‘Because if it is, I’d get rid of yesterday’s tape – you know, the one where you kick Andrew in the balls.’

  Meadows heard a car pull outside, and glanced down at the screen. ‘Your taxi’s arrived.’

  ‘Don’t you agree – the tape has to go?’ Jane persisted, with a hint of urgency in her voice. ‘It’s your interests I’m thinking of, you know.’

  ‘I think it’s safe to let you out now,’ Meadows replied, standing up and heading for the door.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Towers’ nickname was ‘Tiny’ which meant, of course that he was anything but. In any group of officers, he was always the tallest by half a head, and there were those who claimed – only half-jokingly – that Towers was not his real name at all, and he had only adopted it to underline the fact that he towered over everyone else.

  DCI Dawson had an uneasy relationship with his superior. The men were friends within the cultural confines and limitations of the police force, which meant that Towers might invite the chief inspector out to his place in the country for the occasional Sunday barbeque, and Dawson might be allowed to call the chief superintendent ‘Ben’ once or twice during an evening of boozing – but Dawson knew that he must never forget which of them was the big chief and which was the humble Indian, and was careful never to step over the invisible line.

  Thus, when Dawson saw Towers lurking in the police car park – and lurking was the only word for it – a sudden iceberg announced its arrival in the pit of his stomach.

  Towers smiled his ‘matey’ smile – which was a very bad sign.

  ‘Knocking off for the night, are you?’ he asked.

  Dawson shrugged awkwardly. ‘Yes, well, you know what it’s like with a murder inquiry, sir. I’m going to grab a few hours’ kip before things start really hotting up.’

  ‘Come and have a drink first,’ Towers suggested.

  The iceberg in Dawson’s gut was reaching Titanic-sinking proportions.

  ‘I don’t really think I should, sir,’ he said weakly. ‘I’m feeling really knackered and—’

  ‘It’s always good to talk a case over with a more experienced officer,’ Towers said, as if he’d never spoken. ‘Where do you fancy? The Grapes?’

  ‘The Grapes would be fine,’ Dawson said, with a resigned sigh.

  EIGHT

  Jane Lofthouse and Kate Meadows walked down the corridor from Meadows’ office to the front door.

  ‘Just before I came to see you, I felt this almost overpowering urge to get out of here as quickly as possible,’ Jane said. ‘It was almost as if the fire doors were calling me: “Come on, Jane, straight through here. Nothing could be easier”.’

  Meadows smiled. ‘But you obviously managed to resist the temptation.’

  ‘Only by thinking about what a lot of bother it would create for you – the alarms going off, and police cars, with their sirens blaring, pulling up outside,’ Jane said.

  Meadows took the key from the cord around her neck, and inserted it into one of the security locks. When she heard it click, she removed the key and went through the same procedure with the second lock. That task completed, she opened the door.

  A blast of cold air hit her, and though she had been expecting it, it still made her shiver.

  She turned to Jane and gestured towards the outside. ‘There you are,’ she said with forced optimism, ‘the wider world awaits you.’

  Jane did not move. Instead, she stood staring into the dark night, her earlier confidence gone and a look of sheer horror filling her face.

  ‘Maybe you were right about it being too soon, Kate,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been out, and now I’m not sure that I want to go.’ She let out a small sob. ‘What shall I do? Whatever shall I do?’

  ‘Take a deep breath, and consider your alternatives as calmly as you can,’ Meadows said, in a soothing voice.

  But she was thinking, ‘You’ve already said you were going, so why don’t you just piss off and give me a little space to deal with my own problems.’

  ‘It was only Andrew I was frightened of, and now he’s not a threat anymore, is he?’ Jane said.

  Well, he wasn’t a direct threat, Meadows agreed silently, but he could still do immeasurable damage from beyond the grave.

  ‘I’m going,’ Jane said, suddenly decisive again. ‘I can’t tell how grateful I am to you.’ She bent forward and kissed Meadows lightly on the cheek. ‘Let me know when Lizzie is about to have the baby, and I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and rush over here. I do so want to be with her when the baby is born. I really do.’

