The Devil's Interval (6 page)

‘What did he do?’

‘He was convicted for a gangland killing in Manchester back in the late ‘90s, plus a couple of armed robberies, but the word is he did as many as a dozen more murders. But no civilians, like.’

‘That makes all the difference, then.’

‘Not to you, it won’t. You lot don’t count as civilians, son. You just remember that, if it’s you who tries to nick him.’

‘You know the where and the when yet? Or are you just teasing?’

‘No, I don’t. But it’s soon. He’s in the county already, that’s definite, and he’s going north from here. And this will be a one-time opportunity, because this is the last time he’ll ever be back in Britain. So don’t fuck it up.’

‘We won’t. If your information is solid, we’ll get him.’

‘It’s solid, don’t you worry about that. Now, are we done? I’ve got work to do.’

They’d almost reached the altar now, and Copeland glanced at it as they walked slowly past, almost in step. Like two cons in the prison yard, or monks in a cloister, he thought.

‘Hold on a minute,’ said Copeland, as Farmer picked up his pace. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you about.’

‘Oh, aye? You do know that I’m not a grass, don’t you? This is a one time deal. You get Maxwell, and sod all else.’

‘I was just a bit surprised to see you out and about today, that’s all. In your position, I’d be shitting myself.’

‘You mean because of what happened to Pete Roberts? Aye, nasty, that. My family’s away, just as a precaution, but I can take care of myself. So I’m stopping here.’

‘Nasty? He was kicked half to death, finished off with a blade, and then dumped on the council tip. I’d call nasty cutting myself shaving. He was a mate of yours, I expect?’

‘I knew him, aye.’

‘Come on, Alan, there’s no need to be coy. For a start we’re not handling this case, it’s a specialist team from HQ, which means that I officially don’t give a shit. You could have done it yourself, for all I care. And, second of all, it’s all in the file anyway. We know that he was one of Porter’s key men, just like you are. So the fact that you’re still out and about suggests one thing to me.’

‘Oh, aye. What’s that, then, Sherlock?’

‘That Porter called it himself. Has to be. Because if it was anyone else you’d be bloody miles away by now, wouldn’t you?’

‘Don’t talk daft, son. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You stick to nicking the local junkies for pinching pushbikes.’

‘Maybe I’m wrong, but you still don’t seem like a worried man to me. So perhaps this whole story about this Maxwell bloke being up for grabs is just part of some sort of game that you and Porter have dreamed up. But either way, if I find out that you’ve been playing me here, I’ll…..’

‘You’ll what? You don’t scare me, DC Copeland. You’ll take what I give you, and you’ll take the credit when you nick one of Britain’s most wanted. They’ll probably promote you. Who knows, you might even get a job back at the Met. Or maybe that’s just a bit too much of a stretch, like.’

Pepper Wilson didn’t like the waiting area, which was really just a hallway with a couple of distinctly uneasy chairs and a relentless draft, and she didn’t like the stupid cup that her tea came in either. It was white, with little pink roses on it. The magazines weren’t much cop, either.

‘I’m sorry I’m late’ said the tall, bald man who almost ran out of his consulting room. If cons looked as much like criminals as this one looked like a bloody shrink then she’d never have to do any detecting again.

‘I’ve only got an hour’, she said, getting up.

‘Of course. Completely my fault. I can’t apologise enough.’

You’re right, you posh prat, she thought, and followed him into the consulting room. There wasn’t a couch, just a couple of easy chairs, and an open fire. She noticed the box of tissues immediately. You’ll not be needing those, she thought, and sat down.

‘My name is Paul Collier.’

‘Pepper Wilson. Do I call you doctor, or what?’

‘Paul is fine, and I’ll call you Pepper, if that’s OK.’

‘Everyone else does.’

‘Good. So what would you like to talk about?’

‘I thought you were supposed to find out why I over-react sometimes. Or at least, the bosses seem to think I over-react.’

‘But you don’t?’

Pepper sat back. She’d had the interview training, plus a refresher, so she could suss all of his techniques, no problem at all. And two can play at your game, she thought. ‘Have you ever been in a fight, anything like that? When you felt in physical danger, anyway.’

‘A few times, yes. I used to work in a hospital, and there were occasions…’

‘What did you do when it all kicked off, like?’

