The only problem was that this information could not be passed on to the press. It could not come out until a trial. And that was a problem indeed because the moment the word got out that a member of London’s foreign citizenry had been hit by a vehicle while running from the coppers-which hadn’t taken long-the press had gathered like the wolf pack they were, on the scent of a story that smacked of police incompetence. They were baying to bring down the responsible party, and the job of the Met was to position itself to handle things when the wolves closed in for the kill.
Which, naturally, was one of two reasons that Hillier had wanted to see her: to determine what the Met’s position was going to be. The other reason, she knew, was to assess if or how badly she’d cocked things up. Should he decide blame lay with her, she was finished, the opportunity for promotion gone.
The broadsheets that morning had taken a wait-and-see attitude, reporting the bare facts. The tabloids, on the other hand, were doing their usual. Isabelle had watched BBC1 as she’d made her preparations for the day, and the morning talking heads did their typical bit with both the broadsheets and the tabloids, holding them up for the delectation of their viewers and commenting upon the stories featured. Thus in advance of heading to the Yard, she knew that gallons of newsprint were being devoted to the “Copper Chase Disaster.” This gave her time to prepare. Whatever she reported to Hillier had to be good, and she damn well knew it. For once the papers connected the victim with his famous brother, which would hardly take long considering Zaynab Bourne’s threats of the previous day, the story would have even stronger legs. Undoubtedly then it would run for days. Things could have been worse, but Isabelle couldn’t quite see how.
She had an Irish coffee prior to leaving for work. She told herself that the caffeine would counteract the effects of the whisky, and besides, after being up for most of the night, she had earned it. She drank it down quickly. She also tucked four airline bottles of vodka into her bag. She assured herself that she likely wouldn’t need them, and anyway they were not enough to do anything but help her think clearly if she felt muddled during the day.
She stopped in at the incident room at work. She told Philip Hale to relieve the officer at St. Thomas’ Hospital and to remain there. His startled expression replied that as a DI, he should not be asked to do something that a uniformed constable could easily do, as it was a waste of manpower. She waited for him actually to make a comment, but he sucked in a breath and said nothing but, “Guv,” in polite response. No matter because John Stewart talked for him, saying laconically, “Due respect, guv…,” which, Isabelle knew, he felt nothing of anyway. She snapped, “What is it?” and he pointed out that using a detective inspector as some sort of single-headed Cerberus at the hospital when he could otherwise be handling what he’d earlier been told to handle-all of the background checks which were, by the way, mounting up-was hardly a wise use of Philip’s expertise. She told him she didn’t need his advice. “Get on to forensics and stay glued to them. Why’s the analysis of those hairs found on the body taking so long? And where the hell is DI Lynley?”
He’d been called up to Hillier’s office, she was informed. Stewart did the informing, and he looked as if nothing could have pleased him more than to be the person sharing that bit of news with her.
She might otherwise have avoided her meeting with Hillier, but because Lynley had been there-doubtless making his own report on the goings-on of the previous day-she had no choice but to take herself to the assistant commissioner’s office. She refused to fortify herself before heading there. Lynley’s impertinent question about her drinking still plagued her.
She met him in the corridor near Hillier’s office. He said, “You look like you’ve had no sleep.”
She told him she’d returned to the hospital and remained there long into the night. “How are things?” she asked in conclusion, with a nod towards the AC’s office.
“As expected. It could have gone better with Matsumoto yesterday. He wants to know why it didn’t.”
“Does he see that as your position, Thomas?”
“What?”
“Making those sorts of determinations. Making reports to him about my performance. Official snout. Whatever.”
Lynley gazed at her in a fashion she found disconcerting. It wasn’t sexual. She could have dealt with that. It was, instead, rather more than intolerably kind. He said quietly, “I’m on your side, Isabelle.”
“Are you?”
“I am. He’s thrown you headfirst into the investigation because he’s being pressured from above to fill Malcolm Webberly’s position and he wants to know how you do the job. But what’s going on with him is only partially about you. The rest is politics. Politics involve the commissioner, the Home Office, and the press. As you’re feeling the heat, so is he.”
“I wasn’t wrong, the situation yesterday wasn’t mismanaged.”
“I didn’t tell him it was. The man panicked. No one knows why.”
“That’s what you told him?”
“That’s what I told him.”
“If Philip Hale hadn’t-”
“Don’t throw Philip into the midst of feeding sharks. That sort of thing will return to haunt you. The best position to take is no one’s to blame. That’s the position that will serve you in the long run.”
She thought about this. She said, “Is he alone?”
“When I went in, he was. But he’s phoned for Stephenson Deacon to come to his office. There’s got to be a briefing and the Directorate of Public Affairs wants it as soon as possible. That will mean today.”
Isabelle acknowledged a fleeting wish that she’d tossed back at least one of the bottles of vodka. There was no telling how long the coming meeting would take. But then she assured herself that she was up to the challenge. This wasn’t about her, as Lynley had said. She was merely present to answer questions.
She said to Lynley, “Thank you, Thomas,” and it was only when she was approaching the desk of Hillier’s secretary that she realised Lynley had earlier used her Christian name. She turned back to say something to him, but he was already gone.
Judi MacIntosh made a brief call into the sanctum sanctorum of the assistant commissioner. She said, “Superintendent Ardery-,” but got no further. She listened for a moment and said, “Indeed, sir.” She told Isabelle that she was to wait. It would be a few minutes. Did the superintendent want a cup of coffee?
Isabelle declined. She knew she was supposed to sit, so that was what she did, but she didn’t find it easy. As she was waiting, her mobile rang. Her ex-husband, she saw. She wouldn’t talk to him now.
A middle-aged man came into the area, a litre bottle of soda water tucked into his arm. Judi MacIntosh said to him, “Do go in, Mr. Deacon,” so Isabelle knew she was looking at the head of the Press Bureau, sent by the Directorate of Public Affairs to get to grips with the situation. Oddly, Stephenson Deacon had a football stomach although the rest of him was thin as a towel in a third-rate hotel. This inadvertently gave the impression of a pregnant woman blindly determined to watch her weight.
Deacon disappeared into Hillier’s office, and Isabelle spent an agonising quarter of an hour waiting to see what would happen next. What happened was Judi MacIntosh’s being asked to send Isabelle within, although how Judi MacIntosh received this information was a mystery to Isabelle as nothing had seemed to intrude upon what the woman was doing-which was beavering away at some typing on her computer-when she looked up and announced, “Do go inside, Superintendent Ardery.”
Isabelle did so. She was introduced to Stephenson Deacon and she was asked to join him and Hillier at the conference table to one side of the AC’s office. There she was subjected to a thorough grilling by both men on the topic of what had happened, when, where, why, who did what to whom, what sort of chase, how many witnesses, what had been the alternatives to giving chase, did the suspect speak English, did the police show their identification, was anyone in uniform, etc., etc.