Law & Order Page 7

  ‘My brief’s up in court. He’s expecting me to plead not guilty.’

  ‘Then you need to tell him different.’

  ‘Bail won’t be a problem?’ Shepley asked. ‘There are one or two bits of domestic what need sorting at with my missus. Be handy.’

  ‘All you have to do is agree to plead to it. I’ll have a word with the magistrate.’ He wouldn’t, in fact, but didn’t anticipate any problems with bail.

  ‘I’d better speak to my brief, then.’

  ‘Help the system, David, it helps you. See if I’m right,’ Pyle said.

  Shepley’s decision would spare him a lot of work, while a not guilty plea would likely result in an acquittal on the thin evidence. He would give Shepley some help as it made no difference to Pyle if he was out doing a bit more. Now he might get home to bed at a reasonable hour.

  #

  The exam had him baffled. He read and reread the questions, but the words were as meaningless as if written in Sanskrit. He struggled a while longer before wrenching himself into wakefulness, his mind reluctant to let go of sleep. His muscles ached and his eyes hurt and a pain in the back of his neck was creeping up under his cranium. He considered taking painkillers to try to lose it. Where it might go to he didn’t know, and wondered if it was caused by the beta-blockers he had taken before going on that raid earlier. A number of detectives used them, but he didn’t know if they suffered after-effects – nothing a couple more hours in bed wouldn’t cure. Pyle wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, despite the foul taste in his mouth and his distended bladder. He couldn’t go back to sleep, having already done so once. His wife was in the bedroom, putting a mug of tea beside him on the night table.

  ‘Fred… it’s gone five, love,’ she said in her husky voice. She drew back the curtains, which were floral patterned and seemed to keep out little of the daylight. The bedroom wasn’t large, then nor was their semi-detached house which was only half paid for. Her taste was for floral patterned wallpaper to go with the curtains and the duvet cover. He didn’t resist, taking little interest in the house, except when she spent too much on appliances, with no interest in diy. If anything needed decorating or fixing they either got someone in or Edith did it.

  Now in her late thirties her hips were thickening, so too her stomach, but in her coarse, round face, framed by her short black and grey hair, were traces of the woman who first attracted him. She always waited to make sure he got up. Pyle rubbed his eyes and massaged his face, which felt dead and blood­less.

  ‘Golly!’ he said. ‘S’that the time? Feels like I haven’t been asleep.’

  ‘You ought to stay there a while. You were late getting to bed.’

  At once Pyle knew what this was about and was seeking excuses before she even suggested anything. Maybe she knew that too. Yes, he thought, she always knew such things. She was the wife of a detective and could read people the same way he could. He wondered if she suspected he shagged other women when he got the chance. He didn’t dwell on the thought.

  ‘My back hurts like a bastard.’ He reached round to knead his spine in the region of the adrenals, and noticed the mug on the night table. ‘What’s this, tea?’

  ‘I was just having a cup…’ she said.

  Even in their sleep-weakened state his eyes penetrated her, seeking from habit to disprove the validity of her statement, suspecting she would have had an ulterior motive for staying in the room after waking him. Hands smoothing her skirt told him something was off.

  ‘The kids have gone to the cinema,’ she informed him, as if to reassure him they wouldn’t be interrupted. He wasn’t reassured but irritated. ‘It’s a Death Metal film. I’m sure they’re going deaf. They play their sound system far too loud.’

  Pyle didn’t respond. He sipped the tea then reached to massage his tense deltoid muscles. ‘I’ll do it, Fred,’ Edith offered.

  At his side she began to knead his neck and shoulders. She had done a good bit of that over the years and was quite a skilful masseuse.

  ‘Didn’t they have any homework?’ he asked. ‘It’s impor­tant they get good results at school if they’re to get to university.’ Maybe that was what his dream was about.

  ‘They did it before they left school,’ she said.

  ‘When did they do their schoolwork?’ He felt her ease herself down onto the bed behind him as she continued massaging his shoulders. A reflex got him leaning forward to avoid her. He didn’t want to make love now. He didn’t enjoy sex when he woke up. All he wanted to do then was take a pee and have a shower, brush his teeth. As if with a sudden feeling of desperation, Edith threw her arms around him and held him close, pressing her face against his back. Still he didn’t respond. There was a pause. He became more tense, hating the demand that was being made, the contact like this.

  Edith released him and leaned away. ‘I despise myself for being so weak,’ she said. ‘I know you work long hours, I know that. The excuses seem to get more frequent. You chose to do what you do.’

  ‘Be a funny sort of place without policemen,’ he said.

  ‘It’s still been a long time, Fred… I do have some feelings.’

  ‘I’m tired, love. I can just about manage tea when I first wake up. You know that.’

  He pushed the duvet back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Reaching round behind him, he massaged his adrenals again, more for her benefit than his relief. He groaned as he rose. ‘I’ve got a few days’ leave soon.’ The information was offered like it contained a firm promise, but Edith seemed unimpressed. Maybe she had heard too many other excuses, had seen too many of his leaves get cancelled. The call to duty ruined their sex life. He heard her sigh as he shuffled out to the bathroom.

