The Shadows of Justice Read Online Free Page B

attempt to hurry it would be the most pointless of follies. Spotlights illuminate the approach and CCTV cameras scrutinise those who come and go with unblinking, electronic eyes.
    It’s a point sometimes debated amongst the more philosophical of the policing community, whether this is really necessary or more down to psychology. The gate makes an unmistakable statement that the might of the law lies beyond. For anyone brought here as a suspect, the intimidating entrance could be said to mark the first softening up of the interrogation process.
    Be all that as it may, the gate is habitually closed. So it was a surprise for Dan to find it wide open as he drove along the back road leading to the police station. He edged the car in and looked for a space to park. For this time of night, the compound was unusually busy. He taxied to the very back and manoeuvred into a narrow slot beside a couple of motorbikes.
    As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, shapes began to assume forms, detaching themselves from the darkness. Standing quietly by the four police cars nearest the entrance was a circle of officers. Each was checking a submachine gun. Black and snub nosed, the weights of deadly metal clicked smoothly under careful fingers. Heavy crescents of magazines were loaded with gleaming bronze cylinders. Stocks were extended and folded again, sights lifted to eyes. The flitting red flies of laser dots darted over the blackness of the walls.
    Each of the four cars was angled towards the gate. A radio buzzed with a tinny voice, the words lost in the background traffic of the city. One of the officers, a burly sergeant, replied in a gruff voice.
    “Firearms teams standing by. We’re good to go the second you get a trace.”
    ***
    On the top floor of the five that make up the block that is Charles Cross lies the Major Incident Room, or MIR. There’s the option of the lift to reach it, but it’s small, cramped, and takes considerably longer than walking up the stairs. The station gossip has it that it’s a deliberate ploy, to ensure the sedentary, desk-bound cops get at least some exercise in a day.
    Large and long, the MIR looks out on the city and over Charles Church – the bombed out memorial to the Blitz of Plymouth. Dan slipped to the back of the room, a little detached from the bear pit these briefings could become, and perched on the windowsill.
    The congregation reacted to him in its usual way: a mix of hostility and acceptance, roughly divided in equal proportions. Adam’s patronage was an effective shield, but many still felt a journalist had no place within another highly sensitive case.
    The detective standing just a metre away was a devoted member of the antis. He recoiled at the arrival of the interloper and adopted a glower akin to a gathering storm. The young man had a militarily short haircut and was squat and powerful, with an anvil-like head. He radiated hostility as hot as an electric fire.
    Dan busied himself with winding his ever-erratic watch. The tired old Rolex said the time was twenty to ten, so it was probably around five to. Rutherford had been left in the car. It was stretching the limited strain of Adam’s patience to bring the dog into the briefing.
    Already the MIR had filled with around forty officers, a mix of detectives and uniformed police. It was a testament to one of their detective chief inspector’s idiosyncrasies, an insistence on punctuality. The felt boards he habitually used to set out the patterns of a case had also been retrieved from dusty storage and set up at the front of the room. Chatter rumbled, snatches of discussions about the case, theories being aired.
    Adam walked in at just before ten, followed by Claire, and the room immediately quietened. “Let’s get moving,” he said. “We haven’t got much to go on at the mo’. We need to start finding something – and fast.”
    Claire began handing out briefing papers. Detective Anvil Head hesitated and pointedly caught Adam’s eye