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Red Ron had done a few things to personalize it since he first came to the job about eight months ago: a framed photo of his wife Carol stood on the desk, and a print of Constable’s The Lock hung on the wall. The glass cabinet was full of trophies and photos of Red Ron with various police athletics teams, from rowing to archery. He looked fit and was rumored to be in training for a marathon. He was also rumored to keep a bottle of fine single malt in his bottom drawer, but A
“DI Cabbot,” he greeted her, glancing over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Please sit down. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A
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“Yes, sir.”
“The chief constable got in touch with me last night – just as I was settling down to my di
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“Because I thought his behavior was suspicious, sir. And I was looking for a missing boy.”
“A boy he had already told you was due back that very day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“Why not?”
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“All very speculative on your part, DI Cabbot.”
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“Hmm.” Red Ron took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a bad business,” he said. “We’ve had the press all over us, and needless to say they’re hot to trot with this idea of a simple kidnapping gone wrong. Add police cock-up to that, and they’d like nothing better.”
“With all due respect, sir, it wasn’t a simple kidnapping.” A
Red Ron stroked his chin as he listened, plucking at his upper lip as if he still expected to feel the mustache. When she had finished, he asked, as she had hoped he wouldn’t, “Didn’t it cross your mind just for one moment that the kidnapper might have been watching Mr. Armitage make the drop?”
“I… er…”
“You didn’t think of it, did you?”
“I wanted to know what he’d left there.”
“DI Cabbot. Use your intelligence. A man’s stepson is missing. He’s edgy and anxious to be somewhere, a
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“You’ve no need to tell me what it’s like in the field, DI Cabbot. I might be an administrator now, but I wasn’t always behind this desk. I’ve served my time in the field. I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand what I’m saying.” Was that a half-smile A
He went on, “The point remains that you must have known the risk of being seen by the kidnapper was extremely high, especially as you were in open countryside, and that for whatever reason you disregarded that risk and went into the shelter anyway. And now the boy’s dead.”
“There’s some indication that Luke Armitage might have been killed even before his stepfather delivered the money.”
“That would be a piece of luck for you, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s not fair, sir. I needed to know what was in the briefcase.”
“Why?”
“I needed to be sure. That’s all. And it turned out to be a clue of sorts.”
“The low amount? Yes. But how did you know that wasn’t just the first installment?”
“With respect, sir, kidnappers don’t usually work on the installment plan. Not like blackmailers.”
“But how did you know?”
“I didn’t know, but it seemed a reasonable assumption.”
“You assumed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look, DI Cabbot. I’m not going to beat about the bush. I don’t like it when members of the public make complaints about officers under my command. I like it even less when a self-important citizen such as Martin Armitage complains to his golf-club crony, the chief constable, who then passes the buck down to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. You don’t like it.”
“Now, while your actions weren’t exactly by the book, and while you might have lacked judgment in acting so impulsively, I don’t see anything serious enough in what you did to justify punishment.”
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“On the other hand…”
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“We don’t have all the facts in yet.”
“Sir?”
“We don’t know whether you were seen by the kidnapper or not, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“And we don’t know exactly when Luke Armitage died.”
“Dr. Glende
“Yes, I know. So what I’m saying is that until we have all the facts I’ll postpone judgment. Go back to your duties, detective inspector.”
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“And, DI Cabbot?”
“Sir?”
“If you’re going to keep on using your own car on the job, get a bloody police radio fitted, would you?”
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Michelle got off the InterCity train at King’s Cross at about half past one that afternoon and walked down the steps to the tube, struck, as she always was, by the sheer hustle and bustle of London, the constant noise and motion. Cathedral Square on a summer holiday weekend with a rock band playing in the marketplace didn’t even come close.
Unlike many of her contemporaries, Michelle had never worked on the Met. She had thought of moving there after Greater Manchester, after Melissa had died and Ted had left, but instead she had moved around a lot over the past five years and taken numerous courses, convincing herself that it was all for the good of her career. She suspected, though, that she had just been ru