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‘Detective Inspector Reid.’ Ruskin sipped at his coffee. ‘You’re probably wondering why I wanted to see you. Well, first of all I want to thank you. You’re a very professional man. I’ve read your personnel files. Lots of very positive comments over the years. And of course you did a fine job the other day.’ He paused and smiled at Reid, who felt uncomfortable. He had no doubt that this was the buttering-up part of the interview. The lull before the storm. ‘It was all very unfortunate,’ Ruskin continued. ‘Bowman was a very fine officer, one of my best, totally loyal and reliable. But to be shot by a lunatic with a gun who then turned the gun on himself.’ Ruskin took another sip of coffee. ‘Now that really is a desperate end.’
Reid sipped at his own coffee. Normally he liked coffee, but this tasted like mud.
‘You submitted a report, of course. Quite right. Senior officer on the scene.’
Reid knew what was coming. In general terms if not in detail. He would hav
e to be a grade A idiot to not realise what it was: a very large ‘but.’ With a capital ‘B.’
‘I have to say I am not entirely comfortable with your conclusions.’ Ruskin faced him, elbows on the desk, hands clenched together, chin resting on top of them, eyes staring.
Reid knew he had to say something. Ruskin’s silence was as insistent as the Napoleon clock on his desk, ticking remorselessly onwards.
‘My conclusions were based on my assessment of the evidence.’ Reid winced as he heard the words come out. Was that the best he could do?
‘Your conclusions were highly speculative.’ Ruskin spoke sharply. ‘Subjective too, Inspector. Not what I would have expected of an officer of your experience.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. ‘I would go so far as to say that it is a very damaging report. Damaging for the reputation of a very able officer who is under my ultimate control.’ He paused. His eyes tightened. ‘And potentially very damaging to you, as the officer who submitted it.’
Reid tried not to flinch, but he was out of his depth, treading water and not having a clue how far his feet were from the bottom.
‘Did you know the man who shot Bowman?’ Ruskin said.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Reid cleared his throat. ‘What I mean to say is, his face was one hell of a mess. He would have been hard to identify even if he had been a colleague or a friend. He had no ID on him.’
Ruskin was still watching him, eyes half closed.
Reid blundered on. Now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. ‘Which was what made me suspicious. Everyone has ID with them these days. A bank card at least. Most people have endless cards — coffee shop cards, store cards, driving licence . . . But not him. Which meant someone had taken it off him. And there were only two people who could have done that.’
‘I see.’
‘And then there was another thing. The entry point of the bullet which killed him was under the left-hand side of the jaw. He was right-handed. You could tell because his watch was on his left hand. It would have been very difficult for him to position the gun where it must have been positioned.’
‘I’ve read your report very thoroughly, Inspector.’ Ruskin stood up and brushed imaginary dust off his jacket. Then he looked across at Reid. ‘I still hold to the view that it is flawed. I have therefore ordered that it be removed from the system. As from today, you are on gardening leave. You are not to return to your office. I have arranged for a letter to be delivered to your home address within the next twenty-four hours. It will contain full details of the terms of your early retirement. You are not to discuss this with anyone. You are also not to attempt to make any contact with your former colleague, Detective Inspector Ashcroft. Is that clear?’
Reid nodded. Detective Inspector Ashcroft! The message could hardly be clearer.
‘In that case, goodbye and enjoy your retirement.’
* * *
Reid had never been in shock before. Was this what it was like? He had made it to the embankment on the edge of the Thames without any consciousness of how he got there. One moment he was being escorted back out of the building by the young clothes horse and the next he was here, leaning against the wall and staring across the water. He looked around and his eyes settled on a Chinese bride and her groom. They were perched on the embankment wall. A man with a camera on a tripod was busy framing them against the background of the Houses of Parliament while another man and a woman fussed over the bride’s dress and hair. The groom was looking intently at his mobile phone.
The woman Maggie had been in shock — or so he had assumed — sitting frozen on her chair, almost catatonic. Perhaps she too had been unable to understand how on earth she had got there. One minute she had been out there on the moors with the girl and the next there in the cottage in the middle of a bloodbath.
Samuel Foulkes had got away with it. Reid knew that now. He had shot the guy who had shot Bowman. Only that explained all the discrepancies. He should have challenged him at the time, searched him, but he hadn’t been sure what he had blundered into until much later, when he had lain sleepless in bed and put everything together. ‘A very able officer under my ultimate control.’ That had been what Ruskin had said. It had been a warning. But it had also been an admission. ‘Ultimate control.’ Why ultimate? Who was he referring to? He had assumed at the time that he was referring to Bowman, but the only way the words made sense were if they referred to Sam Foulkes. Sam Foulkes was an undercover officer whom Ruskin wanted to protect. Back off, Reid, had been the message. Or else. And stupid fool that he was, he had been reluctant to back off.
Reid looked around again. He couldn’t help feeling that someone was watching him. The Chinese wedding group was still there. There were individuals and couples walking towards him along the embankment. He looked the other way. A group of elderly people were advancing towards him from the opposite direction. He wondered what had brought them here today. He began to walk towards them. He needed a good long walk while he tried to come to terms with his new status. Gardening leave, and soon after that a prolonged retirement stretching far into the distance until cancer or a heart attack or pneumonia put an end to the regular monthly payments.
He moved to the right, allowing the crowd of pensioners to pass by him. There were a few smiles and acknowledgements, as if to say welcome to the club.
‘Excuse me.’ He recoiled as a woman brushed past him. She was going in the same direction, but much more briskly. He admired her figure. She wore a green coat with a brown belt pulled tight, as if to emphasise her slim waist. Tan boots. Light brown hair which flowed behind her. He felt a yearning for a life lived and lost, for the vigour of youth which he would never experience again. He willed her to stop and turn around. He wanted to see her face, to see her smile or scowl or merely look bemused.
There was a noise behind him. Reid turned to see a cyclist, togged up with all the latest gear — shorts, hi vis shirt, helmet, mask over his face against the London pollution — only metres away. He raised his right hand. There was something in it which flashed in the sunlight. A knife?
Reid ducked and pulled his arms across over his head. He was ready for the sudden pain, but he wasn’t going to go quietly. He heard the squeal of brakes and a thump as the cycle hit the stonework.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Reid looked up. The man staring down at him his was furious. His left hand gripped his bike, the right a mobile phone.