  The water, as hot as he could bear from the shower, helped him wake up. As he stood under the power jets he found himself getting an erection, which took his thoughts back to his wife. It was a long while since they had had sex together. He knew that she never looked elsewhere, and wondered if that day would arrive. He was curious to know how he might react to such an event. Not as well as he liked to tell himself he would. Maybe he ought to go back in and make a show. He still enjoyed having sex with Edith, but he was tired, and running late. He decided to see how he felt after shaving, though guessed she would have gone back downstairs to get his breakfast.

  To his surprise she was still sitting on the bed when he came back into the bedroom, and more surprised to find he still had a touch-on.

  ‘Edith?’ he said, coming to her side. He put his hand on her head and pushed his thick fingers through her hair.

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘I’ll get your meal,’ she said, but didn’t move.

  Crouching on his hams in front of her he put his hand on her knee. She wasn’t wearing tights and the flesh was smooth and soft, and contact with it excited him a little, and yet more on sliding his hand between her thighs. She didn’t move as he reached in further under her skirt, other than to ease her legs apart. Now his erection was full on, and discovering that she wasn’t wearing pants, he became so hard he ached. She sighed as his fingers eased her apart and slid inside. She was wet.

  After a few moments he stood and untied his bathrobe, while she twisted herself round on the bed and wriggled her skirt up over her waist. She pulled him on top of herself and helped guide him in as though not risking him changing his mind.

  He would be late getting to work.

  11

  WORK WAS THE LAST THING Pyle felt like when he arrived at the Yard and, knowing there was a lot to get through, he was not sure he would make it to the end of his shift, unless something demanding broke. With luck there’d be a quiet stretch and he could get his head down. Tony Simmons, the night-duty officer, wouldn’t mind as he would be off visiting the nurse he was giving one.

  Moving along the corridor towards his office, Pyle heard his name called as he passed an open d
oor. Going back to the door, he found Detective Chief Superintendent Ernie Jeymer standing by his desk putting papers into his briefcase. The office was the same size as most along the left-hand side of the corridor and with only one desk.

  ‘Evening, guv,’ Pyle said.

  There was no greeting from Jeymer. He was a big, brusque man with a grey and brown stubble beard and spiky eyebrows. He tended to get upset if he wasn’t kept in the picture, only he soon got over his anger. Pyle didn’t know if the hierarchy ever upset this man for, unique among policemen, he didn’t complain about those above him. He was the sort of detective who accepted that senior ranks were there because they knew better, and he expected the same response from those below himself.

  ‘What’s happening with those villains you nicked this morning, Fred?’

  ‘Still assisting with our inquiries, guv,’ Pyle explained. ‘I’ve only just come on.’

  ‘One of their solicitors has been trying to reach you – Gladwell. He’s threatening a writ of habeas corpus unless Terry Clark’s either charged or released. Silly bastard.’

  ‘Some chance, the way Clark was shaping, guv.’

  ‘Gladwell sounds like he ought to read PACE – he’d know how we can treat suspects then. Why upset him.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Keep me posted, Fred.’ He turned away.

  Pyle stopped at the dcis’ office to talk to Tony Simmons. Trevor Watson was there on his own, sounding irritable.

  ‘Well, stay there on watch,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll try and get someone out to take over… I can’t say when. Just stay put.’ He snapped the phone down.

  ‘You got shares in this little firm, guv?’

  ‘Didn’t show much of a dividend last year, Fred.’ Watson clucked his tongue in disgust. ‘I was supposed to be taking the old lady out this evening.’

  ‘What’s it, her birthday?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Watson said.

  ‘Is Tony in yet?’

  ‘No. It’s him who’s holding me up.’

  A uniformed messenger, one of the battalion that trudged around the Yard, came in to collect the ‘posts’ from Watson’s desk. The dci snatched a pink folder from the top before it was borne away with, ‘Not that one, son’. He passed it to Pyle. ‘Jack Lynn’s CRO file. Looks as though he’s worth spending time on.’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ Pyle said, believing that about all villains, apart from the one-off criminals who got caught, learned their lesson, and never offended again. Lynn was certain to be having something, or would have had something since the last entry on his CRO computer. If not he would be plotting something. Most felons, no matter what lengths society went to in its attempt to reform them, were recidivists and always reverted to type. There were never enough man-hours to search at random through the computers to track them, you had to wait for something to go off, then dig out the best prospect. Random checks might even get him into a lot of trouble over the infringements of civil liberties. There was always someone ready to shout ‘foul’ on behalf of villains. Pyle wasn’t that concerned about their rights, believing most gave those up when they went into crime, while detectives could be trusted to keep a sense of proportion in such matters.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Jeymer came into the office and dropped a pile of pastel-coloured folders on Watson’s desk. ‘Get someone to look at those. And don’t forget that request from Beckenham. Someone needs to go out there to assist them. I’ll leave it to you, Trevor.’

  ‘Sounds like something for the Regional Crime Squad.’

  ‘Why give them the satisfaction?’ Jeymer started out. ‘I’ll be in the Tank for half an hour,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Night, guv,’ Pyle said.

