Murder Club - Mark Pearson [27]
The man in question, Superintendent George Napier, was an imposing figure. Tall, ebony-skinned, and dressed with military neatness and precision in his full uniform. Most people quailed beneath his critical scrutiny; but Diane Campbell wasn’t most people.
‘I’m sure everything will be fine, sir,’ she said and looked out at the car park again. Still no sign of Delaney’s ancient Saab, and George Napier had expressly told her that he wanted the detective inspector to be in first thing.
‘Everything had better be better than fine!’ said Napier and looked angrily at his watch. ‘And where is the bloody man?’
Diane reckoned if she had been given a pound for every time she had been asked that question about Jack Delaney, she could have retired five years ago and set up an antiques shop in Norfolk. Not that she knew anything about antiques, mind, but her partner – who worked downstairs in the evidence store – did. And what made her happy usually ended up making Diane happy. She smiled slightly at the thought, remembering how she had been woken earlier that morning.
‘Something amusing you, Diane?’ snapped the superintendent.
Diane shook her head, putting on the kind of serious expression her boss expected. ‘No, sir. Just pleased at the prospect of seeing justice done. Finally.’
‘Justice would have been done if the man who stood on Robinson’s neck had done a proper job of it there and then. Saved the taxpayer a great deal of wasted time and money.’
‘True.’
Napier tapped his finger on his colleague’s desk. ‘But your man Delaney has a history of cock-ups, Diane. This trial better not turn into another one or I will have his arse on a plate and served back to him.’
‘You’re mixing your metaphors, sir.’
Napier looked at her straight face. ‘Are you being flip with me, Diane?’
‘Not at all, sir! Sorry, I’m a bit anal about grammar and the like. Drives my PA mad.’
Napier nailed his finger on her desk again. ‘I mean it. This goes pearshaped and he’s gone. My word on it!’
‘Michael Robinson is guilty, sir. We all know it.’
‘The press don’t share your level of confidence, Chief Inspector.’
‘With respect, sir, some of the press don’t share the same gene pool as the rest of the human race.’
‘Like I say, Diane. This is not the time for levity. Michael Robinson spent nine months in hospital. The fact that he didn’t die is considered a medical miracle.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘Do you need me to list the broken bones?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The crushed larynx.’
‘I know the injuries he sustained.’
‘Injuries. The man spent weeks in a coma, five months before he was able to walk properly again, and damn near a whole year before he was fit to stand trial.’
‘He’s certainly able to do that now, sir.’
‘Isn’t he just!’ Napier slammed a copy of that morning’s Times on the Superintendent’s desk. The headlines reading, POLICE ON TRIAL AS MICHAEL ROBINSON COMES TO COURT.
Diane glanced briefly at the paper. She’d already seen it and the others, including the more aggressively accusatory red-top banners.
‘I would point out that the assault on Michael Robinson took place under the aegis of Her Majesty’s Prison Service, sir. The Metropolitan Police had no culpability whatsoever.’
‘Jack Delaney is not culpable, you damn well mean! After all, the man is as pure as driven snow, isn’t he?’ Napier added sarcastically.
Diane looked at the piles of snow being shovelled from the car park and resisted the urge to smile again; winding her boss up was one of the small pleasures she took delight in, but, as he had said himself, this morning was not the time for it.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ she said instead.