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“What’d you have for tea, last night?” Simon was restless.
“Curry .”
“Where d’yer go?”
“New place on Ranelagh Street.”
“What was it like?”
“It was good.”
The silence returned.
Simon took his hanky out and blew his nose, examined the contents and returned it to his pocket. “I had sausage and mash.”
Nicks knew he’d have to feign interest. “Any good?”
“It was ok. Burnt the sausages and fucked the gravy up but it was still edible.”
Silence again, but not for long.
“You ever been in a political party?”
“No,” Nicks rested his head against the passenger window. “Being in the Police, I wasn’t allowed and if I had, I would’ve probably spent most of my time thinking: Is this what it was like to be a member of the Nazi Party?” Fighting his natural taciturnity, he offered, “What about you?”
Simon glanced at him then gazed out of the window. “No.” He shifted position and sighed. “You got any wine gums left?”
Nicks fished in his pocket, producing a small, tattered, white paper bag. “Don’t eat the red ones.”
“Why? What’s up with them?
“Nothing, just I like them.”
Si grabbed a handful, dropped some back in the bag then sat, quietly, sucking the flavour from each before chewing.
An hour later, he sat balancing a yellow and black plastic pen on his top lip. Nicks threw him a brief look then continued to tidy the contents of the glove box. “Don’t break that, it’s the only one we’ve got.”
Si mumbled back. “How am I going to do that?”
“I don’t know. You’ll find a way.”
Silence. Nicks transferred a notebook, pizza pamphlets and a couple of guide ‘books’ into the centre console. He waved several menus in the air. “Why do you keep putting this shit in here? You know I’m going to need to get to the weapon box at some point.”
“They come in handy.” The pen wobbled between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at that. Looks like it’s bendy.”
Nicks shook his head in disbelief. “Two of these places have closed and this one’s shit. We said we’d never go there again.” He opened the door, grabbing a handful of empty sandwich boxes and crisp packets from where he’d shovelled them into the door storage. “I’m getting rid,” he said then ambled over to the nearby bin.
On his return, he found Simon testing the tensile strength of the biro. “For fucks sake, Si. What did I tell you?” He snatched it and dropped it in with the notebook.
Ten minutes later, Simon sat forward and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Nicks, reclined, peered at him with one eye, tutted and tried to make himself comfy.
“You said something, earlier on. What was it?”
Nicks sighed. “About what?”
“I can’t remember exactly but did you have another handler before me?”
He shook his head again. “Yes, there have been others. Why? Are you jealous?”
Simon gave him what he hoped was a withering stare. “Fuck off, mister wonderful. It’s just you’ve never mentioned it before.”
“I’m sorry if you’re not the first but if it’s any consolation you’re definitely the best.” A little smile escaped.
“What happened to them?”
“One of them left me for a younger Leveller. They said he’d been reallocated but I knew the truth.”
“You’re not taking this seriously. How many others?”
“Just the one.”
“What happened?
“He died.”
“How?”
“On a job. And if you want me to be serious then I will be. I don’t want to talk about it,” he replied tersely.
“What was his name?”
“Alvin.”
“Fucking Alvin! What kind of name is that?”
Nicks readjusted his seat and lay flat, his eyes closed. “The one his parents gave him, now for pity’s sake read a guidebook or a pizza menu and give me some peace.”
The radio crackled.
“Wife and kids in the car and they’re off, off, off. Towards the main road.”
“Alpha two, with visual.” Silence.
Nicks muttered and sat upright. Quickly, he applied the spray plaster and blew on his fingers.
Slipping on the forensic gloves, he removed the weapons, gingerly checking the contents of one in particular; a fast-acting paralysing drug. If he got it right, within seconds his target would still be awake but unable to move. They’d wanted him conscious and aware. Locked and loaded, he carefully placed both in his leg pockets and grabbed the picklocks.
“Alpha two. She’s on the motorway, heading towards the M57 and Manchester.”
“Yes, yes. Echo one. Sitrep.”
“Echo one, he’s alone at his desk in the back room, on the computer... Elvis, Elvis.”
****
The forensic team walked to and fro: blue suits, white boots, purple gloves. Thurstan leant against his car and accepted a mug of tea from Degsy.
