Читать книгу Scared to Death: A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down - Kate Medina, Kate Medina - Страница 20

Callan found Blackdown’s commanding officer, Colonel Philip Wallace, in his office. He was in his fifties, a large man, square and solid, both facially and in his build, running to fat around the middle, as were many men of his age, used to spending too much time behind a desk.

‘Come in, Captain Callan. You’re the Senior Investigating Officer on this case?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So where have we got to?’ A clipped, public school accent, the tone controlled but commanding.

‘It’s early days, sir. The autopsy is booked for tomorrow morning, so we should have confirmed cause of death by end of day tomorrow.’ Callan tried to catch his eye, to form the crucial first impression of the man who would, no doubt, be breathing down his neck until the investigation was concluded. But sunlight was cutting obliquely through the window to Wallace’s right, lighting his face, masking his eyes behind the reflection in his frameless square spectacle lenses. ‘But I suspect it’s murder.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the nature of the victim’s injuries. A throat wound. It couldn’t have been accidental and it’s a …’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘… brave way to commit suicide. And also the weapon that was used was found eight metres from his body, the tip stabbed into the ground, at an angle. Thrown, my CSI sergeant said. Long way to throw it when you’re bleeding from a throat wound.’

Sighing, Wallace dipped his head and rubbed his hands over his bald scalp, the sound of his palms grating through the sparse grey stubble, sandpaper on wood.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how sensitive this death will be. Sixteen-year-old, five months in.’

There was a brusqueness to Wallace’s tone that Callan was well used to: men who were accustomed, over years, to silence and assent. Not conditions that Callan reacted well to, despite his chosen profession. This case was Military Police jurisdiction, but Wallace was commanding officer at Blackdown, and although far above the victim in the Army hierarchy, he was still Foster’s direct superior, which gave him an unalienable right to be informed, involved, omnipresent.

‘We need to get this sorted quickly, Captain.’

‘That is my intention.’

‘Keep a lid on the negative publicity.’ Wallace cleared his throat. ‘Can you do that for me?’

‘That’s not my first priority, sir.’

The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because he met Wallace’s gaze behind his glasses now. His eyes were light grey and shone with an intense, uncompromising gleam.

‘Nevertheless, it is an important one.’ Wallace’s eyes narrowed. ‘Discretion is the better part of valour, as they say. I’ve heard that you know all about valour.’ His gaze found the scar on Callan’s temple. ‘But discretion …?’ He let the sentence hang.

‘I have no intention of speaking to the press,’ Callan replied. ‘And I will ensure that none of my team do either.’

‘That was all I wanted to hear.’

A knock on the door. Wallace frowned. ‘Yes?’

The door inched open and Lieutenant Gold stuck his head through the gap. His eyes flitted from Callan to Wallace and back to Callan.

‘The guard are isolated and ready to be interviewed, Captain,’ he said.

‘Come on in, Gold,’ Wallace barked.

‘I need to get back, sir.’ Gold addressed his comment to Callan.

‘You’ve left someone guarding the interviewees?’ Callan asked.

‘Sergeant Kiddie.’

‘Fine. So come in.’

Fingering the knot of his tie, the yellow-haired lieutenant stepped over the threshold. He came to attention facing Colonel Wallace, a salute that Wallace waved away.

‘No need for that.’ Wallace came out from behind his desk and laid a light hand on Gold’s shoulder. ‘So you’re working on this case too? I didn’t realize.’

Taking a step back, Gold disengaged his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir.’ His gaze swung away from Wallace’s and Callan noticed a muscle above his eye twitch.

‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ Wallace said gruffly, his face creasing into a frown, the expression at odds with his words. He glanced over to Callan. ‘You may have heard that we share a relative.’

Callan gave a non-committal half-nod. He hadn’t heard and the information was irrelevant to him. He wouldn’t view or treat Gold any differently because of it.

Leaning back against his desk, legs crossed at the ankle, Wallace slid his hands into his pockets. ‘So how are you finding the Special Investigation Branch, Gold?’

Gold’s slender fingers moved to smooth the collar of his shirt, a collar that was already starched and ironed within an inch of its life.

‘Good, sir, I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying the autonomy, the freedom.’ His voice was too loud for the small office, as if he was struggling to pitch his volume at the correct level.

Callan, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching intently, realized with surprise that Gold was tense, stressed. There was a prickliness, an antagonism to the atmosphere in the room that hadn’t been present earlier, when it was him and Wallace.

‘Yes, I’m sure that the Branch is an interesting place to be,’ Wallace said. ‘Make the most of it, eh. Spend as much time as you can with Captain Callan here. Learn from him.’

A brief nod and Gold’s eyes swivelled to meet Callan’s. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to the interviewees.’

Callan glanced at Wallace before replying, but Wallace wasn’t looking at him. He was gazing down at the carpet, his face creased again into that frown.

‘Yes, you go. I’ll join you in a minute.’

Turning, Gold left the room without another word.

Callan straightened. ‘If that’s all, Colonel, I’ll get back too.’

Tugging his glasses off, Wallace massaged the bridge of his nose with two blunt fingers and sighed irritably. ‘Make sure that you involve Gold in every aspect of the case. Keep an eye on him for me, will you? It’s important to pass on your expertise to junior officers and Gold is bright and talented.’

The request was no doubt motivated by family connection, perhaps a favour Wallace owed to that relative he had mentioned, and the entreaty needled Callan. He hailed from a long line of factory workers, was the first in his family not to have ended up on the shop floor purely because politicians hadn’t yet got around to closing the local grammar school and he’d been smart enough to win a place. His father had died fourteen years ago; his mother lived in a modern terraced house in a secure gated development in a nice part of Aldershot that he paid for. He had made his own way in the world from the age of sixteen, reviled others who hadn’t done the same, some of that feeling motivated, he recognized, by envy.

‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered, making his way to the door. Jesus. This investigation was going from bad to worse and it had hardly begun.