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He spent the afternoon at a Senior Officers meeting listening to a ‘management consultant’ talk drivel then tried to look interested as they later discussed the ‘burning issues’. He hadn’t wanted to go but he had no choice. He left no wiser than when he went in.
It was almost early evening as he sat back in his chair pushing the last of the blackberry jam Danish pastry into his mouth. He chewed it furiously for several seconds, tried to wash it down with a swig of his macchiato ‘to go’ and mumbled between swallowing: “Well? What do you think? Is it him?”
Degsy leant forward in his chair, looking intently at the image of the bearded man with the hat. Several seconds passed. “As far as I’m concerned, Boss,” he said eventually. “That’s him. I’m pretty certain that’s the guy I saw at Dickie Trimble’s do. That’s Nickson.” He looked at Thurstan. He’d expected him to be happier.
Thurstan looked back at him. “I know. You’d think I could at least crack a smile, but I’ve had time to think about it. Alright, it confirms our suspicions which, let’s face it, are based on some blurry images, odd money transactions and the fact he’s failed to contact us following our visit to his parents. But it doesn’t take us significantly further forward in terms of actual hard evidence.” Degsy looked as if he was about to say something but Thurstan ignored him. “Yes, we can now put him close to the scene of a murder, within minutes of the crime taking place, but we’ve got no DNA, no fingerprints, no weapon, no eyewitnesses. In fact, we’ve got nothing whatsoever. Not even the bloody registration number of that car! Although, to be honest, I suspect it wouldn’t help us either; probably false plates. In addition, we’re not being allowed to investigate that particular crime and in relation to the murder we are being allowed to investigate, well ...we haven’t even got that much.” He couldn’t help letting a half-laugh escape. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“It’s a bugger, I know, Boss,” Degsy offered lamely.
“A slight understatement I think Derek. Anyway, onwards and upwards ... hopefully.” He pointed at the large buff folder Degsy had placed earlier on the chair beside him. “Is that my hotels list?”
“Yes, Boss, everything you asked for, and it’s bang up to date as of today including anything flagging up an anomaly with voters checks, liaison with Royal Mail or credit and Intel checks. Also, all addresses verified as rental. As you said with those, people move in and out of them all the time so it wouldn’t be unusual for names not to match up but they still need checking.” Pausing, he ran his hand over his eyes then apologetically said: “And this is just the lists from the last two weeks.” Standing up, he placed the stack of A4 sheets onto Thurstan’s desk.
The DCI dragged the folder across the table. “Where’s the rest?”
“Well, I thought it would be best to start from now and work backwards through the month, Boss. Gandalph has the remaining anomaly files, as well as the full guest lists. I think he’s made an armchair out of them.” Degsy sat down again. “He’s not in the list, Boss, not under his own name anyway.” He looked weary. “Do you want to go through it now?”
Thurstan shot his DS a glance and decided to take pity on him; he’d had enough himself. “No, I think we’ll call it a day. Go home to the wife and kids, Derek. We’ll look at this tomorrow.”
Degsy gave him a tired smile of thanks. “Have a nice night, Boss,” he said and left to sign out.
The late shift had come on duty and were quietly busying themselves with various tasks having been briefed by their supervisor. The day crew had already gone home, or wherever it was they went when not working, and Thurstan wandered through the office to ‘hit the book’.
“Off home, Boss?” Lizzie said as she walked past carrying a stack of bulky folders.
Thurstan looked up, temporarily startled. “What? Oh... yeah... I’m... er... I’m done, Liz. Enough is enough.”
“Well, drive carefully and I hope you have a nice night,” she replied, flashing him the smile he’d come to admire. Then she turned thoughtfully and walked off across the office.
“I’ll try,” he called after her. She’d sounded as if she’d meant it, he thought. He stood for a moment, watching her traverse the floor, then turned and ambled off towards the lifts and home.
Within a minute he strode briskly back towards his desk.
“I thought you were going, Boss?” Iqbal enquired as Thurstan shot past him.
“So did I,” he called back over his shoulder, entering his office.
Five minutes later, carrying a large buff folder under his arm, he stepped out into a fine drizzle and strode across the HQ car park towards his car.
On his driveway, he took out his mobile and used an app to turn on the house interior lights and SoundTouch music system. Grabbing the folder and a carrier bag of shopping from the rear seat, he engaged in a short trivial conversation with a neighbour while he found his front door key. The car’s indicators flashed. Entering the hallway, the sounds of classical music washed over him. He wasn’t an ardent fan, but he knew what he liked. The CD ‘Classics from Adverts’ fulfilled all his needs in this area.
He dumped the folder and shopping on the table and headed for the fridge, took out a bottle from his selection of Belgian beers and poured its golden brown contents into the large, bulbous, stemmed glass he’d bought on a trip to Bruges. Two long mouthfuls later, he took his coat and jacket off, hung them on the hooks in the hall, opened another beer and topped up his glass. Stripping off his tie and shirt he headed for the shower.
Sat in a T-shirt and shorts, he downed his knife and fork on the empty plate and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. He was pleased to admit his skills were improving. Whilst ready meals were not quite a thing of the past, he found cooking from ‘fresh’ interesting, entertaining and therapeutic, particularly with a couple of beers. The benefits of watching TV cookery programmes were starting to become evident.
He placed the plate in the sink, opened the cupboard next to the fridge, took out the bottle of Bushmills Black Bush and the Braemar crystal tumbler, added two ice cubes from the ice dispenser and poured himself a large tot. Sitting down at the table, he dragged the buff folder towards him and took a swig of the whiskey. Prefab Sprout sang quietly in the background as he began to sift through the information before him. No rush. As always, he had all night.