‘I pressed the alarm.’

‘But what if there hadn’t been an alarm, what would you have done then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you have fought, tried to overcome your patient?’

‘I suppose so, yes. If I’d had to.’

‘Of course you would. And you see the thing is this, Paul. In my job there is no alarm to press, because I am the bloody alarm. I’m the one who has to sort everything out when it all goes tits up, like. There’s no one else to call on. Me and my mates, we are the thin blue line. Get past us and it’s hell on earth. Simple as that, really.’

‘And that’s how you feel, is it?’ She smiled. She just couldn’t help it. ‘You’re smiling. Why’s that?’

‘Because it’s not about how I feel. Not everything in this world is about that. It’s about how things are. Let’s be honest. I’m here because my boss saw a bit of real police work, probably for the first time in her life, and it was all a bit mucky, a bit ugly. Well, I’m sorry, but it was an armed man who I subdued, and I did it using minimum force. How I feel about it doesn’t come into it.’

Collier nodded. Pepper was sure he did a lot of that, even when he wasn’t even listening any more. Christ, why did people have to talk so bloody much all the time?

‘I tell you what’, he said, ‘let’s talk about something else. And you’re quite right, of course, I can’t really understand what it’s like to be in that kind of situation. So how’s this, why not start at the beginning? Tell me about your childhood.’

‘Must we?’

‘No, but we should talk about something. I’d feel like a fraud if we just sat here in silence for another,’ he glanced at the clock on the wall, ‘forty eight minutes.’ He smiled, and she found herself smiling back.

Forty five minutes later Pepper had soaked four impressively absorbent tissues, and had nearly needed a fifth.

‘I’m sorry’, she said.

‘For what? You’ve done brilliantly. It can’t be easy, being a single mum, and working in the environment that you do. Always having to be strong for everyone. Being, effectively, the only adult in the family.’

‘I don’t mind that. But you know what I was saying, or trying to say, about having let my work take over my life? What do you make of that, doctor? And don’t just turn the question straight round on me. I’m wise to that little game, marrer.’

‘Of course you are. Well, it’s too soon to say, really, and there’s probably no hard and fast rule about work-life balance anyway, is there?’

She smiled. ‘You’re a fat lot of good, then.’

‘Exactly, Pepper. We’ll talk this through together, and some of your other concerns, and we’ll see where we get to. I won’t just be a mirror, I promise you, but in the end it’ll be you who decides what to do, and where we go with this. I’m confident that you don’t have any mental health issues that could in any way interfere with your professional work, and I’m happy to submit a report to that effect today.’

‘So no more sessions.’

‘That’s right. You never have to see me again, if you don’t want to.’

Pepper got up, and threw her tissues in the plastic bag-lined waste paper bag by the desk.

‘No, actually I’ll be back. It’s the only freebie I’ve ever had from the job, and that’s the truth.’

‘Good, that’s good. But can I ask you one question, just before you go. And I have to admit a personal, or at least an academic interest, here.’

Pepper sat back down again, and this time she relaxed. Carter seemed like a nice enough bloke, for a trick-cyclist. ‘Sure. Shoot.’

‘You know far better than me that people do genuinely evil things. But are some people really bad by nature? Nothing to do with upbringing, or environment? What’s your take on that?’

‘Absolutely. No question about it, doc.’

‘Really? How can you be so sure? I appreciate that you can’t talk about individual cases, but perhaps you could talk about why you feel as you do, in general terms at least.’

‘I can do better than that, doc. When I was about nine, maybe eight, me and some other kids were playing in the street, only about half a mile from here. One of them had a dad like mine, a right piss-head he was. Absolute waste of space, and even at that age we all knew it. Anyway, he was coming back from the pub, well away the dad was, and this lad got a bit of wood, off an old pallet or something, and he followed his dad along the street, staying a few feet behind. His old fella had no idea that he was there, like. And just before he reached his front door the lad stuck the wood straight between the old man’s legs, and he tripped over it. Went head first into one of those old fashioned metal dustbins. He just lay there, like he was dead, and the lad pushed the bin over, so that his dad was lying in all the scraps and peelings and that.’

‘Nasty, but hardly evil, is it? The lad had some cause too, by the sounds of it.’

