Page 22 of Stolen Ones

Kim had been in his car and was surprised he’d managed to find anything in that mess.

‘Okay, just stay—’

‘Hang on, boss, there’s a vehicle coming from…’

His words trailed away as he placed his phone face down. She could hear muffled voices but not what was being said. Had Steven Harte come out to complain about his presence? Had he called the police about a suspicious vehicle parked in front of his property? This was not an official stakeout operation, so a squad car would have attended to check out any reports. Had he sent someone to scare Penn off?

The voices continued. Her heart rate increased. Penn was there alone. If someone was threatening him, she had no way to get to…

‘Sorry about that, boss,’ Penn said clearly into the phone. ‘It was a delivery guy.’

‘Okay, what’s the sneaky bastard up to?’

‘Er…the sneaky bastard just sent me fish and chips.’

‘He what?’

‘Yeah, delivery guy insisted. Said they’d been paid for, so he was just gonna throw ’em away if I didn’t take them.’

Kim could hear the longing in his voice.

‘What shall I do, boss?’

Penn knew the rules about how accepting any kind of gift could be construed in court as a bribe, but the guy hadn’t eaten for hours and she was nowhere near taking him off his watch shift.

‘Get ’em down you, Penn, and I’ll see you in a bit.’

She ended the call. She’d sort it tomorrow. Right now, she had to try and get an accurate picture of a twenty-five-year-old case from someone well known in the police force. A man used often as a cautionary tale.

‘Okay, boy, I can’t take you in there so sit tight,’ she said, rubbing Barney’s head.

She lowered her own window just an inch to let some cool air into the car. The day temperature had dropped from twenty-one to eleven degrees, but you couldn’t be too cautious.

She entered the pub and stood in the doorway for just a second.

It was a typical local pub, serving their regulars for decades and serving Gum for most of them. A couple of guys were throwing darts, and a group of four were playing a game of pool at the far side of the pub. Two larger groups were gathered around tables: one group playing dominoes and the other group playing cards. One man sat on his own in the corner. Despite a couple of curious glances in her direction, the atmosphere was light and jovial.

By her count, DI Martyn Wrigley was in his early seventies and had headed the Melody Jones investigation in his late forties. She hadn’t known that, but what she had known was that the man in the corner had become the stereotype. He had worked long hours, lost his family and turned to alcohol. A fact he’d managed to hide from his superiors until a heart attack on the job had revealed his poor health and alcoholism. After losing everything, he was medically retired prematurely, and the years since had turned him into a lonely, bitter old man.

‘Got a minute, DI Wrigley?’ she asked, approaching the table.

‘For a fellow copper the answer is no. For a fellow copper with no drink in her hand the answer is fuck off.’

Kim questioned the ethics of encouraging the man’s drinking habits, but he’d made his life choices way before she’d ever heard his name.

She headed to the bar, returned to the table and placed a pint of beer beside the half-full one on the table. The colour match told her she’d got it right.

‘Cheapskate,’ he said, nodding towards the couple of shot glasses that had been emptied and pushed to the side.

He nodded for her to sit. She did so wondering how much time that one drink had bought her.

‘I’m here to ask about the Melody Jones case.’

He showed no surprise. ‘Of course you are. One of you lot comes and finds me every year around the anniversary. Still haven’t found her though, have you?’ he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

Kim tried to keep the sadness out of her mind. Sadness that by all accounts this man had been one of the best detectives on the force. He’d been dogged and determined, and he’d met every case with the same level of passion, commitment and effort. But his energy had been like a dial he had not known how to turn off. At home, she had a dodgy gas ring on her hob. It worked perfectly at full power, but the second you tried to turn it down the thing went off. She tried not to be saddened further by the fact that despite the people he’d helped during his career, he was now without family, and his crusty manner appeared to have left him also without friends. Even sadder was the fact the man still dressed in a suit and tie as though ready to go to work.

‘Yeah, we’ve been asked to take another look at it,’ she answered.