The reception area looked sad and dusty. It hadn’t been used for a while, even before the station closed. It was part of a general trend in Derbyshire, and everywhere else in the country. In the past year, front desks had been closed at police stations across the county. Heanor, New Mills, Chapel-en-le-Frith, Belper and others. Even some of the larger inquiry offices like Matlock had their opening hours reduced. Members of the public were supposed to stay at home and make a phone call.
Though the desks and chairs were pushed aside, stacked in a corner or lying in broken heaps, some recognisable features remained in the offices behind the front desk, including what Cooper had hoped for – a rogues’ gallery on the back wall. Photos of all the villains in Lowbridge were pinned together on a large corkboard. Any new PC coming into the station could have studied the gallery to help him identify the characters he was likely to meet out on the street.
‘This is what I remember,’ said Cooper.
‘Who was it you were looking for?’ asked Walker.
‘Name of Gibson.’
‘Oh, there were two of those buggers. At least.’
‘There was one called Ryan.’
‘Yes, he’s here somewhere.’
But Walker hesitated and looked at him curiously.
‘You could just have got him off the PNC or the intelligence system, couldn’t you?’ he said. ‘You have everything on computer these days. At least, that’s what the last sergeant here kept on telling me.’
‘Not quite everything,’ said Cooper. He tapped the side of his head. ‘Some things are up here.’
‘Damn right. I’m glad to hear there are still a few who think that way. It makes me feel a bit less of a dinosaur.’
‘Not you.’
‘Oh, yes. Me. A right old brontosaurus. I was never exactly the type to be intelligence led.’
Cooper laughed. For some years now, ‘intelligence-led policing’ had been one of the buzz phrases echoing around meetings of Senior Management Teams up and down the country. It was said to be one of the most efficient and cost-effective ways of tackling crime. But intelligence-led policing required people sitting in front of computer screens in a back office. Officers like PC Stanley Walker could never have done that job.
‘Yes, Ryan Gibson,’ he said. ‘Here he is.’
The Gibson in the photograph was in his twenties. Short-cropped hair, a sullen expression, the blue ink of a tattoo visible on the side of his neck. He had the look of a young man who’d been in a fight or two and had quite enjoyed it. When he saw that look, it always raised a question in Cooper’s mind about the way the young man had been brought up. What had happened to him as a child that made him see violence as acceptable, just a part of normal life?
‘Our Ryan did a stint in the army, you know,’ said Walker. ‘He saw some service overseas, but missed out on all the major conflicts. I don’t reckon he had what you’d call a distinguished career exactly.’
‘Is there an address for him?’
‘It should be on the back of the photo. Yes, here we are.’ Walker laughed. ‘It’s lucky the Data Protection Act doesn’t apply to us, eh?’
‘Yes, lucky.’
Cooper wrote the address down and studied the photograph again. Gibson would be a good few years older now. Some men changed. They matured, settled down, had families of their own and learned to take their responsibilities seriously. Others never did. Or never could.
‘For me, he always had that look,’ said Walker. ‘Do you know what I mean? The look of a man whose face was bound to appear on the news bulletins one day, after he was arrested for doing something appalling. His neighbours would say he’d “kept himself to himself”.’
‘And he ended up with his face immortalised in a custody suite photograph.’
‘He tried to be too clever. Ryan decided to get involved in a blackmail racket. It wasn’t his style. And definitely not his brother’s. Too much brain work involved.’
‘Oh, yes. the brother.’
‘Sean. He’s on the board too.’
There was a distinct similarity of features. But Sean was younger, still in his teens when the picture was taken. Unlike his brother, he didn’t look strong. Despite his youth, his face was becoming gaunt and his eyes shadowed and sunken.
‘Drugs,’ said Walker. ‘Sean started with a bit of glue sniffing when he was about twelve or thirteen, and progressed from there. If you can call it progress.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He had a couple of spells inside. Short sentences. Nothing that took him out of circulation for too long, but just enough time for him to make a few contacts among the real criminal fraternity. He never worked for a living that I know of. The army certainly wouldn’t have had him.’