“Where did you manage to rustle this up from?”
The DI pointed to an elderly woman holding a tray full of assorted cups and mugs. A small queue of uniforms had formed in front of her. “Missus Jenkins, over there. Nice lady. There’s some biscuits if you’d like?”
“What sort?” His enthusiasm had returned.
“Bourbon and rich tea.”
He shook his head. “Not keen.” He waved to Mrs Jenkins. She nodded back.
He took a sip. Redbush, he was impressed. “Well, no signs of forced entry, single bullet to the right temple with what the firearms chap thinks may be a Webley, gun’s still in his hand, and there’s a nasty email threatening to expose him, on the computer screen. Would appear cut and dried. So, why are we here?”
He turned to the Area DI, who stood alongside him. “I know you wanted to ask me that. The reason is ... he’s got ... well, had connections and that’s why we were told to attend, but the reason why I’m definitely going to take it over is because there’s something about it ...” He took a breath. “I don’t know ... there’s something not quite right. It’s too obvious for my liking and I just need to do a bit of delving.”
He saw the quizzical look. “It’s a long story, Toby, and I don’t want to bore you with it. Suffice it to say you may thank me one day. I suspect there may be some background interference to be dealt with as well and I assure you, it’s not what you need at present. You’ve got enough on your plate.” He gave him a sympathetic smile.
Toby nodded. “My idiot new boss? He’s only been here a month and he’s doing my head in already. If you want it you can have it, Thurstan. I’ve no strong feelings about it either way.”
Inside, a suited-up Sammy chatted to Slim, the Crime Scene Manager. The body remained slumped in the high backed, brown leather swivel chair. Blood spattered the wall next to it.
“Well, I think we’re on top of it, Sammy. We’ve bagged up the weapon and ammo. All his computers are being seized. I’ve had a team check upstairs, nothing untoward, so there’s a couple of Matrix search teams up there now. Significant finds? Two laptops, one tablet, two vibrators and a bog-standard dildo. Oh and some usual everyday porn. We’ve taken all the photos we can think of and he’s due to be shipped off to the mortuary shortly.”
Sammy nodded satisfaction and patted Slim’s arm. “Great stuff, what would we do without you?” He walked off but stopped to call. “How’s the diet going, by the way?”
Slim didn’t look up from the clipboard he was signing for a colleague. “Up yours, Sammy.”
Outside, at the tape barrier, a dark Mercedes 4x4 pulled up. A woman got out and spoke with two PCSOs. Suddenly, she began screaming and a struggle broke out, the officers dragging her back beyond the tape.
Degsy glanced up. “Shit! The wife, I suppose. You or me?”
Thurstan watched them trying to calm the distraught woman. It was never a part of the job he felt comfortable with but, as the SIO, he felt it his responsibility. He handed Degsy his mug. “I’ll do it,” he said, sadly, and began to strip off his forensic suit.
Back in the office, he closed the door. “What do you think, Derek?” Degsy took a seat.
“On the face of it, it’s a suicide. The fact he’s got connections who want to smooth the waters doesn’t necessarily mean any more than they’re looking to minimise publicity and make it easier on the wife and kids. And the fact the gun’s not registered and his wife has no knowledge doesn’t mean to say it wasn’t his. I’d say it’s all down to the post mortem and toxicology.”
Thurstan turned on his computer. “Granted, but if it had been you, what would you have done before the final act?”
Degsy smiled. “I’d have wiped the computer and any laptops I’d used.”
He typed in his password. “Exactly, and the emails. And maybe left a note claiming secret deep depression, something of the sort.”
“Do you want me to get Gandalph to take a look at the computer stuff first? Make sure we know what we’re dealing with?”
“Good idea. I was going to suggest we keep a close eye on them whilst IT are checking; we don’t know how high this fella’s connections go and I don’t want any ‘sleight of hand’ going on.” He shook his head, tutted and leant back in his chair:
“Maybe I’m seeing ghosts and shadows where there are none but I know Nickson’s back, I can feel it in my gut and our ‘suicide’ has the potential to be on his ‘things to do today’ list.”