‘Oh, aye, the old man was asking for it. No doubt about that. I wish I’d done the same to mine, many’s the time. No, it wasn’t that. It was what came after. One of the other kids started laughing, see, seeing the lad’s dad lying there, but he wasn’t laughing for long. He got that plank of wood straight in the face. Bust his nose open, knocked out quite a few teeth.’

‘I see, and has this lad, the one with the plank, gone on to be involved in criminal enterprises?’

‘Aye, he has.’

‘Serious?’

‘Oh, aye, absolutely. And getting more bloody serious every day.’

Rex Copeland still wasn’t sure why he’d accepted Henry Armstrong’s invitation to dinner at his father’s house. He’d got to know a few of the lads from work, and had begun to explore what night-time Carlisle had to offer. Word had already got round the doormen that he was a cop, so he got no hassle when he was out. In fact, he had to insist on paying when he went into the clubs.

The drive to Keswick was wet and windy, but Copeland hardly noticed the rain any more. Having the wipers on felt like the default position now. He followed his sat-nav’s instructions to a street above the town, and finally turned into a long drive. The house looked huge in the headlights, a mini-mansion. He parked, and crunched quickly over the gravel to the front door. Rex rang the bell, and expected an elderly butler, or at the very least a plump housekeeper, to open the door. But it was only Henry, wearing cords the colour of old red wine.

‘You didn’t tell me that you lived in a palace.’ he said, looking round the large hall. There were actually family portraits on the walls.

‘I live in a flat in Carlisle, mate.’

‘But one day all this will be yours, right?’

‘Not for a while, I hope’ said Henry’s dad, emerging from the kitchen and shaking hands. He looked even more like the family portraits than Henry did. ‘I’m another Henry Armstrong, I’m afraid. So I suggest you just point at one of us, if you want to attract our attention.’

Copeland smiled, and followed the two Henrys into the kitchen.

‘I thought we’d have what I believe David Cameron calls a country supper,’ said Henry’s dad, pointing at the refectory table in the kitchen. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but the dining room is a bit chilly, to tell the truth.’

‘This is great, thanks.’

‘Tell you what, why doesn’t Henry give you the tour, and I’ll serve up in ten minutes. How’s that? Take a drink with you.’

Copeland had the sense that Henry’s dad was watching while he chose his drink, but it made no difference. He never had an alcoholic drink, not even a small one, when he was driving.

‘This place is bloody massive’ he said, as they were climbing the wide staircase.

‘Massively draughty, you mean.’

‘How many bedrooms are there?’

‘Well, er…’

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘No, it’s not that. It just depends on what you call a bedroom.’

Copeland laughed. ‘It’s not hard, Henry. It’s a room with a bed in it.’

‘I know, it’s just that this house has another floor, with some extra rooms.’

‘Servant’s quarters?’ He laughed again. ‘You’ve got servant’s quarters, haven’t you? You’re just too ashamed to say so. You wait ’til I tell them at work, mate.’

‘They’re just empty rooms now, Rex.’

‘How the other half lives, eh?’

‘Lived, you mean.’

Henry gave the whistle-stop tour, and was glad that his dad wasn’t leading it. They’d have been there all bloody night if he was.

‘You don’t seem to be doing so badly for yourself’ said Copeland, as they headed back towards the kitchen. ‘I just can’t understand why you became a cop, Henry, unless it was to protect all this.’

‘Maybe I actually wanted to help people.’

Copeland laughed again. ‘And how’s that going? Especially with Pepper in charge. If she had her way even our teenage shoplifters would be breaking rocks for a year or two.’

‘She’s alright. She cares about us, anyway.’

‘She’s quite the bloody lioness, that’s true. Talking of which, what’s on the menu? Nothing endangered, I hope.’

‘Pheasant.’

‘I should have bloody guessed.’

But the meal turned out to be more fun than Copeland expected. For a start, it transpired that Henry Snr. knew a good deal about the West Indies than Rex did, having spent six months there after he qualified as a doctor, which was five months longer than Copeland himself had ever managed. And when Copeland said that these days he preferred Ibiza for his own holidays in the sun Henry Snr. seemed mildly disappointed. He’d never been there, he said. Eventually, over spotted dick and home made custard, the talk turned to cars.