Good Bait

Jesus, Karen thought. She wasn’t sure what was expected of her, what she was meant to say.

‘I believe there was an instance,’ Frost said, ‘in which the Superintendent attempted to intervene in an investigation you were ru

Karen was stopped in her tracks again. ‘Alex Williams, she told you this?’

‘All I’m asking is for you to accept or deny.’

‘That the Superintendent intervened?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not the word I’d use.’

‘What then?’

‘He asked that if anything serious came out of the inquiries we were making about Ion Milescu, we let him know.’

‘And did you?’

Karen shook her head. ‘There was nothing. Nothing crucial. Nothing to say.’

‘But you inferred from this, this off-the-record — it was off-the-record …?’

Karen nodded.

‘… from this off-the-record conversation, that Superintendent Burcher and Paul Milescu were close in some way? Friends?’

‘Not necessarily, no.’

‘But, surely, approaching you in that way, unorthodox at the very least?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Yes?’

‘All right, yes.’

Karen took a breath. How she had got herself in the position of seeming to defend Burcher, she didn’t understand.

‘Am I to take it, then,’ she asked, ‘that the Detective Chief Superintendent is under investigation?’

Frost smiled. A second time in almost as many minutes, something of a record. ‘It’s more than possible a few more questions may be asked; unofficially, I imagine, at first. Some perusal of bank statements, financial affairs, something of that accord. A little later, if necessary, the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act could be invoked. But all this, in the future if at all.’

Karen knew her place in this. Were she to say anything to Burcher — to warn him, but why should she? — if she were to say anything to anyone it would eventually be known. Her card marked. Accomplice at worst. Untrustworthy, certainly. Any further promotion denied.

‘Is that it, then?’ she asked.

‘Certainly,’ Frost replied. ‘For now. And thank you, Detective Chief Inspector, for your time.’

57

‘Good Bait’. Dexter Gordon on tenor saxophone, stooping and slurping through the tune like a man sidestepping mud; the piano, distant behind him, sounding the notes like someone in a school hall more used to accompanying morning assembly, the morning hymn.

Cordon drank coffee as he listened, polished his shoes.

After two more days in London, when Jack Kiley’s hospitality was stretched almost to breaking point, he felt, by his lugubrious presence, Cordon had returned to Cornwall and the confines of his sail loft, the expanse of views across the bay. Returned to his post, his job, the small team of neighbourhood officers greeting him as if he’d barely been away.

‘Nice trip?’

‘Safari, was it? See the world?’

Cordon had seen the world, all right. Part of it, blinkers removed.

After a week of doing precious little but check back through the files, reading over what he’d missed, he was summoned first to Penzance, then to the Cornwall and Isles of Scilly Commander in Truro. Polished buttons, gold braid. The Commander, not Cordon.

‘Bit of a cowboy, all of a sudden, that’s what I hear.’

Cordon said nothing, read the commendations framed behind the Commander’s desk.

‘Letter here from someone called Frost, Serious Organised Crime Agency, gist of it seems to be you’ve been planting your size twelves where they’re not wanted, messing around with the big boys, organised crime. Suggests some kind of review, tighten the reins, a watching eye.’

‘Yes, sir.’

What else was he supposed to say?

‘What was it then, going off like that? Some kind of midlife crisis? Most people go out and buy a flash car they can’t afford, have an affair, a bit over the side. That what it was? A woman? Some woman involved?’

A slow shake of the head, knowing, resigned.

‘Christ, Cordon, I always had you down as someone, push came to bloody shove, could be relied upon. Bit of a barrack-room lawyer once in a while, but basically sensible. Know your own limitations.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You realise I could have your guts for garters over this. Disciplined and suspended and, most likely, cashiered out without as much as a farewell note?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Any good reason I shouldn’t?’

‘No, sir. Not really.’

‘You stupid bastard!’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Commander gave Frost’s letter a second, cursory, glance. ‘How many years have you got in now?’

‘Twenty-five, sir.’

‘Pension in five more.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Want to throw that all away?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Out of your system then, is it? Back down to earth?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take one more liberty, make one more false move, and I’ll have you hanging off the fucking yardarm, understood?’

It was understood.

Ten minutes more, a few niceties, a final final warning, and he was back out on the street. Tregolls Road. Time enough, before heading back, to nip down to Lemon Quay and look through the jazz section at HMV.

A woman. That what it was? Some woman involved.

The Commander hadn’t needed to tell him, he’d been a bloody fool about that too.

Three days later, a card came from his son. Australia. A picture of what was it? A koala? He could at least have managed a landmark somewhere, a view of the Harbour Bridge, was that too much to ask?

Dad, just a quick card. All settled here now. An effort, but worth it. You should come out some time, visit. Before it’s too late.

Yrs, Simon.

Too late? Too late for whom? Or what?

And all — who was the all? And settled? Settled where? His son’s life remained largely a mystery, one he gave little or no sign of wishing Cordon to solve.

Cordon scrutinised the postmark, blurred by the rain and disappearing off the edge. Melbourne, is that what it said? He hadn’t known there was a plan to move. A new job, is that what it was? And how should he have known? Another card, perhaps? Some letter that had not been received.

Cordon propped the card up against one of the speakers.

Tried to imagine himself hunkered down on a flight more than halfway across the world and failed.

Work to be done, meanwhile. The theft of a camera from a Japanese tourist at Land’s End. A sighting, near St Just, of a thirty-eight-year-old man wanted in co

He was only half listening that evening, a brief summary of the news. A police operation in London and the South-East involving the Serious and Organised Crime Agency and units from the Metropolitan Police. Angling the television screen round from the wall, he found Cha

The image of Kosach on the screen was clear, unmistakable.

Cordon’s first instinct, phone Letitia.

What for? Why? What would he say?

The only number he had, an old mobile. Out of commission when he tried it. No longer operational.

Kosach gone, so what? Done a bunk, leaving, presumably, Letitia and the boy. Nothing on the news to say otherwise. After fully fifteen minutes of telling himself there was little point, he rang Kiley.

‘Jack, I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the news?’

Kiley met him off the Paddington train.

‘Thought I’d bloody seen the last of you.’