On the Loose(49)

Renfield: No.

Faraday: But you at least know who you’re looking for, yes?

Renfield: Not exactly.

Faraday: What do you mean, not exactly? Policing should be considered an exact science. Either you’re close to making an arrest, or you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re doing. Which is it?

Renfield: We’re…

Renfield struggled with his conscience. He knew how much trouble he could make for the PCU, but was suddenly loath to do so. They had offered him unexpected support at a time when his career could have been destroyed.

Renfield: … very close to making an arrest.

Faraday: Oh. Well, then. Good. But you must let me know if anything goes wrong. I have to make reports too, you know.

Faraday was clearly disappointed that this was all he could offer, but was forced to accept the meagre information. Renfield signed off wondering how long he could hide the truth.

As the sergeant sat on the corner of Delaney’s bed in the gathering gloom, he thought about his hopeless situation. If he lied to Faraday, he would be exposed when the PCU failed to deliver. If he told the truth, news of his secret disclosures would soon reach the unit. If he asked Longbright on a date and she discovered that he was ratting on his colleagues behind her back, she would never talk to him again. Forget it, Fat Boy, he told himself. She’s too good for you anyway.

He had always wanted to do the right thing, but how many times had it placed him in a spot like this? It was the wayward guys who made friends, the womanizers, the hard drinkers, the ones who bent the law around themselves. The officers at his old station had nicknamed him Captain Bringdown because of his determination to play by the rules. The PCU had merely made a harmless literary joke out of his name before accepting him for who he was. Yes, he wanted to do the right thing, but perhaps this time the right thing was something different.


Meanwhile, DS Longbright found herself opposite the great letters sculpted in white concrete that spelled out the team named ‘Arsenal.’ The new football grounds filled the skyline of the street like a great spaceship. Opposite, the remaining rows of shabby Victorian terraces stretched away uphill, from Drayton Park toward the horrors of North London’s crack-addled Blackstock Road.

Longbright checked the ID card, but spotted the builders’ outlet before needing to search for street numbers. She could hardly have missed it; picked out in the Gunners’ shades of red and white, K&B Decorating stood in homage to the team grounds that had existed in the area since 1913. A muscular boy with strong Grecian features was carrying in a delivery of planks and dropping them noisily inside the store. The ground floor was a confusion of sawdust and shouting.

‘It’s funny,’ the Greek boy told her. ‘Terry ain’t been in for more than a week, ’as ’e? Nobody knows where he is.’

‘Can you give me an exact day when you last saw him?’ ‘Monday before last, something like that. It’ll be on his work sheet.’

‘Didn’t any of you think to talk to the police?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

‘The police?’ He almost laughed in her face. ‘Listen, love, the blokes here go a bit mad every now and again, then come back and pick up where they left off and nobody mentions it. Not worth going to the police about.’

‘They get paid by the number of days they do?’

‘Yeah, so if they don’t come in, it’s up to them, innit.’

‘Anyone been around to Delaney’s flat to check on him?’

‘Terry don’t like people going round there. His missus kicked him out of the house and I think he’s a bit ashamed of the place he’s renting. I told him he wouldn’t get back on his feet if he kept taking time off.’

‘So he’s done it before. Has he been here long?’

‘About four years. He had a couple of days off the last week he was here. Is he in trouble or what?’

‘You could say that. I need to know everything you know about him. If you can’t remember right now, that’s fine, call me first thing tomorrow morning.’ Longbright gave him one of the cards Bryant had printed up for everyone at Mornington Crescent, an odd little art deco number in black and silver that looked more like a calling card for an antiques store. She had crossed out the old address and hand-written the new one.

‘He’s not been hurt, has he?’

‘Why, you think he’s done something to deserve it?’

‘Terry? You’re joking.’ The young man called over his shoulder. ‘Oi, Jess, tell this lady what Terry’s like.’

‘One of the nicest blokes I’ve ever met,’ replied Jess. ‘If he was a bird I’d marry him.’ They all laughed.