Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (2 page)

“Penny for ‘em, Ken,” said Chase.

Detective Sergeant Thomas tore his eyes away from the front
door of 10, Chalfont Parade, and looked across at his passenger.

“I just don’t get it,” he continued. “Amy Birkdale’s bedroom
is at the front of the building. So the burglars would have been in full view
of the street if they’d climbed up outside. Yet nobody saw them. Why?”

“Amy said it was very quiet that evening,” Chase said.
“No-one much about.”

“Well, it was pouring with rain.”

“True,” mused Chase. “Was there any sign of a forced entry?”

“No. But she’d left a vent window open in her bedroom. They
must have been able to reach in and unlatch the main window.”

“Unless they had a door key, of course.”

“That’s a possibility,” replied Thomas, in a voice that implied
the exact opposite.

“So no-one saw anything?”

“No. But she claimed she’d heard footsteps, just before she
broke her heel. Perhaps she heard the burglars running away or something.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps something just spooked her. A cat,
perhaps. Or a fox. It happens to us all sometimes.”

“Mmm. Perhaps,” said Thomas, uncertainly. “I’d like to get
hold of that cabbie, the one who took her home. Maybe he saw something.”

“Didn’t Amy say she’d made a note of his license number?”

“Yes, she did. A mental note. But of course she forgot all
about it when she discovered the break-in. We’re still trying to trace him.”

“Quite understandable, I suppose.” Chase thought for a
moment. “Does she have a burglar alarm? I didn’t notice one.”

“Yes, she does. But she hadn’t switched it on. She leaves it
off unless she’s away overnight, she said in her statement.”

“Would the burglar have known that?”

“How could they?” retorted Thomas.

Chase said nothing.

“Time for one last drive around? Maybe chummy will be out
and about tonight. You never know.”

“All right, Ken,” sighed Chase. “Let’s go.”

Ken Thomas started the engine and nosed the unmarked Mondeo
away from the kerb. He turned right into Amersham Avenue, and drove slowly
along the long straight road, lined with parked cars and imposing Edwardian
terraced houses.

Chase looked out of the car window as they drove along. A
few people were moving about: couples out for the evening, a man in a
dishevelled suit rolling drunkenly home, a corpulent, elderly woman walking her
corpulent, elderly Westie. All unremarkable, all quiet.

Just before they reached the brightly lit cluster of shops
and restaurants around Chiltern Park tube station, Thomas indicated right and
looped round
Bradenham
Crescent, then drove back up
Amersham Avenue the way they had come.

“That drunk’s disappeared,” observed Ken Thomas.

“Yes,” replied Chase. “The old dear with the Westie hasn’t
gone far, though.”

Thomas smiled.

At the end of Amersham Avenue, Thomas turned right, and
drove slowly along the side of the park. Most of the park was dark and
deserted, except for the floodlights that lit up the all-weather football
pitch. That evening, a squad of serious-looking teenage boys in red tabards
were dribbling footballs in and out of lines of traffic cones. Further on,
Chase spotted the welcoming lights of The Wendover Arms, and felt a sudden
thirst as they cruised past without stopping.

Thomas completed a circuit of the park, and returned to
Chalfont Parade and their space on a double yellow line. He switched off the
engine and turned to his boss.

“Nothing. Again!”

Chase shook his head.

“Shall we call it a night, Al?”

“I think so, Ken. Have you got time for a quick pint? Or do
you want to get home?”

“Better get home, I think, if that’s alright. Nicky will be
wondering where I’ve got to.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just call Blackaby and Neville to let
them know what’s going on.” Chase leant forward to pick up the radio handset.

“Look!” whispered Thomas. “Over there!”

Chase looked. Across the street, a hooded figure was peering
into the ground floor window of a darkened detached house. A red light blinked
from the burglar alarm housing on the gable.

Thomas threw open the driver’s door and clambered out. “Oi!”
he shouted.

The hooded figure froze.

“Police! Stay where you are!”

The figure dashed down the garden path, hurdled the front
gate, and hesitated on the opposite curb, not ten yards from where the Mondeo
was parked.

“Police! Stop!” Thomas shouted.

The figure turned right and sprinted up the street. Thomas
set off in pursuit, surprisingly quickly for such a solid middle-aged man.

Chase glanced down to return the radio handset to its
cradle. As he did so, he heard the howl of an engine and the screech of tyres.
He looked up, and saw a silver Subaru
Impreza
fling
Thomas up into the air, like an angry bull tossing a matador. Chase flung open
the car door, and watched in disbelief as the Subaru’s taillights disappeared
around the corner with a squeal of rubber.

