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It was what Poe had expected. He had neither the time nor the inclination to wait for Gamble to keep catching up. He left the room and dialled Flynn.
She answered immediately. It sounded as though she was driving.
Poe updated her on the legal roadblock they’d just hit and how he thought there might be something in the records worth seeing.
‘Steph, I need a search warrant and I can’t wait for Gamble. Can you get van Zyl to authorise one? If it’s faxed to the Civic Centre in Carlisle, I’ll get DS Reid to march it straight over to the magistrates’ court. They’re on the other side of the road so it’ll be a two-minute job to get it signed.’
‘And they definitely won’t release them without a warrant?’
‘Nope. They’re scared of the legal repercussions.’
‘What repercussions?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Poe said.
‘Leave it to me,’ she said.
Poe returned to the small conference room and explained what was happening. Evans agreed to wait.
‘The magistrates will be more open to a Cumbrian cop, Kylian. You OK going downstairs and waiting for it to come in?’
‘You want me to tell Gamble?’
Poe shook his head. He wanted first crack at whatever was in those files. ‘We’ll tell him if we find something.’
‘He’s going to be furious,’ Reid said, ‘. . . again.’
‘Yep,’ Poe nodded. He didn’t care.
Neither did Reid, apparently. He left to wait by the fax machine in reception. Poe knew that within five minutes he’d have the receptionists eating out of his hand. They’d be falling over themselves to bring him drinks and cake. By the time the fax arrived he’d know all about them: their husban
d’s foibles, their children’s dreams and where they’d be having a cheeky wine after work if he fancied joining them . . .
Poe asked some general questions about the home.
‘If it was a charity that ran it, why do you have the records?’
‘It’s the law,’ Evans replied, feeling he was on safer ground. ‘Officially we don’t buy bed spaces from privately run homes; we go into partnership with them. That means all funding has to be signed off at director level.’
‘It’s a way of ensuring the council remains accountable for their waifs and strays,’ Jackson added. ‘We can’t just buy services and forget about them. We remain heavily involved.’
It made sense.
‘Who was in charge twenty-six years ago?’ Poe asked.
Jackson looked at Evans. He nodded.
‘We seconded a woman called Hilary Swift. In those days the manager of a children’s home had to have a social work qualification.’
‘She still with you?’
‘Retired.’
Poe had expected more: either an endorsement of her attributes or a damnation of her failings. It was rare to mention an ex-colleague and then leave it hanging. There was something he wasn’t being told.
Jackson hadn’t got to senior management by gossiping, though. She folded her arms and refused to elaborate.
Evans helped her. ‘Employees and ex-employees are entitled to the same level of protection, Sergeant Poe.’
