it.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘If necessary.’ He had her attention now, and even Gilchrist had stopped what he’d been doing. ‘We can look at what he gets up to on his computer. We can scrutinise his personal life.’ Fox paused, rubbing at his forehead. ‘The credit card’s all you’ve got?’
‘For now.’
‘What’s to stop him saying someone else must’ve used it?’
‘That’s why we need more.’ Inglis had swivelled in her chair so that her knees were a millimetre from his. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, hands clasped. ‘But he can’t suspect anything. If he does, he warns all the others. We’ll lose them.’
‘And the kids,’ Fox added quietly.
‘What?’
‘It’s all about the kids, right? Child protection?’
‘Right,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Right,’ Annie Inglis echoed.
Fox was a few steps short of the Complaints office when he stopped. He’d put his jacket back on, and was running his fingers down the lapels, just for something to do. He was thinking about DS Anthea Inglis (who preferred to be known as Annie) and her colleague Gilchrist - he didn’t even know the man’s rank or first name. Thinking, too, about the whole Chop Shop operation. PSU might be called ‘the Dark Side’, but he got the feeling Inglis and her colleague would daily peer into more darkness than he would ever know. All the same, they were a cocky bunch. At PSU, you knew everybody hated you, but CEOP was different. Fellow cops didn’t like the thought of what you’d seen, and wouldn’t talk to you for fear of what you might open their eyes and minds to. Yes, that was it: the Chop Shop was feared . Properly feared, in a way the Complaints wasn’t. Behind the locked door of 2.24 lurked a lifetime’s supply of nightmare and bogeyman.
‘Malcolm?’ The voice came from behind him. He turned to see Annie Inglis standing there, arms folded, legs slightly parted. She came towards him, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Here,’ she said, holding something out in front of her. It was her business card. ‘It’s got my mobile and my e-mail, just in case you feel the need.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, pretending to study the printed lines. ‘I was just . . .’
‘Just standing there?’ she guessed. ‘Thinking about everything?’
He took out his wallet, sliding one of his own cards from it. She accepted it with a little bow of the head, turned and walked back along the corridor. An elegant walk, he decided. A woman sure of her abilities, confident in her own skin, aware she was being scrutinised. Nice arse, too.
The PSU office was a lot noisier than it had been. Bob McEwan was at his desk, busy with a phone call. He saw Fox coming towards him and made eye contact, nodding to let him know it was okay. McEwan’s desk was always tidy, but Fox knew this was because everything got tipped into its half-dozen drawers on a regular basis. Tony Kaye had gone looking for paracetamol one day and had called Fox and Naysmith over to take a look.
‘It’s like archaeology,’ Joe Naysmith had offered. ‘Layer upon layer . . .’
McEwan put the phone down and started making a note to himself, his handwriting barely legible. ‘How did it go?’ he asked quietly.
Fox rested his knuckles against the desk and leaned in towards his boss. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It was fine. You okay with me doing this?’
‘Depends what you’re thinking of.’
‘Background check to start with, surveillance afterwards as needed.’
‘Hack into his computer?’
Fox shrugged. ‘First things first.’
‘They asked you to talk to him?’
‘Not sure that’s such a good idea. He might be mates with Heaton.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ McEwan said, ‘so I had a quiet word.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who with?’
‘Someone in the know.’ Sensing that Fox was trying to decipher the handwritten note, McEwan turned it over. ‘Breck and Heaton are rivals more than buddies. That
‘Surveillance?’
‘If necessary.’ He had her attention now, and even Gilchrist had stopped what he’d been doing. ‘We can look at what he gets up to on his computer. We can scrutinise his personal life.’ Fox paused, rubbing at his forehead. ‘The credit card’s all you’ve got?’
‘For now.’
‘What’s to stop him saying someone else must’ve used it?’
‘That’s why we need more.’ Inglis had swivelled in her chair so that her knees were a millimetre from his. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, hands clasped. ‘But he can’t suspect anything. If he does, he warns all the others. We’ll lose them.’
‘And the kids,’ Fox added quietly.
‘What?’
‘It’s all about the kids, right? Child protection?’
‘Right,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Right,’ Annie Inglis echoed.
Fox was a few steps short of the Complaints office when he stopped. He’d put his jacket back on, and was running his fingers down the lapels, just for something to do. He was thinking about DS Anthea Inglis (who preferred to be known as Annie) and her colleague Gilchrist - he didn’t even know the man’s rank or first name. Thinking, too, about the whole Chop Shop operation. PSU might be called ‘the Dark Side’, but he got the feeling Inglis and her colleague would daily peer into more darkness than he would ever know. All the same, they were a cocky bunch. At PSU, you knew everybody hated you, but CEOP was different. Fellow cops didn’t like the thought of what you’d seen, and wouldn’t talk to you for fear of what you might open their eyes and minds to. Yes, that was it: the Chop Shop was feared . Properly feared, in a way the Complaints wasn’t. Behind the locked door of 2.24 lurked a lifetime’s supply of nightmare and bogeyman.
‘Malcolm?’ The voice came from behind him. He turned to see Annie Inglis standing there, arms folded, legs slightly parted. She came towards him, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Here,’ she said, holding something out in front of her. It was her business card. ‘It’s got my mobile and my e-mail, just in case you feel the need.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, pretending to study the printed lines. ‘I was just . . .’
‘Just standing there?’ she guessed. ‘Thinking about everything?’
He took out his wallet, sliding one of his own cards from it. She accepted it with a little bow of the head, turned and walked back along the corridor. An elegant walk, he decided. A woman sure of her abilities, confident in her own skin, aware she was being scrutinised. Nice arse, too.
The PSU office was a lot noisier than it had been. Bob McEwan was at his desk, busy with a phone call. He saw Fox coming towards him and made eye contact, nodding to let him know it was okay. McEwan’s desk was always tidy, but Fox knew this was because everything got tipped into its half-dozen drawers on a regular basis. Tony Kaye had gone looking for paracetamol one day and had called Fox and Naysmith over to take a look.
‘It’s like archaeology,’ Joe Naysmith had offered. ‘Layer upon layer . . .’
McEwan put the phone down and started making a note to himself, his handwriting barely legible. ‘How did it go?’ he asked quietly.
Fox rested his knuckles against the desk and leaned in towards his boss. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It was fine. You okay with me doing this?’
‘Depends what you’re thinking of.’
‘Background check to start with, surveillance afterwards as needed.’
‘Hack into his computer?’
Fox shrugged. ‘First things first.’
‘They asked you to talk to him?’
‘Not sure that’s such a good idea. He might be mates with Heaton.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ McEwan said, ‘so I had a quiet word.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who with?’
‘Someone in the know.’ Sensing that Fox was trying to decipher the handwritten note, McEwan turned it over. ‘Breck and Heaton are rivals more than buddies. That
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