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SIX

‘First off, thanks to those of you who were due a Saturday at home for coming in.’ Brigstocke sighed and nudged at his glasses.

His greying quiff was uncharacteristically lifeless and he obviously hadn’t shaved.

‘It is what it is.’ Not unexpectedly, a blanket clearance of overtime had been authorised, even if no financial incentive was actually necessary to further motivate any of those present.

The murders of three of their fellow officers was always going to trump a visit to the garden centre or a football match.

‘So.’ The DCI leaned down to activate the laptop connected to the screen behind him. ‘Developments . . . ’

The key members of the team were gathered in a meeting room, one floor down from their MIT offices: Thorne, Tanner, Holland, Desai and Chall.

The only unfamiliar face belonged to the man they had been expecting and to whom Thorne had been briefly introduced on his way in.

DCI Jeremy Walker sat bolt upright in an expensive blue suit, wearing a predictably grim and frustrated expression which was somewhat at odds with the bright red tie and matching pocket square.

Brigstocke hit a key and an image appeared on the screen behind him. The gift box Thorne had last seen in the hands of Catherine Holloway was crumpled and sealed inside a plastic evidence bag, but the message she’d been so keen to show him four nights before was still clear enough.

Thanks for everything you do!

Thorne thought about the conversation he’d had with Helen the night before. Now it was all but impossible not to focus on the hideous deeds of some, encompassed in that seemingly generous message to all.

Everything . . .

‘It was found stuffed into the rear footwell of one of the squad cars,’ Brigstocke said.

‘It’s unbranded, as you can see. Just a bog-standard paperboard box.

It’s gone to the lab, obviously, but I don’t think we should hold out too much hope, because of this .

’ He clicked again and turned to watch the short, grainy black and white video, which immediately began to play.

‘This is from a security camera on one of the houses opposite.’

Thorne leaned forward, but there were simply no details to pick out. A dark figure in a hoodie hurrying across the road, depositing the box on top of the squad car and quickly disappearing out of shot.

‘As you can see, he’s wearing gloves, which take prints out of the equation. We’ve talked to other homeowners in the street, and as a few of them had been woken up by the activity around the operation at Cresswell’s place, we’ve managed to find a couple who saw the same figure.’

‘Is that a man or a woman?’ Chall asked.

‘Difficult to tell,’ Desai said.

‘Doesn’t look very tall,’ Tanner said. ‘I suppose it could be a woman, but he’s walking like a bloke.’ Everyone watched as Brigstocke played the video again. When it had finished, Tanner sat back. ‘Yeah, that’s a bloke.’

‘Unfortunately, none of those neighbours we talked to could give us any information that isn’t on that footage.’ Brigstocke zoomed in on the figure in the freeze-frame. There were no identifying features. ‘So, not a lot of help.’

‘Looks like he’s aware there are going to be cameras,’ Thorne said.

‘There’s always cameras.’ Holland shrugged. ‘He’s just being careful.’

‘No, it’s like he knows where they are,’ Thorne said. ‘Which houses have got them, so he can always keep his face out of the shot. Let’s presume he’d scoped the street out beforehand.’

‘I’ll go with that,’ Tanner said. ‘But it does beg a fairly important question.’

Thorne knew exactly what she meant, because it was a question he’d been asking himself since the murders. ‘It’s clearly not a random attack, right? It’s not like he was just walking the streets with a box of poisoned doughnuts, waiting to spot a police car.’

Brigstocke was already nodding. ‘So, how the hell did he know we’d be there? That was a need-to-know operation, so how did he know about the raid on Cresswell’s place?’

There was a long silence.

‘Radio scanner?’ Chall suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Brigstocke said.

‘Could just be that someone on the operation got a bit gobby,’ Holland said. ‘Told someone who told someone else.’

‘There is another explanation,’ Thorne said. ‘What if he’s a copper?’

Now there was a longer silence as those around the table struggled to process what was, by any measure, a shocking possibility; to come up with any reason at all why a police officer should have murdered three of his colleagues.

‘Let’s park that one for a minute,’ Brigstocke said, eventually. ‘Because we also have this.’ He leaned towards the keyboard again and called up another image. ‘Nicola came across it on a visit to the DFU yesterday, posted on one of the Dark Web message boards.’

Chris Tully and Craig Knowles. Two peas in a pod .

‘Obviously, none us need reminding who Chris Tully is, and I would hope most of you are aware that PC Craig Knowles was convicted of multiple counts of rape just over a month ago.’

‘Convicted of raping his wife.’

Predictably, it was DC Stephen Pallister who had spoken up. Thorne turned to him. ‘Are you trying to demonstrate your detailed knowledge of the case or do you have something to say?’

‘No . . . just that’s what it was, right?’

‘Rape is rape is rape,’ Brigstocke said. ‘I’m assuming you believe that, DC Pallister. Or do we need to have a private conversation in my office afterwards?’

‘No, of course not. I mean . . . yes, I believe it one hundred per cent.’

‘Good to hear,’ Brigstocke said. ‘So . . . ’

He turned to the screen and everyone stared at the printout of the message posted on the Roasting the Pork message board by LoveMyBro.

‘Interesting,’ Holland said.

At the end of the table, DCI Jeremy Walker huffed, glaring at the statement as though it was a photograph of someone shagging his wife.

‘It’s certainly something worth looking into,’ Brigstocke said.

‘Seriously?’ Walker sat forward quickly and pointed accusingly at the screen. ‘A random message from some online nutters’ forum? Some troublemaker . . . ’

‘It doesn’t look very random to me,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s pretty specific.’

Walker turned to glare at Thorne instead. ‘It’s a vile accusation against a dead man.’

‘Not an accusation anyone here is making,’ Brigstocke said.

‘Even so—’

‘But somebody is, and precisely because Chris Tully is one of our murder victims, it’s an avenue of enquiry we need to pursue.’

‘It’s a dead end,’ Walker said. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Brigstocke said.

‘You remember who George Oldfield was, don’t you?’

It was clear from Brigstocke’s face that he remembered very well and that he knew exactly why Walker was reminding him; where he was going with it. Seeing the recognition on Brigstocke’s face, Walker turned to address the other detectives around the table.

‘For those of you not quite old enough, Oldfield was the copper who chose to believe the “Wearside Jack” tape that arrived during the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Who believed it was genuine and not just something sent in by a “nutter” or a “troublemaker”. He was the officer who decided it was an “avenue of enquiry they needed to pursue” and diverted the investigation to Sunderland, which almost certainly cost the lives of two more women who were murdered in, surprise surprise, Yorkshire.’ He turned back and stared at Brigstocke. ‘Don’t be George Oldfield, Russell.’

Thorne watched as the fists held tight against Brigstocke’s side slowly unclenched; as he took a few moments to breathe and regain his composure and fight the urge to take on his opposite number from Wood Green.

Then he turned calmly to his team.

‘First and foremost we need to look for any connection between Tully and Knowles. Did they ever work together? Did they drink in the same pub? Were they in the same five-a-side football team? And at the same time, let’s have a good hard look at Christopher Tully.

Home life, service record, notable arrests in the last few years . . . anything that might suggest—’

Brigstocke stopped when Walker stood up suddenly, his chair rocking back as he gathered his things. Everyone in the room watched as the man adjusted his bright red tie, turned the ID on his lanyard to the front and walked slowly around the table towards the door.

He opened it and spoke without turning round. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I need to hear.’

Brigstocke barked out a laugh. ‘Oh, well, that’s—’

‘Or care to hear come to that.’ Now, Walker turned round. ‘I’ll be waiting in your office.’