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Thurstan took it from his drawer, every day. Every day, nothing happened. He’d spoken to Norman who’d said he’d speak to someone else then called back to say somebody would be in touch. He’d heard nothing more.
In the meantime, Donny Mostyn had been put on the back burner. The Matrix had a few results but there was nothing for him. He’d thrown a small team together to keep it ticking over. As for the ‘suicide’ at the computer, he was getting more pressure to wind it up, deliver it to the Coroner for the inevitable verdict. He was dragging his heels and he knew the Chief knew it. He was expecting a call soon.
All on the Nickson front had gone quiet. It didn’t mean both syndicates weren’t busy. Life went on: Court appearances and Coroners. For some, there were courses, for others annual leave. For him: staff appraisals and management meetings, statistics and ... more meetings.
Then it happened. He’d stayed behind to get rid of some admin stuff and the phone rang; the one belonging to the dead face that stared at him from the whiteboard.
Tentatively, he picked it up. “Hello?”
A short silence then a voice: “Who’s that?”
There wasn’t much of a decision to be made, he didn’t know who to pretend to be so he’d have to come clean. “DCI Baddeley, Merseyside Police.” Silence. “Hello? Hello!”
The voice softly said, “Well, here’s a turn up for the books. DCI Baddeley. How you doing?”
“I’m fine. Who’s this?”
“My name’s Chris Nickson.”
For some reason, the DCI’s arms went to goosebumps and he felt the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
“You still there, Mister Baddeley?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Would it spoil things if I asked you what you wanted?”
Nicks smiled. “I shouldn’t think so. Why have you got that phone?”
“Does it belong to a friend of yours?”
“Yes, it does.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Don and before you ask I don’t know his surname.”
Thurstan began to relax. There was something about Nickson’s voice that reassured him, somehow. “I didn’t even know he was called Don until you called.”
Nicks lit a cigarette. “So, are you going to answer my question? Why’ve you got that phone?” He put the cigarette on the ashtray and took a swig from a bottle of caramel cider.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you ... your friend is dead.”
“How?” His senses sharpened. It wasn’t the news he wanted but he’d begun to expect the worst.
“I’m not in a position to tell you at present. You know the score. Where are you now?”
Nicks couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, like I’m going to tell you that.”
“Aren’t you worried about us tracing this call?”
“Nope. I already know you can’t.”
It was Thurstan’s turn to smile. “If you’re back in Liverpool, check out the Echo, whenever you’re ready. ‘Southport Cottage murder’. It might help you.” He hesitated. “So, you’ve come back to run rings around me again, Christopher?”
Nicks knew what he was doing. “Nope. I came back for Don. A bit too late it seems.” He dragged on the cigarette, blew the smoke out and said, “Keep the phone on. I’ll be back in touch, maybe soon, I don’t know yet.” He cancelled the call.
Thurstan stared at the screen. Well, the bugger was back in Liverpool and that was enough to get the ball rolling again. Jacket on, he slipped the magic phone into his pocket and locked the others in his desk. A check of his wrist. He’d just catch last orders at the Baltic. A pint of Guinness was in order.