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  ‘Actually, I’d prefer mine with milk and sugar,’ Jack interjected.

  ‘Nonsense. You’re a man. Men drink black coffee without sugar.’ He turned on the DS. ‘Are you still here?’

  Watkins shuffled off as they entered Jack’s chaotic office. Edwards was renowned for his hard-headed attitude and, truth be told, was a dinosaur working in the wrong age. Rumour had it they were counting down the days to his retirement, hoping he could leave with some dignity still intact. If he wasn’t careful, that day would happen sooner rather than later.

  ‘Look, I... sorry about that man comment, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  Jack swallowed his irritation. Edwards never broached the subject of his sexuality but their lack of social contact in recent months told him all he needed to know about his boss’s thoughts on the matter.

  ‘Don’t worry, you aren’t my type.’

  Recent case files lay strewn over an old oak table, complete with numerous coffee stains. His bin was overflowing with crumpled up notes and empty cups. Although he smoked with the window open, the unmistakable smell of tobacco still clung to the room like a young child to its mother’s breast. If Edwards noticed it, he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Here,’ he said as he pulled a seat out from under the table and knocked a layer of dust from it.

  ‘Dear God, Lambert,’ he said. ‘It’s a wonder anything ever gets solved round here with an office like this.’

  He resisted the urge to point out the state of his office. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘This double murder.’

  Jack nodded, taking a seat opposite the DSI. ‘Nasty business.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not expecting it to be solved right now. But we are going to be giving a press conference.’

  Jack nodded, annoyed at the intrusion into his case. It wasn’t the first time. ‘I see.’

  ‘Now, I know you aren’t the biggest fan of these things but, as the senior investigating officer, I don’t see why you should get off lightly.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be making those calls?’

  The giant superintendent leaned forward, dark, bloodshot eyes focusing on him. His face bore the scars of alcohol abuse; burst blood vessels crisscrossing his face like an intricate road map. Unkempt grey hair framed his round face, his double chin making him look like a drunken Father Christmas. ‘Look, I know you aren’t the most comfortable performer in front of journalists.’ Jack was sure he saw the beginnings of a smirk. ‘And I know after that business with the Newcastle Knifer last year you aren’t exactly flavour of the week.’

  He felt his stomach give a twinge as Edwards uttered the nickname of the man who’d stuck a knife in him just over twelve months ago. The scar across his chest served as a reminder of the near-botched job of apprehending the multiple murderer who’d been terrorising Newcastle’s nightlife. Missed leads and the subsequent press fallout had cost Jack a lot of kudos with the public and media. It didn’t seem to matter that, in the end, he’d been the one to catch him.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ he said. ‘And do we have to use the tabloid’s nickname for him? He had a real name.’

  ‘But you have to face these things,’ Edwards continued, ignoring Jack’s comment. ‘How do you think I got to where I am today? You have to be thick-skinned and be able to get on with all types of people.’

  The door to his office opened. Watkins stepped through carrying two overflowing mugs.

  ‘And what do you call this, sergeant?’ Edwards thundered.

  ‘Well... coffee, like you said.’ His eyes darted to Jack who did his best to remain straight-faced.

  ‘Did you not hear Detective Lambert specifically ask for milk in his coffee?’

  ‘But you said...’

  The superintendent stood up, his giant frame looming over the pale-faced policeman. ‘Are you calling me a liar, boy?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good, because that would be very bad for your career. Now, piss off and get Detective Lambert another drink!’

  Logan Edwards grabbed the two cups from a shaking Watkins before ushering him out of the room.

  ‘Where was I? Oh yes,’ he continued. ‘Always make the effort to get on with people. I’ll keep both of these, seeing as you’re a fussy drinker. I’ll see you in an hour.’