  ‘I know. I’ll make sure you get the word,’ Meadows promised.

  Jane turned, and walked quickly through the garden. The taxi driver took her suitcase and opened the back door for her. She got in without looking back.

  Meadows stood watching as the taxi made its way along the street and turned the corner.

  It felt as if a part of her world had slipped away, she thought, and that was probably because it had.

  She wished that she drank or took drugs, but she didn’t do either of those things. Her only real distraction in life was a little harmless S&M, but that wasn’t possible at that moment. And anyway, it was starting to look as if it wasn’t that harmless after all.

  She took a deep breath. She wanted to get into her car and drive away into the night, just as she had after that terrible thing that had happened at Lofthouse’s home, but she knew that was a luxury she could not afford. What she had to do – even though just the thought of it was enough to set her stomach churning – was return to her office, play the surveillance tape, and see for herself just how bad things looked.

  Chief Superintendent Towers selected a table in the saloon bar of the Bunch of Grapes, and called the waiter over.

  ‘What’s your poison, Eric?’ he asked. ‘Scotch?’

  ‘I think I’d better stick to beer tonight,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers,’ Towers replied. ‘Two glasses of Bells’ please, waiter. And you’d better make them doubles.’ He waited until the waiter was out of earshot, then continued, ‘So how’s the investigation going?’

  Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all, Dawson thought. Maybe Towers could actually advise him on a couple of things that were really bothering him.

  ‘It’s early days yet,’ Dawson said, ‘but it looks like it could get quite tricky.’

  ‘Tricky?’ Towers repeated. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, the killer’s been so careful not to leave clues that we’re starting to think that maybe a police officer—’

  He got no further, because Towers hand shot across the table and grabbed his wrist.

  ‘It would be a big mistake to start investigating your fellow bobbies,’ Towers said, his thumb digging down into Dawson’s wrist. ‘A very big mistake. Have you got that?’

  The pain was excruciating, and all Dawson’s instincts screamed at him that he should either tell Towers to stop or punch the bastard in the face.

  He didn’t do either. Instead, speaking through clenched teeth, he just managed to gasp, ‘Yes, sir, I get it.’

  Towers released his grip immediately.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I just get a bit worked up when anybody talks about the possibility of there being bent bobbies. There are some, of course. I know, logically, that a few police officers do take bribes, and an even smaller number kill other people, but, you know …’

  He let the sentence trail off, and Dawson, whose wrist was still smarting like hell, felt he had little choice but to say, ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘In fact, this should never have happened, and it’s entirely my fault,’ Towers continued. ‘The main point of inviting you out was to give you a bit of time off from the case, yet the first thing I do is to ask you how the investigation’s going. Stupid!’

  ‘It’s always good to talk a case over with a more experienced officer,’ he’d said in the police car park – but that was then and this was now.

  The waiter returned with the drinks, and without asking how much they cost, Towers casually threw a few notes on his tray.

  ‘That’s payment in advance, laddie,’ Towers told the waiter. ‘Every time it looks like we might be running out, bring us another round. And if you do a good job, there’ll be a pony for you at the end of the session.’

  ‘You’re going to give him twenty-five pounds!’ Dawson mused, as the waiter walked away. ‘That was very generous of you, sir.’

  ‘It wasn’t generous at all,’ Towers told him. ‘The secret of getting on in life is working out what you need to pay to get the result you want, and then being prepared to pay it. If I was drowning in the river, and that waiter happened to be walking past, he’d probably pretend he hadn’t seen me, but while I’m here, that tip ensures that he’s my willing slave, and he’d trample over his own grey-haired granny in order to serve me.’

  Though the little speech purported to be about the waiter, it wasn’t about him at all, Dawson thought. The message – or perhaps the warning – had been aimed squarely at him.

  ‘We’re off to Jamaica for our holidays this year,’ Towers said. ‘Where are you and Cissy going?’

