Archie had time for one word before the line cut out – well, four if he came from pretty much anywhere else: ‘Yalright’.

40

Jessica drove back to the station trying to think of what it all meant. She was pretty sure that Freddy Bunce had complained about her, while a car probably owned by Logan Walkden had followed her home that very evening. They were both the same age – but so what? It was still a long string of unconnected things: the symbol on the letter through her door, the tattoo that Damon Potter wanted to get, Bunce, Pomeroy and now Walkden; no one thing connected to another.

The traffic was light and Jessica completed the journey all too quickly, with no particular plan of what to do next. She coasted through the station and returned to her office to begin typing everything up. It really was like the old days.

And then she had a thought.

Jessica loaded the Greater Manchester Police website, which was full of the same old nonsense – a top five most-wanted that no one would look at, reported crime statistics that no one – including those who worked for GMP – believed, a map of the city, an open letter from the chief constable banging on about the community, a timetable of events people wouldn’t attend, and a list of the senior staff. Jessica clicked through to the Longsight officers’ page and stared at her own face. The picture had been taken years ago and barely seemed like her any longer. She had slightly spottier skin, shorter, darker hair and a bizarre glimmer of optimism. She thought that it had probably been taken not long after she met Adam, before what happened with her colleague, Carrie – before everything else. She wasn’t that person any longer.

With a click, Jessica got rid of the photograph and moved on to the command team – the chief constable, his deputy and the assistant chief constables. Graham Pomeroy’s photo had definitely been taken a few years – and about five stone – ago. In the picture, his cheeks only slightly overhung his jawline and Jessica could only count three chins instead of the five he had now. She clicked on his face and skipped the top part, concentrating on his biography instead:

Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy

Graham joined GMP twenty-one years ago after a spell with the Royal Air Force and training as an engineer. He has worked in many roles through constable, sergeant, inspector in Bury, Salford and Manchester (Metropolitan). After deployments with strategic command and tactical firearms, Graham was asked to oversee the implementation of a new community policing policy in Salford.

A successful spell there saw him promoted to chief inspector, where he worked in Bolton and Wigan before being promoted to superintendent.

After another fruitful deployment to corporate assistance, Graham was promoted to assistant chief constable, where he currently oversees territorial outsourcing.

No wonder the public thought they were all wankers – anyone who sounded that boring in a profile they’d approved deserved everything coming to them. Jessica had no idea what ‘territorial outsourcing’ involved – presumably something to do with having police officers in various territories. How hard could that be? And what was ‘corporate assistance’? Nowhere in his profile did it mention that he’d seemingly spent a large number of those twenty-one years eating.

Jessica scanned to the bottom where it listed the awards, commendations and qualifications he had. There was no date of birth but it was easy enough to work out the year because of the date he got his O-levels. She had to use her fingers to count and then wrote it down on a pad just to be sure. After checking it four times, Jessica was certain: Pomeroy had been born in the same year as Bunce and Walkden.

She tried to remember what Garry Ashford had told her about Freddy Bunce.

Nine months ago he was given a contract by the council to build a new housing estate for them.

He’d printed off an article about it and Dave had packed the information they had into a cardboard wallet. Where had it gone?

Jessica didn’t want to be seen around the station potentially conspiring with anyone, let alone Dave, but she didn’t have much choice. She headed through the corridors to the main area in which the constables worked. In the front corner was DI Franks’ office, which he shared with one of the detective sergeants, whom they hadn’t managed to cram into the sergeants’ station a few doors down. Jessica had been concerned for a while that they were going to force her to share offices with Wanky Frankie but had so far been lucky.

Keeping her head down, Jessica hurried past his office door and glided swiftly towards Dave’s desk. The stack of binders and folders had shrunk somewhat, but he was still slumped in his seat, typing. It looked like he had barely moved since she last saw him.

As she approached his head shot up, peering over the folders towards Franks’ office. ‘Jess, I, er . . .’

Jessica didn’t waste any time, but she did lower her voice: ‘What happened to the printouts about Bunce?’

Dave frowned and then started sorting through the folders on his desk. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember when I last had them.’

‘You had them when we went to Bunce’s house and office yesterday.’

His face fell: ‘They’re probably still in the car. Sorry – we were rushing around and then I was busy answering your phone.’

Jessica gave him a wink. ‘Missing me yet?’

Before he could answer, she snatched a pad of Post-it notes from his desk, turned and headed back off the floor as quickly as she had arrived, thrusting the pad in the air and hoping that ‘borrowing’ stationery was enough of a reason for her to be walking past her friend’s desk if anyone wondered.

Claiming she’d left a jacket in the car, Jessica was relieved to discover the vehicle she’d taken the previous day was still on the premises. She signed the keys out and hurried to the car park, dreading the thought of hunting around the back of the patrol car.

The first thing she noticed as she climbed in was the stench. When she’d been in it yesterday with Dave it had seemed fine – but now it smelled like someone had emptied a takeaway Chinese over the steering wheel. The front and back seats were clear, leaving Jessica to crouch on all fours and go digging underneath. As her fingers slipped into something sloppy, Jessica realised that someone had indeed been eating Chinese food. A foil tub of what had once been noodles had congealed into a cold, mushy, stinking tray of goo. Jessica tried not to gag but took the tub out and dumped it in a nearby drain, wiping her fingers on the material of the back seat and hoping she was able to check out a different car the next time she needed one.

Some of her colleagues really were disgusting.

Deeper under the seat was a small pizza box, folded over and over, then wedged in place. The grease stains may have been dry, but they were still foul.

The first offering from underneath the passenger seat was a well-worn, partially torn beacon of respectability: Asian Jugs. Jessica flicked through the first few pages of the magazine and had to admit that the material did at least live up to what the title promised.

Dirty bastards.

Just as she was beginning to think she had covered her hand in day-old Chinese slime for no reason, Jessica’s fingers finally closed around the cardboard folder.

Wash hands, sign the keys back in, wash hands again, leave the porn mag in Archie’s cubby hole, back to the office.

Jessica locked her door and spread the printouts across the spare desk that had once belonged to DS Louise Cornish. She felt that familiar prickle of anticipation at the back of her neck after reading the first five paragraphs about Freddy Bunce’s contract to build social housing for the council – the deal that had cost an eight-figure sum.