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DS Drayton was looking forward to eating undisturbed as he walked back into the main office, carrying his ham salad sandwich and ‘latte to go’.
“Sarge! Phone call for you. Sergeant Tranter, St. Anne Street.” The Foetus held his arm up. Degsy strolled over to him, took the handset and said:
“Sarge, nice to see you the other day. How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been fine, young Derek,” the ‘Sarge’ replied, “and it’s Bill. We’re both the same rank now. About time you got used to it.”
“Well, old habits die hard, Bill. What can I do for you?” Degsy took a mouthful of coffee.
Those who incurred his displeasure knew Sgt Tranter as ‘Billy Tarantula’. A sobriquet he was not unpleased with. Sometimes lessons had to be learned the hard way, and if Bill Tranter thought it necessary, then that’s how you learned them. Once, after parading for duty on ‘mornings’, Degsy had engaged in idle chat with a member of the section going off duty and was late getting to the front desk to collect the radio he needed for patrol. Bill was waiting for him and saw through his feeble excuse in an instant. “Well, if you can’t be arsed to collect your radio, then I can’t be arsed to give you one. Now go on, ‘fuck off’ onto your beat. You’ve got a whistle.”
As Degsy trudged miserably out of the station, Bill called after him. “And be at Broadway shops at nine. I’ll peg you there.” Degsy was, and Bill had signed his notebook then handed him a radio with a brief: “Lesson learned, I hope.”
If you did your job he was no problem. If you were a shirker, heaven help you.
“I’ve sent a young bobby across to see you,” Bill said. “He should be there any minute. Young Mike Bartlett, he’s a good lad. He’s got some information to tell you about the MacMahon job. You might know already, but then again you might not. It’s been bothering him for a while, so I’ll let him explain when he gets there, but go easy on him. As I said, he’s a good lad, keen as mustard. Reminds me of you, when you were a probationer.”
Degsy laughed. “He must be amazing then! Ok, I’ll be nice to him. Mike Bartlett, you say?”
“Yes, and don’t be telling him what I said. I need to keep him on his toes. Can’t be having him getting overconfident at this stage of his career. Look what happened to you.” It was Bill’s turn to laugh now. “No, if he turns out half as good as you, Derek, he’ll still be a good un.”
“I won’t let him know there’s a soft heart in there somewhere, Bill. Your secret’s safe with me,” Degsy replied, smiling broadly.
“You’d better not, Derek. I know where you live.” They both laughed then said their farewells.
Derek finished his coffee as he ate his sandwich in the quiet room. He’d just polished off the last mouthful of ham and salad and was brushing the crumbs off his trousers when The Foetus leaned through the doorway and said: “Apparently I’ve been mistaken for the receptionist. There’s a bobby here to see you, Sarge.”
He looked up as Constable Bartlett entered the room. A smart-looking young officer; apprehension and awe for the ‘big boys’ of the MIT marking him out as a probationer. Sitting him down, Degsy listened as Bartlett recounted his seeing the guest at the Apartment Hotel filming with his mobile phone.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think much of it at the time but it just kept bothering me and Sergeant Tranter must have noticed and, well, here I am. I just thought what if he’d been on the balcony filming at the time of the murder, but hadn’t realised what went on? The Sarge said it was better late than never.”
Degsy smiled at him, “No, that’s great. We haven’t been able to make contact with a couple of the guests yet. The fourth-floor balcony you say?” The Officer nodded.
Thurstan walked in. “Right, are we all here?” he said as he entered. “Sorry, Derek, am I interrupting anything?”
“No, Boss, we’re finished.” Degsy stood up taking a pace sideways. “This is Constable Mike Bartlett from St. Anne Street. He’s just given me some really good info about seeing a guest at the Apartment Hotel doing some filming of the scene when we turned up there. He thinks it’s possible he might have recorded something earlier on.”
Mike Bartlett stood up. Being unsure whether, in the presence of a Senior Officer, he should put his helmet on or not he decided he would just fumble with it instead.
Thurstan advanced upon him, hand outstretched. “DCI Baddeley,” he said. Bartlett shook his hand. Thurstan continued, “Well, that’s good. Nice to see someone using their initiative. You’re one of Sergeant Tranter’s section, aren’t you? Make sure you listen carefully to what he has to tell you. Knows his stuff, your Sergeant, excellent man.” He glanced around the room. “Are we ready to view the videos, Derek?”
“Yes, Boss,” Degsy replied.
“Right. Well, let’s not detain the Officer any longer. I’m sure he’s itching to get back out on the street.” He smiled. “Thanks again for letting us know. I think it could be very significant.”
Degsy escorted the Officer to the main office exit, chatting as they walked. As Mike Bartlett disappeared along the corridor Lizzie came in. “Sorry, Degs, I had to go to the loo and then the cleaner got chatting. I thought I was never going to get away.”
When they’d run through the composite of the CCTV from the area of the scene, Thurstan said: “Just play that again Derek. The bit two or three clips back. But this time can we slow it right down?”
Lizzie sat forward on her chair. “Yeah, I thought I saw something right at the end of it, just before the camera position changed.”
Degsy replayed the section but now in slow, slow time.
“What’s that? Re-run it.” Thurstan screwed up his eyes and pointed to the screen. “That’s it! Stop!”
They all peered at the screen which now showed a colour still picture. It was slightly blurry, but it was unmistakably the image of a street cleaner pushing a cart.