Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Callum Walker had been on his feet before Hamza had even finished reading out his name, and halfway to the front before the applause had started.
It had been an impressive turn of speed for a man of his years, and spoke not only of his vigour, but of his self-belief.
He’d known he was going to win. He’d been absolutely convinced of it, and had sat poised, ready to spring up, at the first possible opportunity.
Hamza knew this was the case because Callum had said so during what had turned out to be quite a lengthy acceptance speech filled with petty grievances, casual sexism, and quite a few comments about how it was high time he was recognised for all the hard work he’d put in.
Callum Walker was a key member of HAWKS. Callum Walker was important. And he wanted everyone in the room to know that.
The round of applause that had ushered him to the stage had been less than enthusiastic. The one that followed his speech had been practically non-existent.
He’d posed for photographs with Hamza, then with Sergeant Fleck, then with each of the councillors, then with both councillors together, then with both police officers together, then with everyone in one big picture.
Finally, he’d had the photographer take one of him standing at the front of the hall with his back to the audience.
‘Make sure you can see that lot all back there behind me,’ he’d stressed, holding up the small silver cup that now bore his name.
He hadn’t smiled for the last picture, and almost nobody behind him had either.
Now, Callum stood off to the side of the hall, holding court by the door with a small group of followers who took turns to ferry sandwiches and sausage rolls to him from the table up the back. From above, they must have looked like worker ants, Hamza thought, delivering delicacies to their queen.
‘Lovely to meet you, Detective Inspector.’
Hamza turned to see the councillors pulling on their jackets. He realised that finally—finally—this thing was drawing to a close.
‘You’ll get back to me on the M&S doorway shiter, yes?’
Ben stepped in with another assurance that they would pass on the concerns, and then they watched as both politicians slipped unnoticed out of the hall.
‘Christ, that’s some nickname, eh?’ Ben said. ‘Jack the Ripper. The Zodiac Killer. The M&S Doorway Shiter. I can’t see that being one for the history books.’
Hamza smiled, then glanced after the councillors. ‘Will we shoot off, too? I’d like to get back and see what’s happening.’
‘One minute,’ Ben said, stressing the number with a single raised finger. He broke into a speedwalk. ‘Just going to grab some more of them sausage rolls for the road.’
Hamza watched him go for a moment, chuckled fondly, and then turned to pick up his jacket from the back of the chair it had been left hanging on.
When he turned around again, half a dozen faces were staring back at him. Callum Walker and his acolytes had gathered around him. They were all sipping on coffees and munching on sandwiches. And, in one instance, gnawing on a thick slice of cucumber.
Callum was still clutching his trophy in one hand, holding it to his chest like he was prepared to fight to the death to defend it. He still wasn’t smiling. For someone so evidently pleased with himself, he was a right dour old bastard.
He was somewhere in his seventies, but if age had shrunk him, he must’ve been a giant to begin with, as he towered a good four or five inches above the detective inspector, and a full foot above some of his similarly aged hangers-on.
His hair wasn’t grey but fully white, thinning on top, but long and a little unkempt at the back. He was thin and wiry beneath his crisp blue shirt and burgundy tie, with sinewy fingers that tap-tap-tapped on the trophy’s base, as if he were constantly reminding everyone of its existence.
‘Hi,’ Hamza said, one sleeve already in his jacket. ‘Uh, thanks for having me.’
‘No, thank you, Detective Inspector,’ Callum said, and the other five—four men, one woman—all nodded along. ‘Your speech was… Well, it was something.’
‘Thanks.’
Callum chuckled. There was something vaguely patronising about it. ‘Your honesty was really quite refreshing. I hope you find your feet someday, I really do. We all do, don’t we?’
His tribe was vocal in its agreement.
Hamza slowly slid the other arm into his jacket and zipped it up.
‘Eh, aye, cheers,’ he said. ‘Congratulations again on your win.’
‘Win? Oh, this!’ Callum glanced down at the trophy he’d been clinging to as if only now realising he was holding it. ‘Yes. Well, you know. Nice to be recognised.’
Hamza pulled off a perfect nod and smile combo, then clocked Ben up at the food table, and moved to get past the group.
‘Have a good day.’
‘What’s the story with the murder?’
Callum’s question stopped the DI in his tracks.
‘Joe Robertson said there was a body. In a car. Throat slit.’ The man’s eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe this next part. Like he refused to. ‘He says he’s been helping the police with their enquiries. Him! That useless old bugger.’
