a stapler at him. Chris shot him a threatening, dead-eyed, Yul Brynner look, and seemed ready to challenge him to ‘draw’ once again. Ignoring him, Sam turned back to Annie and urged her to keep it down.
Annie glared at him and said in a low voice: ‘I want to do it my way because I don’t like your way!’
‘What are you talking about?’
In the background, Chris was putting the hurled stapler back together again whilst burbling under his breath: ‘Regrets … I’ve had a few … like that curry after the film. Stone me, I’m regretting that!’
‘Your way, Sam, is all about keeping things from me, and not telling me what you know,’ Annie hissed. ‘You’ve known things … about me, about … about everything! But you haven’t said.’
‘Annie, keep it down, this isn’t the time or the place.’
‘How can I trust what you say, Sam? You’ve kept secrets from me! You knew things – important things – but you didn’t tell me!’
There was a deep, chesty rumble, and the sound of congealed phlegm being grunted out. Gene Hunt strode into CID, a fag smouldering in his gob.
‘Morning, my lovelies,’ he intoned.
‘Draw!’ Chris challenged him, squaring up for a gun fight. ‘I said, Guv.’
Gene stopped dead in his tracks, looked Chris over like he was made of freshly dropped shit, and then said in low and menacing voice: ‘If that’s Brynner from that bloody kiddies’ flick you’re doing, Skelton, then I’m giving you precisely one second to pack it in.’
Chris responded by drawing his imaginary revolver and pow-pow-powing the Guv with it.
Gene turned down the sides of his mouth in a fish-faced grimace of utter disgust and declared: ‘Brynner ain’t no cowboy! He talks like bloody Brezhnev and looks like a squeezed dick with a Chinky’s face painted on the bell.’
Looking suddenly deflated, Chris said meekly: ‘I … I thought you liked Westerns, Guv.’
‘Westerns, Chris! Westerns! That abortion showing in the flea pits out there ain’t fit to wipe the arse of a decent Western! You think John Ford would crank out some shite about wind-up toys getting porked by stockbrokers in a theme park?’
Ray’s ears pricked up at that: ‘Oh aye? I didn’t know there was porking in it. Do you get to see much?’
‘You see a bit,’ Chris said, turning to Ray. ‘There’s this bird, right, and she’s a robot-like but you wouldn’t know it, it’s not like her tits are made out of foil or nuthin’, but her eyes do go a bit silver at one point. Anyway, this scrawny fella with a ’tache is getting the right horn with her, so he …’
‘I’ll have no more talk about Westworld in my department!’ Gene bellowed. ‘Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy – end of. John Wayne! Randolph Scott! Saint Gary of Cooper! Them’s cowboys, Christopher, them’s bloody cowboys, not that slappy-skulled Ruskie mincing about with two Evereadies up his arse and a scrote-sack full of fuses! Robots?! In Stetsons? I’ve shit ’em!’
He stomped furiously to his office, flung open the door, and disappeared inside. A moment later, his voice roared out: ‘Tyler! Cartwright! You are summoned!’
Without a glance at Sam, Annie got to her feet and strode briskly towards the Guv’s office. Sam sighed and followed her.
They found Gene prowling about, agitated and enraged.
‘Bloody robots …’ he growled. ‘Bald bloody robots, with slitty eyes. Oh, how our days have darkened, Tyler, how they have darkened!’
Gene glanced round at Sam and Annie, swallowed down his indignation at the state of seventies cinema, and plonked himself heavily into his chair. He planted his feet up onto his desk.
‘Right, enough of that, I’ve got a city to police,’ he said, appraising them both critically. ‘I take it, Cartwright, that in relation to your behaviour the other day DI Tyler has dished out a suitable bollocking – or whatever the female equivalent is … a “fannying”, if that’s a word. Well? Has he?’
‘Yes, Guv,’ Annie muttered.
‘And have the pertinent lessons been absorbed?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘You could at least pretend to sound like you give a toss, Cartwright.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Okay then. I’ll say no more about it. But what I do want to discuss is what you’re up to.’
‘Guv?’ Sam and Annie asked in unison.
‘WPC Knicker-Elastic has been conducting some sort of private investigation,’ Gene clarified. ‘I want to know what it’s about, and I want to know right now.’ He waited for an answer, and when he got none he raised an eyebrow and said: ‘Well?’
‘It’s not easy to explain,’ Sam suggested.
‘Then let dopey-tits have a go.’ Gene narrowed his eyes and stared at Annie. ‘Come on, ducks, I’m a busy man. What are you up to with all them old police files?’
‘It’s … personal, Guv,’ said Annie.
‘Oh, cobblers it is!’ Gene suddenly barked at her, sweeping his feet from the desk and looming up out of his chair. ‘What’s “personal” in this place? We’re coppers, you drippy mare! All of us – even you! So start behaving like one!’
‘Oh aye?’ Annie shot back at him. ‘By banging on about some stupid cowboy film?’
‘Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy!’ Gene bellowed. ‘And don’t try and change the subject. What’s in them files, eh? What are you after? And what about these ex-coppers on that list of yours? Have you been knocking on their doors asking for a chat?’
To Sam’s utter amazement, Annie simply turned on her heel, strode out, and slammed Gene’s officer door behind her.
For a few heartbeats, Gene watched the empty space where Annie had been standing, then he turned the full force of his gaze into Sam. Silently, he waited for an explanation.
‘She’s upset, Guv,’ Sam said.
‘So am I. Bloody robots!’ And then, looking intently at Sam, he added: ‘What’s going on with her, eh? Why’s she got the hump like this?’
Sam ran a hand through his hair. Damn it, this was a tight corner. How the hell could he explain?
Gene sank slowly into his chair, placed his hands carefully upon his desk, and drummed his fingers. Without warning, he suddenly stopped. Whatever thought process had been going through his head was evidently completed. The Gene Hunt mind had cogitated – and now it was made up.
‘She don’t belong here, Tyler,’ he said. ‘She ain’t made of the right stuff. Take her off my hands, will you.’
‘Take her off your hands?’
‘Give her something else to do. Dick her senseless. Marry her, if you can face the prospect. Stick her in the kitchen. Get her pushin’ a pram. Sell her to a brothel and piss the proceeds up a wall. Frankly, I don’t give a wet fart in the deep end of the swimming pool what becomes of her, just so long as she’s not cluttering up my nice, clean shiny department no more.’
‘Guv? What are you saying?’
‘I’m reviewing her suitability as a copper.’
Sam took a step forward: ‘You can’t do that, Guv.’
‘On reflection, Tyler, I think you’ll find I can.’
‘Just because she honked your stupid horn and walked out in a huff?!’
‘There is nowt stupid about my bloody horn!’ Gene bellowed. And then, calming down, he leant back in his chair and said: ‘I ain’t made a final decision yet. The ball is still in play. But if I get wind of any further abuses of police records, or conducting interviews without my say-so – or if she so much as glances at my horn – I will have her suspended and investigated. She can lose her job. She can go to prison.’
‘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.
CHAPTER FIVE: GARY COOPER (#ulink_208cb0dd-6b9f-5461-b06b-757e32c8b011)
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.
