* * *
Superintendent Richard Newton stirred his tea thoughtfully as he watched the video recording. He looked up as his secretary entered his office and placed a plate of assorted biscuits on his desk. “Thanks, Nancy,” he said, using the remote control to switch off the recorder. He sighed and leaned back in his executive chair. “I suppose you’d better send in the clowns,” he said.
Nancy opened the door and ushered in Nick Wright and Tommy Reid. They stood in front of his desk, unsure whether or not to sit. Newton continued to stir his tea, a look of contempt on his face. Reid had changed out of his tramp’s disguise, but his brown suit and stained tie weren’t much of an improvement. Wright was as usual the better dressed of the two, but there were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Both men studiously avoided Newton’s stare, their eyes fixed on a point in the wall behind him.
“Tell me, Tommy, what does the word ‘assistance’ mean to you?” asked Newton.
“Help?” said Reid, hopefully.
Newton nodded. “Help would do. Support. Aid. All perfectly reasonable alternatives. So when the Moles asked for assistance, what do you think they expected to get?”
“Help, sir?” said Reid, frowning.
“Exactly,” said Newton. “Help. Not hindrance, not a foul-up, not two of my men making fools of themselves. What happened down there? How did he get away?”
“The guy was fast, sir. That guy could run for England.”
Newton sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Maybe if you two spent more time in the gym and less time in the pub you’d have been able to keep up with him.” He picked up his spoon and started to stir his tea again. “What was in the bottle, Tommy?”
After several seconds of silence, Reid shrugged. “I was supposed to be an alkie, sir. I could hardly have carted around a bottle of Perrier, could I?”
“Inspector Murray said you’d been drinking on the job. So I’m asking you on the record, what was in the bottle? On the record, Tommy?”
Reid looked across at his partner, then back at the superintendent. “Ribena, sir.”
Newton put the spoon down and sipped his tea. “Ribena?” he said, as if it was the first time he’d ever heard the word. “That would account for the smell on your breath, I suppose,” he said dryly, then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pack of Polo mints which he rolled across his desk towards Reid. “We’re going to need an artist’s impression of the one that got away. There’s nothing usable on the video.” He dismissed them with a tired half-wave, then had a change of mind. “Nick, stay behind, will you?”
Newton waited until Reid had closed the door before asking Wright to sit down on one of the two steel and leather chairs facing the desk. “Are you still living with Tommy?” he asked.
Wright nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“How long’s it been now? Three months?”
“Five.”
Newton traced his finger along the edge of his saucer. “What about getting a place of your own?”
Wright pulled a face as if he was in pain. “It’s a question of money, sir. Things are a bit tight just now.”
“Your divorce came through, right?”
Wright nodded again. “Yeah, but she’s still after more money. There’s the house payments, child support, she wanted double-glazing put in.” Wright held his hands out as if warding off an attack. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bring my problems into the office.”
“You’ve nothing to apologise for, Nick. Divorce is becoming the norm these days. Unfortunately.” He stared at the cup with its pattern of roses. “Five months is a long time to be living with Tommy. He’s one of our best detectives, but his personal life leaves a lot to be desired. You’ve got a lot of potential, Nick. I wouldn’t want any of his how shall I put it? habits, rubbing off on you.”
“Understood, sir.”
Newton’s telephone rang and he waved for Wright to go as he reached for the receiver.