  ‘Tenerife,’ Dawson said, thinking, even as he spoke, that he sounded almost as if he was ashamed of it.

  Towers grinned. ‘Not very adventurous of you, is it?’ he asked.

  No, it wasn’t, Dawson thought, but then he wasn’t adventurous. His whole life had been guided by caution and the avoidance of conflict, and the fact that he had somehow achieved his present rank was a constant source of amazement to him.

  ‘Why don’t you consider going further afield next time?’ Towers asked.

  ‘We can’t afford it,’ Dawson said, which was at least half true. ‘What with the mortgage and …’

  ‘My Caribbean holiday has turned out to be quite cheap,’ Towers said. ‘Do you know why that was?’

  ‘No,’ Dawson said dutifully, because that was what was expected of him. ‘Why was it quite cheap?’

  ‘Because I’ve got lots of friends who want to do me a favour,’ Towers explained. ‘And that’s your problem, Eric – you haven’t got enough people in your debt. But that could change – if you play your cards right.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dawson said, inadequately.

  Towers looked down at his glass. ‘Enough of drinking this rubbish,’ he said, grandly. He signalled to the waiter, ‘Bring us a couple of Glenmorangie twelve-year-old malt whiskies.’

  ‘I’ll get these,’ Dawson said, reaching for his wallet.

  ‘That you will not,’ Towers countered, clamping his hand on the other man’s arm (though gently this time). ‘Tonight’s entirely on me.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Dawson moaned softly to himself.

  ‘Do you know how I got my master’s degree?’ Towers asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Dawson said.

  But he was thinking, ‘and why should I give a shit, anyway?’

  ‘It took me three years of night school and two summer schools,’ Towers said gravely. ‘And that’s not because I’m a stupid man …’

  ‘Nobody was suggesting you were, sir,’ Dawson injected quickly.

  ‘Three years’ night school and two summer schools is how long it takes most people. It’s bloody hard work, and you even have to pay part of the fees out of your own pocket.’

  Ah, now he was starting to get a sense of which way the wind was blowing, Dawson thought.

  ‘But there’s some who have it easier than that, aren’t there, sir?’ he said, taking a tentative step in what he hoped was the right direction.

  ‘Yes, there’s some who have it easier than that,’ Towers echoed him. ‘There’s some who get to go to America for a whole year – six months in Georgetown University, six months in FBI headquarters – and it doesn’t cost them a penny.’

  Dawson could have pointed out that it hadn’t cost Mid Lancs Constabulary a penny, either, since Louisa Rutter had been awarded a Georgetown-FBI scholarship. He could have added that there was a great deal of prestige attached to the scholarships, and that most officers on the force had been really chuffed that someone from a relatively obscure authority like theirs had been able to win it. And to round it up, he could have reminded Towers that one of the conditions attached to attending the course was that once Louisa Rutter returned to England, she had been obliged to sacrifice one weekend a month for two years, to giving unpaid seminars on what she’d learned on the other side of the pond.

  He could have pointed these things out – but he didn’t.

  ‘There’s going to be a new regional crime squad,’ Towers said. ‘Have you heard about it?’

  ‘No,’ Dawson admitted, ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ Towers said dismissively. ‘You’ve let yourself get so far out of the loop that you know less than the station cat does.’

  ‘I … I …’ Dawson mumbled inadequately.

  ‘Anyway this new squad will be totally independent of all the authorities whose patches it operates in, and answerable only to its own governing body, which, as far as I can tell, will be made up of county councillors and solicitors.’

  He paused. He was obviously expecting a comment, and Dawson wracked his brains as to what the expected comment should be.

  ‘Amateurs,’ he said finally, crossing his mental fingers.

  Towers nodded encouragingly, but said nothing.

  ‘Whoever’s in charge of the squad should be able to run rings round them,’ Dawson ploughed on, praying he was reading the signs correctly.