There was some guilty laughter from the acolytes. A couple of them looked across the hall to where another older man was sitting by himself, munching his way through a plate of sandwiches, already wearing his new hi-vis vest.
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation,’ Hamza said.
He watched the old man miss his mouth with a sandwich and slitter egg all down the front of his tabard. He looked utterly crestfallen as he tried to wipe it off.
Hamza knew nothing about Joe Robertson. He hadn’t had a chance to read Dave’s summary of their interview, or to discuss his witness statement.
But what the hell?
‘What I can say is that Mr Robertson has proven to be a great help so far. We’re very lucky to have had his support on the investigation, and you’re lucky to have him as part of your organisation.’
Callum’s face froze in an expression of pure distaste. Hamza could’ve just spat in his eye, he reckoned, and the man would’ve looked less horrified.
His hangers-on were more impressed, though. The men shot admiring looks in Joe’s direction. The woman patted at her hair.
Over in his chair, Joe glanced up from egg-wiping duty, saw everyone looking at him, and waved cautiously back.
‘It should’ve been mine,’ Callum said.
Hamza raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’
‘That body. Another quarter of a mile, and it would’ve been on my turf. I’d have found it. I’d be the one helping,’ Callum said. His outrage at the unfairness of the situation was laced like venom through the words. ‘And I tell you, I’d be more useful than that… that idjit.’
‘Everything alright here?’
Sergeant Fleck appeared as if from nowhere, armed with a warm smile and a plate of chocolate biscuits, both of which served to break the tension. He winked at Hamza as Callum’s apostles helped themselves to a Blue Ribband. Even the woman, who’d been eating only cucumber, pocketed one for later.
By the time the plate was cleared, Callum had buggered off to bother someone else, leaving his followers to disperse, one by one, into the thinning crowd.
‘Cheers for that,’ Hamza said.
‘No bother. They can be a bit full-on,’ the sergeant said. ‘Biscuit?’
Hamza was about to decline when he spotted Ben gesturing frantically to him from the back of the hall. He plucked one from the plate. Ben continued to gesture, then thumb-upped his approval when Hamza took a second.
‘For later,’ the DI said, putting the biscuits in his jacket pocket.
‘I think you made a big impression with your speech,’ Fleck said.
He looked out across the hall, where the various groups and factions were all gathering in little knots.
‘They’re a good bunch, for the most part.
They care, you know? About their communities.
Our communities, I suppose. I was, eh, let’s just say I was not best pleased when I was first given the liaison job, but…
I don’t know. It’s nice. I feel we’re really building something here. ’
There was a fondness in his voice, like a proud parent talking about the achievements of a much-loved child.
‘And, well, let’s be fair, they’re a right shower of nosy bastards, so they see and hear a lot. They’ve been useful in the past. I’m convinced they could be a real asset going forward.’
‘Are they all…?’
‘Ancient?’ The sergeant laughed. ‘Mostly, aye. Although, there’s maybe thirty or so younger folk. Most of them couldn’t make it today, though. Work. Kids. Whatever. This lot’ll turn up at the opening of a crisp packet, though, as long as they get to eat the crisps.’
He reached into a pocket in his uniform, fished out a business card with his details on it, and passed it to the DI.
‘If you think they can be of use on anything, give me a ring. As they’re always quick to tell me, they’ve got eyes everywhere.’ Fleck leaned in a little closer, like he was sharing a secret. ‘I’ve tried to tell them how creepy that sounds, but they didn’t seem all that bothered.’
Hamza glanced at the card. It was a standard police-issue card with his name, rank, and contact details printed on it. The sort of thing that might be left with a victim or witness.
‘Cheers,’ Hamza told him, adding the card to the same pocket as the biscuits. ‘And… Well done. On all this. On pulling this together.’
‘Oh, I didn’t pull it together,’ Sergeant Fleck chuckled at the suggestion. ‘I just try and make sure it doesn’t all blow itself apart!’
He spotted Callum Walker trying to insert himself into the middle of another group, and adjusted the remaining biscuits on his plate.
‘Which is easier said than done sometimes.’
With a nod, he went on his way. Hamza watched him weave his way through what was left of the audience, meeting their smiles and waves on the way.
‘You fit?’
Hamza jumped in fright at the urgent hiss of the voice right beside him. Ben opened his jacket to reveal a full picnic’s worth of sandwiches and sausage rolls, all wrapped in cellophane and bundled away out of sight.