He ran across to where Thomas lay slumped in the gutter, one
leg twisted underneath his body at an impossible angle, and crouched down next
to him. Chase could hear his ragged breathing.

“Ken! Talk to me! Ken!”

Thomas groaned.

Relieved, Chase held his partner’s hand as he used his
mobile to call for an ambulance. He had just ended the call when he heard a car
draw up. He looked up and saw the silver Subaru tucked in behind the Mondeo. A
young man in a white shirt and tie wound down the window.

“Is he all right?” he called.

Chase produced his warrant card. “Police,” he proclaimed in
a loud, clear voice. “Stay exactly where you are.” He looked to right and left,
several times, before crossing the road to the Subaru.

The young man looked up at him anxiously.

“Do you know what you’ve just done, son?” Chase demanded.

The driver shook his head.

“You’ve just knocked down a police officer and helped a
fugitive escape.”

“But...!” blustered the young man.

“What’s your name?”

“Evans. Pete Evans.”

Chase thought he detected a whiff of alcohol on the young
man’s breath. “Don’t move, Mr Evans,” he commanded. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Then he marched back across the road, crouched down next to his Sergeant, and
laid a tender hand on his shoulder.

“Hang on, Ken,” he whispered. “The ambulance is coming. Can
you hear the siren? It’ll be here any moment. Hang on, please. For God’s sake,
hang on.”

Faith is... absolutely necessary and altogether impossible.

Stanislaw
Lem

“Names, Darren! I want names!”

Darren Hitchins sprawled back in the orange plastic chair,
his legs spread wide in his baggy jeans, and shook his head stubbornly.

“You’ve owned up to five of the burglaries on the list. Now
I want names for the others.”

The youth shook his head again.

Chase sighed and sank into the chair opposite. “Look,
Darren. We disturbed a burglar in Chiltern Park last night. He almost killed my
Sergeant. He might still die.” He swallowed hard. “So this isn’t just about
burglary, Darren. It could be murder.”

Darren smiled slowly. “Wasn’t me, mate. I was here all the
time, and you fuckin’ know it.”

The Inspector shrugged. “Granted. But we’ve still got
fifteen more burglaries we can get you for.”

Darren’s smile broadened. “No you ain’t. My brief says you
shouldn’t have done what you did, to get me to fess up to them five. I ain’t
fessin
’ up to no more.”

Chase looked intently at the young man and said nothing.

“Was he the one what nicked me, your Sergeant?” Darren
asked.

“Yes.” Chase saw no reason to lie.

“Bastard! I hope he fucking dies!”

Chase stared at the young man in disbelief. It was all he
could do to stop himself from thumping him in the face. Instead, he climbed to
his feet and threw open the interview room door.

“Constable!” he called, his voice trembling. “Take Mr
Hitchins back to his cell, please.”

The last thing Chase saw as he turned away was the broad
grin across Darren’s face.

*

“How’s Ken?” asked Sergeant Baker.

“Still in intensive care, Bridget,” sighed Chase. “They
spent most of the night operating on him. He still might need more surgery on
his leg in the future.”

“Is he out of danger, though?”

“It’s too early to tell. We’ll find out more later, when he
comes round from the anaesthetic.”

“How’s his wife doing? What’s her name? Nicky, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. She’s with him now. She’s terrified,
distraught, angry, philosophical, all at the same time.” That’s the worst part
of this job, he said to himself. The effect on the families. Officers’
families, criminals’ families, victims’ families, they all spent the rest of
their lives paying for what was often a moment of madness.

“And the kids?”

“They’re at her Mum’s. Fortunately, they’re too little to
really understand.” You don’t believe that for a moment, any more than I do, he
added silently. But the pretence makes it all a little less heart-breaking.

Bridget Baker nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, by the way,” she
said. “The Chief said he wanted a word. When you have a moment.”

 “Is he in now?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Better get it over with, I suppose,” grunted Chase.

*

“Come in, Allen, come in,” boomed Chief Superintendent
Royce, rising to greet Chase. “Have a seat. Coffee?”

“Oh, yes please,” sighed Chase.

Royce filled a Styrofoam cup from the Kona filter coffee machine
behind his vast Victorian oak desk and handed it to Chase. “Here you go,” he
said. “Coffee Mate and sugar are just beside you.”

Chase helped himself to creamer and sugar and stirred his
cup vigorously as he waited for Royce to continue.