  Jack leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, his finger subconsciously tracing the outline of his scar. They’d spent months hunting the Newcastle Knifer, aka Leonard ‘Dazza’ Watson. What had started out as a series of night-time armed robberies had developed into a plethora of knife crimes, with each victim being slashed across the stomach before being finished off in gruesome-style by the twenty-five-year-old local murderer. The longer the hunt went on, the longer the press saw fit to lambast the police for failing to do their jobs. Instead of being labelled a hero for putting his life on the line and eventually capturing the perpetrator, they’d branded Jack incompetent and out of his depth. Yes, there’d been missed opportunities but there was no doubt in Jack’s mind who the main instigator was in terms of turning public opinion against the police.

  David bloody Robson of the Newcastle Chronicle.

  * * *

  Camera flashes exploded around him as he followed Edwards into the press room. Watkins stood by his side, still not having quite recovered from his earlier run-in with the superintendent. Jack had managed to talk him out of filing an official complaint against the DSI. He hadn’t taken much persuading. Watkins never did.

  Jack took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was about to happen. Sweeping his gaze across the room, he noticed Robson sitting in the front row, slim fingers running across a newly-grown black pencil moustache. The journalist caught his gaze and offered a toothy smile before carefully placing a recording device on the front table.

  ‘Ahem,’ Edwards cleared his throat. A hushed silence went up around the room. ‘Let me just start by thanking you all for your time,’ he began.

  Jack could see the big man grinding his teeth at having to play friends with the press. Everybody on the force knew he couldn’t stand them. The press did too. Still, even Edwards wasn’t daft enough to get on the wrong side of them.

  The DSI spent the next five minutes filling them in on what had occurred, stopping short at the intricate details of how the bodies were found. Still, the journalists weren’t satisfied, each member of the assembled scrum firing questions at the panel.

  ‘Do you have any leads?’ ‘Has anyone been brought in for questioning?’ ‘When was the exact time of death?’ ‘How were the bodies found?’

  Edwards straightened up, perspiration beginning to wash down his brow. ‘If you have any queries, please direct them to Detective Chief Inspector Jack Lambert. Our DCI here was one of the first on the scene and will be the SIO on the case.’

  Jack stepped up to the platform, resisting the urge to punch his boss. ‘Any questions?’

  A sea of hands shot up in the air.

  He managed to field most of them, each reporter seemingly happy with his responses. By the end of it, he felt satisfied that he hadn’t botched up in front of the cameras but was conscious of the fact that he still hadn’t shaved or worn an ironed shirt.

  ‘If that’s all...’

  ‘Actually, I have a question... Detective,’ David Robson cut in.

  He’d sat quietly throughout the briefing, choosing instead to chew on a battered old pencil.

  Jack bit down on his tongue. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Seeing as the estimated time of death was nearly two weeks ago, and that they were both positioned in some kind of ritualistic way, what is Northumbria’s police force going to do to alleviate public fears that this may not be a one-off event?’

  The room jolted back into life, reporters launching to their feet, as he stood rooted to the spot.

  ‘No further details will be released at this time!’ he shouted above the chaos.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smiling Robson ma
ke a slithering exit from the room, pencil still in mouth.

  Jack practically dragged Watkins back to the office.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’

  ‘Beats me,’ the DS stuttered.

  ‘Unless he committed the murders himself, which would be an immense stroke of good luck, he’s being fed information from the inside. I want it sorted.’

  DS Christensen entered the room. ‘The gaffer wants to see you in his office immediately, boss.’

  Jack acknowledged the Scandinavian-born officer, inviting him in. ‘Please say you have some good news?’

  Christensen shook his head. ‘Not yet. I contacted the lab an hour ago to try and chase up those IDs, though.’

  That was what Jack liked about the squat, Boris Johnson lookalike; he didn’t need prompting to get on in an investigation. Unlike his double, he rarely put a foot wrong, his sense of humour being akin to that of a cyborg. Everybody on the force knew they could rely on him. Barely an inch over five foot, he had the look of a blond hobbit, and walked with a slight limp. Nobody ever said that to his face, though, such was the aura the man carried.

  And nobody wanted to know why he had the limp.