  Watson turned to answer the phone on dci Simmons’ desk with, ‘Chief inspectors’ office. Watson…’ He waited, glancing round at Pyle. ‘How you fixed for going out to Beckenham, Fred?’ Watson turned back to the phone before Pyle could reply. ‘Hello. Hello… must be someone didn’t like the sound of my voice.’ He replaced the phone. ‘They’ve got a couple of robberies they’re getting nowhere with.’

  ‘I’m not exactly scratching for work, guv.’

  ‘Well, see if you can’t do something to help.’

  The prospect of traipsing out to Beckenham didn’t inspire Pyle.

  When he reached the dis’ office the place was deserted and the phone on his desk was ringing. On answering it Alex Gladwell, Terry Clark’s solicitor, identified himself. ‘Oh, Alex,’ he said, full of bonhomie. ‘I was about to ring you…’ Nothing was further from his mind.

  ‘What is the current position with my client?’

  ‘He’s at Peckham police station, helping with inquiries into the robbery at Barclay’s Bank in Lewisham last week.’

  ‘Has he been charged?’

  ‘I haven’t charged him.’

  ‘In that case you’ll be releasing him – unless you’re dragging him before a magistrate?’ the solicitor said.

  There were no legal grounds for the police to detain a suspect unless charged, other than under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, but few villains knew what the true situation was or, if they did, were in no position to enforce their rights from a police cell. Although their solicitors knew, often it wasn’t in their client’s interest, or their own, to force the issue. Pyle knew this solicitor wouldn’t push the point.

  ‘He’s assisting us with our inquiries,’ he said.

  ‘Voluntarily?’ the solicitor asked like he was going through the motions.

  ‘I’d say so.’ He opened his briefcase and lifted out papers.

  ‘Taken at six in the morning, and held for fourteen hours? Come on, Fred, you can’t be serious. Is that reasonable? Why hasn’t Mr Clark been allowed access to his solicitor?’

  For a moment he thought Gladwell was talking about a third party.

  ‘He made no request to contact you.’

  ‘I’m putting you on notice, Inspector…’ he paused as if not remembering his name, ‘Pyle. Unless my client is either charged or released, I’m going to apply to the court to order him to appear first thing –’

  ‘That’ll be perfect, I’d say.’ Pyle was calling the brief’s bluff. ‘The court will inform the custody officer at Peckham police station. He’ll do as ordered.’

  ‘Ah.’ The solicitor’s tone changed. ‘I see. Then you are charging my client?’

  ‘There’s a good chance.’

  ‘I’d like to see him if that’s possible.’

  ‘S’not a problem…’ Pyle paused. ‘If he wishes to see you.’

  ‘Between ourselves, Fred, what do you think?’

  Pyle had the sort of relationship with some solicitors where they could ask that sort of question and get the right answer, or could ask what was to be done for help. Alex Gladwell was one such, but over the phone their relationship remained correct. That’s how it had to remain as officers from the Complaints Investigation Bureau often listened in on the conversations of detectives who had complaints against them.

  ‘Well, thank you for your trouble, inspector. I appreciate it.’ Gladwell made it sound as though he had given him all he needed.

  When he replaced the phone, Pyle found ds Lethridge by the desk, looking like he had been on the piss all day, rather than sleeping like any sensible detective on the nightshift.

  ‘Eric,’ he greeted. ‘In early, aren’t you?’ Leaving him to conduct the interrogations that morning, Pyle hadn’t expected him in until around midnight, depending what time he got through. ‘What’s the situation down at Peckham?’

  ‘Clark stuck up an alibi. Don’t amount to much – his old lady and some villains.’

  Pyle scoffed. No one would believe them: wives and friends of villains were liars for sure!

  ‘The lad with the shooter was obviously going after something. But it doesn’t loo
k like the Lewisham blag was down to him.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that.’ Pyle had other plans for Clifford Harding, which putting him into the Lewisham robbery would mess up. ‘What about that lad John’s squad collared?’

  Lethridge shook his large head. ‘He’s not shaping at all.’

  ‘Maybe we can find something else for him. It seems a pity to spend time on a villain only to have to let him go. Round up some of the lads, Eric. See if we can’t catch that one John missed. S’no hurry. I want a word with the chief about Harding.’

  ‘You think Brian Finch might be a prospect, Fred?’ dci Simmons asked, pushing aside the huge pile of statements he was reading.

  ‘Make it look like we were winning, wouldn’t it?’ Finch was the fourth villain on the Method Index raid. ‘The way he scarpered to avoid John Redvers’ lot, I’d say so. Someone out of Paddington nick must have given him the bell.’

  ‘A fact of life, Fred, I mean, what can you do, complain to CIB? I daresay we’ve all done one a favour like that sometime.’

  ‘Still pisses you off, guv,’ Pyle said. There had been a number of times when he had earned from villains for just such a warning phone call.

  ‘Give the local cid a miss when you turn him over this time,’ dci Simmons advised. ‘Look up that girlfriend of his as well, Fred. He might have slid in there.’

  ‘What about Harding – we having a deal with him?’

  ‘Fine, if you want to get your collar felt.’

  That was like the official warning. Pyle wasn’t going to let it go at that. He waited.