Murder Club - Mark Pearson [76]
‘I think I’m going to go into CID,’ he continued as the two of them walked to the top end of Oxford Street. ‘Yeah, lookit …’
Bob Wilkinson stopped and stared at him. ‘Did you just say “lookit” to me?’
The younger constable shrugged. ‘What about it?’
‘I’ll tell you what about it, Danny Vine. You ever use the expression, “lookit”, “innit” or “knowwhat-imean”, and I will stamp on your size-ten plates of meat, and then you will really know what chilblains are.’
‘You going racist on me, Bob?’
‘I’ll go racist with my asp up your arse in a minute.’
‘Seriously though, why not?’ Danny persisted as they passed the only pub genuinely to be found on Oxford Street, The Tottenham.
‘Did you know, Danny, that in 1852 there were thirty-eight pubs in Oxford Street and now there is only one?’ Bob jerked his thumb sideways as they passed it. ‘Now, if that ain’t a sign of the times, I don’t know what is.’
‘Seriously though, Bob, what do you reckon? Should I go for CID?’
‘Get to work a bit closer with the lovely Sally Cartwright. Is that the idea?’
Danny Vine shook his head, a little flustered. ‘No. Not at all.’
‘You don’t have to be coy with me, son. I’ve worn out enough shoe leather in this game to know a thing or two or the mating dance of the lesser spotted constable.’
They turned left at the intersection and walked up Tottenham Court Road. The snow underfoot had turned to mush although the temperature was definitely dropping again.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Bob. She’s an attractive woman.’
‘She’s gorgeous. Clever. Personable,’ Bob Wilkinson agreed. ‘If I was sixty-eight years younger, I might be giving you a run for your money.’
‘But she’s made it quite clear she’s not interested in me. Can’t say I blame her after what happened.’
‘The guy got what was coming to him, that’s for sure.’
‘Jack Delaney sure don’t take no prisoners, does he?’ said Danny.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘First Michael Hill and now Michael Robinson. Both taken out. You’ve heard the gossip.’
‘What, he don’t like people with the name Michael?’
‘Couldn’t blame him if he did. I was just saying …’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Seriously, Danny, DI Jack Delaney may have a lot of enemies on the force, but he’s got a lot of friends too.’
‘Yeah I know. Jeez, Bob! I didn’t mean anything by anything.’
‘Good. That’s that then.’
‘But CID, you know. People like Jack, they get to make a difference.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘That’s what I want.’
‘We make a difference too, lad.’
‘What, out tramping in the cold and snow, homeless shelter after homeless shelter?’
‘You think CID just sit around in warm pubs drinking mulled wine this time of year, and waiting for inspiration to strike?’
‘Guinness maybe,’ Danny laughed and held up his hand before Bob Wilkinson could reply. ‘Joke, Bob. Joke.’
The constable shook his head. ‘Well, you might just be right on that one.’
Five minutes later and they were in the offices of one of the many homeless shelters dotted around the capital. Not the one Bible Steve was usually taken to. That had been their first port of call. Then lots more.
The woman in charge of the centre was in her fifties, with a plump figure, thick dark hair and a sense of energy and enthusiasm that was a dramatic contrast to the hangdog attitude of Bob Wilkinson.
‘So how can I help you, officers? My name is Marian Clark.’
‘We’re just constables, ma’am,’ replied Wilkinson, although PC Danny Vine here has plans to become the next Commissioner.’
Marian Clark smiled at the young constable. ‘Well, as the great man once said … you have to have a dream in the first place, for that dream to come true.’
‘William Shakespeare?’ asked Danny Vine.
‘Oscar Hammerstein.’
‘Oh,’ said Danny. ‘I’ve not read any of his books.’
‘Anyway,’ said Bob. ‘We’re trying to ascertain if a young woman has gone missing.’
‘A runaway, you mean?’
‘We’re not sure. We have a confession to a murder that we are checking out.’
‘It’s probably a waste of time,’ interrupted the younger constable. ‘One of our regulars, Bible Steve. He’s delusional, drinks a bit, lives rough, you