  ‘Good, keep me posted.’

  Never being one to back down, Jack decided to face up to Edwards straight away.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ the DSI thundered, slamming his meaty fist on the desk.

  Jack pulled a seat from the debris that was strewn across the room and planted himself opposite the DSI. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  Edwards lashed out again, sending a set of papers flying across the table. ‘Someone is taking backhanders from the press, Jack. I want a name. Get it done, or I’ll find someone else to do it for me.’

  Jack held his ground. ‘I always do, don’t I?’

  The DSI snorted. ‘There’s always a first.’ He leaned over the desk, his stale breath slapping Jack in the face. ‘What’s to say it isn’t you?’

  He bristled. ‘That’s a hell of an accusation, Logan, especially given the length of time we’ve known each other. You might want to consider what your next words are very carefully.’

  His superior officer raised a surrendering hand. ‘Fair enough, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  Jack stood to leave. ‘And lay off Watkins, he’s a good policeman. He doesn’t need you rampaging around having a pop. Sooner or later, unless you learn how to treat people with a bit of respect, you’ll be turfed out. And if you keep going the way you are, you won’t have me to deflect things any more.’

  ‘Fine,’ Edwards said, slumping into his seat.

  Acknowledging the DSI’s backtrack, he left the office. Although the run-in with his superior officer had done nothing to stem his oncoming headache, he knew it wasn’t really the telling off that had got to him. Somebody had leaked key details to the press, violating serious police code. It wasn’t anything particularly new in some regards. Hell, even he had cosied-up once or twice to help get some information on key suspects. This was different, though. There was no doubt about it, somebody had made a big error of judgement. Had they done it for money? Were they being blackmailed?

  When he got the chance, he would have to pay a visit to David Robson, shake him down for information. For now, though, he had a meeting to attend.

  * * *

  ‘Right, you all know why you’re here,’ Jack told the assembled officers.

  ‘Because we are the best!’ Watkins beamed.

  ‘The A-Team,’ DC Gerrard added.

  Jack smiled. He liked DC Claire Gerrard. Bundles of enthusiasm and a straight-to-the point attitude had earned her a fearsome reputation as an up-and-coming officer on the Northumbrian force. Her staunch feminism often put her at odds with Edwards, but he was old hat. Claire Gerrard was the future. Even though they were superior to her in rank, Jack could tell that both Christensen and Watkins admired her strength of character.

  ‘Aye, something like that,’ Jack replied. ‘Let’s see if we can use some of that spirit to catch this son of a bitch.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard with our skillset,’ Watkins added.

  Christensen merely nodded.

  Jack eyed them all. Each of them had their own strengths and they complemented each other well. Watkins had excellent intuition and a calming effect on people, even if he sometimes lacked the conviction to act on his gut instinct. Christensen was a no-nonsense officer, precise and dutiful no matter how mundane the task. With Gerrard’s unflappable confidence he couldn’t have wished for a better group of people to work with.

  The fact that one of them could be a mole didn’t sit right with him, though. He trusted them all implicitly. Or, at least, he thought he did. He’d need to be certain who it was before confronting them, that was for sure. In the meantime, he’d play his cards close to his chest.

  ‘Where’s DI Russell?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘She’ll be along later,’ Jack said.

  The group didn’t react. Jack’s personal issues with the Bulldog didn’t make for an ideal working relationship, but he was the first to admit she was a skilled officer. He was in no doubt she would ultimately be an asset as the investigation moved forward.

  ‘Right, guv,’ Gerrard began. ‘Just to recap, we have two bodies, as yet unidentified, in Cleadon Hills. Based on what we know, it looks like the killer murdered them, buried them, then came back and dug them up.’

  ‘Leads?’ Jack put to her.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. The dog walker is clean, and the surrounding area is sparse so witnesses will be at a minimum.’

  ‘Still,’ Christensen said. ‘It does mean that anybody acting peculiar up there would have been noticed had anybody been about.’

