The Sister(81)

Tanner took his camera out. ‘Would you mind if I take a shot of that for the book?’ He pointed to the champion’s photograph.

‘Put that thing away, will you? Here, take it.’ He handed the photograph to Tanner. ‘Let me have it back when you’ve finished.’

Holding the photograph in his hands, he was unsure if it was in his imagination, but he caught the faintest whiff, the smell of horses and saddles, which reminded him of the tack room at the riding school he used to go to as a boy. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Oh, and one other thing. I'd love to talk to the Boiler man, do you think that would be possible?’ He looked hopeful. It did not last long.

‘You’ll be lucky; he don’t talk much to his own kind; he’s got four words – yes, no and f*ck off – keeps himself to himself. Besides, he is a real traveller, don’t stay long in any place. Only time you ever see him is when he wants to be seen, usually when there’s a big fight with money involved.’

‘So you don’t know where he lives?’

‘No, I don’t.’ His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why would you be asking me that?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tanner said quickly. ‘I was only thinking about the interview.’

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Quinn, book or no book, if you want to keep that head of yours on your shoulders, you won’t go turning up anywhere without me or my say so, do you know what I mean?’

For a split second, he thought the old man saw right through him. He fixed on his best poker face and replied, ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Look, can I get to see an actual fight?’

‘For the book? We’ll see. Leave your number, Mr Quinn, and I’ll call you.’

On arriving home that night, he scanned the photograph and emailed a copy to Kennedy.





Kennedy examined the copy of the photograph closely. Going over the faces with a magnifying glass for a second time, he located the suspect quite quickly. It’s him. I know it!

A friend of his was working on the national database of mug shots that would soon be available to police forces all over the country, and although it was getting late, he phoned him.

‘Malcolm, it’s John Kennedy here. Yes…yes, I’m fine and you? Good, listen, I have an old photograph here I’m trying to track. Yes, I know that, but I wondered if I send it, you could…Well, call it an experiment then. It’s just that I’m trying to tie up a cold case…You will? Great, give me your email address…Okay, got that. Yeah, we must get together sometime…Yes, I know; it has been a while. Let me know how you get on … yeah, thanks. Bye.’





Chapter 65



Monday, 5 March 2007





Tanner entered Kennedy’s office just as the DCI flipped his mobile closed.

‘Got a new phone, sir?’

‘No, it isn’t new, it’s my personal one,’ he said as he drained the last of his tea. Tendrils of steam continued to rise from the empty cup.

How does he manage to drink it when it’s that hot? Tanner wondered.

‘I’m needed in the cells. Wait here, I’ll be two minutes,’ he said and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He seemed distracted.

‘Shall I come back in a minute?’ he said.

‘No – wait, just give me a couple of minutes, get Theresa to bring you some tea,’ he called back as he left.

Stepping from the DCI’s office, he caught her eye and beckoned her over. As she approached, she looked at him inquisitively.

‘What’s up, John?’ she said.

‘Nothing, just wondered if you wouldn’t mind making me a tea?’

‘Of course not, what about the chief,’ she said, barely able to suppress a grin, ‘would he like another one?’

Recognising that she had adopted his own derogatory term for the DCI, he grinned widely in return. ‘Well, he didn’t ask, but you'd better get him one, or he’ll only complain,’ he said.

‘Okay, I’m on it,’ she said laughing.

As she walked off, he watched the sway of her behind almost all the way to the tea station; where she turned and caught him looking.

Quickly retreating into Kennedy’s office, he sat down. He didn’t see the smile that spread over her face as she filled the kettle.

Expecting Kennedy to return at any moment, he looked all round his office, and then his attention settled on the DCI’s out-tray, where a folded up copy of the Sun lay. The headline caught his eye. 25-Year-Old Ilford Woman Raped At Home. Police Seek Gas Mask Attacker. It featured so prominently; he wondered if it was what he had summoned him for.

Who told the papers about the gasmask, Tanner? He imagined him tapping the offending word with his forefinger, and he’d feel defensive, speculating. With everyone sworn to secrecy, sir – it would have to be the victim.

The empty seat behind the desk remained as he left it; pushed back, spun halfway round, abandoned in a hurry. Years of use had moulded the back of it into an imprint of Kennedy’s posture. When he goes, the first thing I get rid of is that chair, he assured himself.

He sighed involuntarily, flipped his pocket book open and began reviewing the notes he’d made the day before.

He rubbed his tired eyes, hoping to rejuvenate them, but only succeeded in blurring his vision. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, and he had a feeling he might not be getting one of those for quite some time.