Chapter 19
CHARLIE
‘I could be deferential and beat around the bush, or I could just come out and ask for what I want,’ Charlie told Superintendent Fran Whittingham.
‘So which is it going to be?’ Whittingham asked.
There was little expression in the voice or on the face.
She might have been curious to know what was coming next, or she might have been containing a yawn in her pouchy gerbil cheeks, entirely uninterested in Charlie’s thoughts.
Her delivery was as grey as the decor in her newly refurbished office, every inch of which screamed, ‘I am the work of an interior designer whose idea of taste comes from a magazine in a dentist’s waiting room’.
To be fair, there were some touches of other colours in the room too: black and white, if they counted, and a lot of silver that was no doubt meant to add luxury and sparkle – the frame of the large mirror on one wall, the shiny candle holder on the edge of the desk, labelled ‘Jasmine’, from which a pristine, fat, cream-coloured candle protruded.
Sadly, no sort of shine stood a chance in here; the lustre-extinguishing atmosphere was all-pervasive.
The monotonous sound of the super’s voice was enough to hurry anyone to the depressing conclusion that silver was no more than grey with fraudulent inclinations.
The row of three windows, overlooking leafy Blantyre Park and the lido, only made you feel worse about being in here instead of out there.
As if the presence of a smelly candle on the desk wasn’t bad enough (no police superintendent’s office should be artificially scented, and anyone who would respond to that statement with a ‘Why not?’ didn’t deserve an answer), there was a framed wedding photograph by its side that Charlie couldn’t help viewing as unbearable provocation.
Pretend it’s not there, she told herself, resolving not to look at it again, but the temptation was too strong.
The bride in the picture was Fran Whittingham as a much younger gerbil, and the groom was a fair-haired man in a pale grey suit who had a slightly unnatural, bolted-together look about him.
Both he and the super appeared to be not just laughing but cackling like nutters, and were bent towards each other at awkward angles, clutching their stomachs, as if they’d recently been poisoned in a way they found especially hilarious.
The picture was bad enough, but far worse was the implausible caption attached to the photo’s mount at the bottom, inside the frame. Printed in cursive letters were the words:
Hands down the most magical day of my life. Fran looked like a princess from a dream – Lloyd Whittingham
Charlie was fighting an almost overpowering urge to ask questions about the framed abomination.
Was it some kind of test? Did you never get promoted if you failed to spot that it was a joke?
Or did the super really decide the photo would be improved by a quote from her husband, about her and their special day?
‘Well?’ said the super, expressionlessly.
Charlie dragged her eyes away from the picture. Might as well be direct, she decided. ‘I’m not trying to mess you around, but I can’t say yes or no to the CID job offer until I know what’s happening with Simon,’ she said. ‘Are you planning to fire him?’
‘Sergeant Zailer—’
‘Because there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d be happier doing detective work.
In almost every way, it’s a move I’d love to make.
Problem is … I can’t accept a promotion from someone who’s about to fire my husband.
And since I know you’ll have noticed that he’s currently doing his best to get himself kicked out of the job …
’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Frankly, I won’t blame you if you’re considering him for the chop, but I’m here to say: please, please don’t do it.
If you can promise me you won’t fire him or …
go after him in any disciplinary way – if you can just, like, leave him to come round in his own time and not make a fuss if he’s a bit strange in the interim—’
‘Then what?’ Fran Whittingham asked. ‘What are you offering me, Sergeant, if I agree to ignore the basic standards of professional behaviour and the responsibilities of my position?’
That didn’t sound promising, though the super’s delivery, as always, was as bland as that of a saleswoman showing prospective buyers around a show home.
‘I’m offering: me taking the job and sorting Simon out,’ said Charlie. ‘That’ll give you everything you want: Simon back on form and working well, me in charge, keeping everything under control. That must be what you want, or you wouldn’t have offered me the job.’
‘Do you know where DC Waterhouse is at the moment?’ the super asked.
‘No.’
‘Neither does anyone on his team. He isn’t responding to anyone’s attempts to contact him.’
‘Oh – yes, he has.’ Charlie was pleased to be able to share good news. ‘For a while he didn’t, that’s true, but I spoke to Sam just now. He saw Simon this morning, brought him up to speed.’
‘After a day of his being inexplicably missing, and after he encouraged a young woman to kill her stepmother the previous evening – a stepmother who, as it turned out, had recently been stabbed to death in her garden.’
How the fuck did she know Simon had told Jemma to do it? Sam would never have told her that.
‘I’ll be honest, Sergeant. I’m disappointed by your request. You must know that you don’t get to come in here and offer me a deal. That isn’t how this organisation works.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Charlie wearily.
‘I’m sure you also know that your husband has been uncontrollable and unaccountable since the day he first set foot in this building.’
How do you know? You weren’t here then. You’ve only just gerbilled your way in.
‘For some reason, no one before me has felt inclined to tackle the problem,’ Whittingham said. ‘I’m not sure why. Nobody seems able to explain it to me.’
‘So you are planning to fire Simon.’ Charlie felt something as heavy as a rock inside her, slowly sinking.
‘I’m not discussing my plans with you, Sergeant Zailer. And, though I’m sorry to have to say this, please consider the offer of the DS position withdrawn. I’ve been scrupulously fair with you – I didn’t want to tar you with any brushes just because you’re his wife—’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ The words were out of Charlie’s mouth before she could stop them.
‘To be clear,’ she went on smoothly, ‘I know you’re the new super, but you don’t get to talk about Simon as if everyone agrees he’s a piece of shit.
I don’t agree, because he isn’t. Lots of people here know he’s irreplaceable, even if you don’t. ’
‘Nobody is irreplaceable.’ The pouchy cheeks just couldn’t wait to squeeze out that time-worn platitude.
‘Yes, they are,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re not, but lots of other people are – people like Simon who think for themselves. Don’t all the cases he’s closed pretty much singlehandedly count for anything? His one hundred per cent success rate?’
‘He’s undoubtedly talented, yes,’ said the super. ‘The problem I have is that other things matter too.’
‘If you fire Simon, or he goes, I’m going too,’ Charlie told her.
‘Of course.’ Whittingham smiled. ‘I completely understand. You must do what’s best for you.’
‘Maybe I’ll go and be the new CEO of Dickhead Quotes on Wedding Pictures. How about that?’ Charlie pointed to the framed photograph.
That got a reaction. Pink blotches appeared at the top of the super’s neck.
‘“A princess from a dream”, really?’ Charlie couldn’t stop herself.
‘That a typo? Was it meant to say, “Fran looked like an abscess from a nightmare”?’ Juvenile.
She needed something sharper, that would go in deeper.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ she said. ‘There’s no way he still loves you as much as he did then.
He’s known you too long, and you’re awful, aren’t you? He must have noticed by now.’
The expression on the super’s face wasn’t one Charlie could stand to look at for more than a fraction of a second. No need to ask herself if she’d gone too far.
She left the room as quickly as she could, slamming the door behind her.