  ‘Smart lad,’ Towers said, patting him on the shoulder with the force of a small sledgehammer. ‘This new squad will work out of a new purpose-built headquarters near Preston – a complete break with the past, you see. Whoever is chief super will have more power than a chief constable. If he’s got political ambitions, he couldn’t find a better launch pad. If all he wants to do is feather his nest, the opportunities are there for the taking. But the most important power he’ll have, at least as far as you’re concerned,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘is that he’ll be allowed to pick his own team.’

  ‘I see,’ Dawson said – because he had to say something.

  ‘It’s the job I’ve been waiting for my entire career,’ Towers continued, ‘and there’s only one other really viable candidate.’

  Click! Now it really all fitted together!

  ‘You’re talking about Chief Superintendent Rutter, aren’t you?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘None other,’ Towers agreed.

  ‘You’ve got more experience than she has, sir. You’re bound to get the job.’

  It had meant to be reassuring, but from the frown which now filled Towers’ face, it was clearly not the answer he wanted.

  ‘I’ve rung Whitebridge General, and they told me that they’ll be keeping Droopy Dave, our beloved deputy chief, for at least a week,’ Towers said. ‘As for the chief, well, he’s already made it plain that his golf tour is far more important than keeping Mid Lancs safe, so it looks as if Chief Superintendent Rutter is going to be in charge for a while longer.’ He took another sip of his scotch and smacked his lips with pleasure. ‘You see what I’m saying here?’

  ‘No,’ Dawson said – though he had a terrible feeling that he did.

  ‘This Lofthouse murder is an important case because Andrew Lofthouse was an important man in Whitebridge. So if we don’t get a result, who do you think it will damage?’

  ‘Me.’

  Towers made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if brushing that possibility aside as a mere irrelevance.

  ‘Yes, you probably would take a bit of a knock,’ he admitted, ‘but you’re only a minor cog in the machine, and I’ve already found a way to more than generously compensate you. But who will really suffer? Who will be crucified in the press – especially if I whisper the right word in the right ear? And who will those people who can make or break a simple bobby’s career be pissed off at?’

  ‘You’re … you’re saying you want me to sabotage my own investigation,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Towers replied, wagging his finger. ‘I would never ask you to do that. But if you didn’t get a result, I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you, whereas if you did get a result, I might not always look on you favourably.’

  Well, that was certainly clear enough, Dawson thought. What he was being presented with was a scale, with the possibility of conducting a proper investigation (and thus earning brownie points) on one side, and the certainty that if he did do that he would make an enemy of Chief Superintendent Towers on the other. It was impossible to make the scale balance, so the only question was which way he would allow it to tip.

  ‘As I said, I’ll be given complete freedom to select my team for the new squad,’ Towers continued, almost dreamily, ‘and when I’m deciding who to select as my number two, I’ll obviously bear in mind the history I have with the men I’m considering.’

  So there it was – the bribe for being a good little bobby – out in the open at last.

  ‘It’s really in your hands whether I consider you or not,’ Towers said. ‘Do you think it’s likely that I will be able to consider you?’

  Dawson swallowed hard.

  ‘Very likely, sir,’ he said.

  Towers smiled. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’d better order another two shots of that expensive whisky.’

  The black-and-white image of the soon-to-be dead man stands five feet from the front door of Overcroft House. The door itself falls within the camera’s blind area.

  It is clear from the man’s body language and gestures that he is confronting someone, and he is very angry with that person. Then the man suddenly rushes forward, so only the backs of his legs are visible, though it is possible to infer what is happening, because the position of the legs reveals that the man is leaning forward – using his bodyweight to force the door open.

  For a second, the man goes off screen, but when he appears again, he is hopping backwards and holding one foot in his hands. And now someone else had joined him, and that someone is clearly identifiable as Kate Meadows. For perhaps two seconds, she does nothing, then she lashes out with her foot, catching the man squarely in the groin. The man doubles up, topples backwards and hits the ground. Kate Meadows disappears from the screen, and so is no longer one of the stars of this nasty little movie.