The Superintendent resumed his seat, sipped his own mug of
coffee, and stretched his long, immaculately trousered legs out in front of
him. “How’s Thomas?” he asked.

“Too soon to say, Sir. He’s still unconscious.”

“Poor chap,” Royce sighed. “Wife with him?”

“Yes.”

“What happened about the driver?”

“Peter Evans? We let him go in the end. He had been
drinking, but his blood alcohol level was just under the limit. There was no
evidence he’d been speeding. His tax and insurance are all in order. And Ken
ran across the road in front of him, wearing a black suit. Evans didn’t stand a
chance of seeing him.”

“He left the scene of an accident, Allen.”

“True. But he came back again almost immediately. And he’s
pretty traumatised by the whole business. Charging him would just have been
vindictive.”

“I suppose so,” Royce replied, reluctantly. “What was he
doing there, anyway?”

“He’s an estate agent. He had an appointment with
prospective clients at a flat round the corner.”

“Checks out, does he?”

“Of course.”

“Did he see anything useful?”

“He saw the man Ken was chasing getting into a small car. A
Micra, perhaps. Oh, and it had ladders on the top.”

“Registration?”

“Not a chance.”

“Colour?”

“Silver, maybe. Hard to tell under those streetlights.”

Royce nodded thoughtfully. “What about you, Allen? Need some
time off?”

“No, Sir,” frowned Chase. “Why?”

“Just wondered. And these Chiltern Park burglaries. Are you
any closer to solving them?”

“I’ve got a suspect in the cells who’s confessed to five.”

Royce frowned. “I heard about that. From his brief. Said
there’d been some sharp practice. Though that wasn’t quite how she put it.”

Chase opened his mouth to protest.

“But that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Royce
continued. “There’s – what – another dozen still unsolved.”

“Fifteen, actually. Plus another, the night before last. But
I think that one was a copycat.”

Royce waved a long, narrow hand dismissively. “Still too
many. I want them all cleared up, Inspector. Pronto.”

“We’ve got uniformed patrols in the area, Sir. Every night.”

Royce frowned sceptically.

“We just need a break,” Chase added, realising how pathetic
he sounded.

“I know you’re doing your best, Allen,” soothed the
Superintendent. “The thing is this. I’m due to meet the Chiltern Park
Neighbourhood Watch again next week and I’d like to have some good news to give
them. No pressure, you understand. I just want to be able to demonstrate we’re
making progress.”

“They’re pretty useless!” Chase blurted.

“That’s as maybe. But the fact remains. You’ve lost your
Sergeant...”

“Only temporarily!”

“True, I hope. But you can’t do this on your own. I wondered
about DC Fenway as a stand-in. He’s a bright lad, and working with you would be
good experience for him.”

 “I’m not sure he’s right for the job,” Chase replied,
choosing his words with care. “He’s a bit, er, gung-ho. And anyway, DCI Hopkins
wouldn’t want to take him off that cigarette smuggling case. He is the only
Spanish speaker on her team, after all.”

“All right. What about DS Kirkwood, then?”

“Drunk, Sir.”

“DC Andrews?”

“She’s a drunk too.”

“DC Singh?”

“Far too inexperienced.”

Royce sighed. “So, Allen. What’s the plan? Who do you have
in mind?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it
yet.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” smiled Royce “OK.
Here’s my last and final offer.” He paused for effect. “What about Trainee
Detective Constable Lauren Halshaw?”

Chase’s jaw dropped.

“Her tutor contacted me the other day, suggesting a
secondment. What d’you reckon?”

“She’s very inexperienced, Sir. She’s still a trainee, for
goodness sake.”

“She’s more experienced than Singh, more sober than Andrews,
and much cleverer than Fenway. And, don’t forget, you two do have a proven
track record together.”

“That was only one case.”

“True, but the two of you did a bloody good job. Oh, I’m
sure there was some sharp practice, knowing you, but nobody complained and you
got the right result. That’s what matters, after all.”

“What does she make of the idea?”

“All in favour, apparently. She rates you, thinks you’re a
great mentor. God knows why, but there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Chase, struggling to maintain a
noncommittal expression.

“Frankly, no. Anyway, that’s settled. I’ll give her Super a
buzz and see what we can sort out.” He smiled broadly. “Thanks, Allen.”

Chase took the hint. He gulped down the last of his coffee
and made his exit.

It was only when the Chief’s door was safely closed that he
permitted himself a grin of delight.