  DC Gerrard nodded, continuing to take the lead. ‘Indeed, which is why we are focusing on speaking to local residents again to double check if anybody saw anything.’

  ‘It’s the right call, obviously,’ Jack said. ‘But our guy is smarter than that. We can assume he has operated in the early hours of the morning to avoid being seen. Still, let’s double check that. Any updates on those IDs?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Christensen said. ‘We’ve been searching the missing persons list, though and I’ll get back to you when I know more.’

  The room fell silent as they processed the information.

  ‘Okay,’ Jack continued. ‘Did anybody notice anything odd about the scene, any details that stuck out?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Watkins interjected. ‘Why was the woman’s arm around the man’s body?’

  DC Gerard rolled her eyes. ‘Is that so hard to believe?’

  Watkins shrugged. ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘I agree,’ Jack said. ‘I think it’s significant. I don’t know how yet but I’m sure it is in terms of his thinking.’

  ‘So, what do we think?’ Christensen mused. ‘Jilted lover?’

  Jack wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s too early to tell but let’s hope so.’

  ‘Why, guv?’ Gerrard asked.

  He paused. ‘Because, if it is, it means it won’t happen again.’ They fell silent as the implication sank in. ‘Now, let’s go, we’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ they replied in unison.

  Jack watched as the team moved into action. It felt good to have the full group back together again, even if it was under such grim circumstances. Unfortunately for them, they were now a man down. Jack’s friend, the profiler and psychologist Frank Pritchard, was no longer around. When the Knifer case was over, Pritchard had retired from the force with immediate effect. Although they’d never spoken about it, he knew Pritchard blamed himself for missed opportunities. It didn’t matter that Jack was in charge and that, ultimately, the buck stopped with him. In Frank’s eyes it was his own shortcomings, which he put down to age, that had led to unnecessary killings in Newcastle City Centre.

  What he wouldn’t give for the old man’s insight right now.

  4

  Jack managed to sneak in to his office
unnoticed, despite the furore that had taken hold of the station since the double body discovery. The bacon sandwich he’d wolfed down before work had done nothing to temper his searing headache. He hadn’t been able to shift it for some time. Once this case was over, he was determined to see a doctor about it.

  ‘Take a look at that!’ Watkins exclaimed from behind a crumpled red-top newspaper. ‘What I wouldn’t give for...’

  ‘Enough!’ he pleaded, massaging his temples.

  He’d done his best to avoid the newspapers but had failed when he saw his own mugshot plastered across the front of the Chronicle. It was a bad photo, capturing the very moment he’d been hamstrung by David Robson’s question. Hell, even Jack would have believed himself to be incompetent looking at that. The double body discovery had been sufficiently gruesome enough to make the national news, albeit after some new EU fallout and American posturing over Iran. As for Look North, it was their main story, and all fingers were pointed at him. He might as well have been the murderer for all the press cared.

  Grinning, Watkins handed him the newspaper, the picture of a scantily-clad blonde woman with large, blue eyes staring through him.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Nell Stevens.’

  ‘Am I supposed to know this person?’

  Watkins spat his coffee out. ‘Do you not watch that talent thing on Channel 5?’

  ‘No, please enlighten me.’

  ‘It’s a reality TV thing,’ Watkins continued. ‘She won a place in that new girl band, Da Girlz.’

  ‘Da Girls?’

  ‘With a z,’ he coughed, eyes wandering back to the page.

  ‘Well, once the novelty wears off, I’m sure she can continue her modelling career,’ Jack said.

  ‘She does look good in a thong.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not the point.’

  ‘Then what is the point?’ Jack asked, his patience scraping away.

  ‘The point is she’s downstairs waiting to speak to somebody.’

  ‘And you’re only just telling me now?’

  He grinned. ‘Seems as if she’s gotten herself a stalker. She was out round the Quayside the other week when some bloke approached her and got a little too close for comfort. Since then, she’s been receiving some dodgy mail.’