They were a dying breed. Wasn’t that the truth.
He checked the corridor behind him – clear – and fished a couple of pills out of the little Ziploc bag tucked into his wallet, swallowing them down dry. As he was putting his wallet back he heard footsteps behind him and Holt came out holding two cups of dark coffee in identical white mugs. He handed one to Gilbourne and stepped back to the other side of the fire escape, as far away from the smoke as he could get.
‘What do you reckon then, boss? About her?’
Gilbourne took another drag on his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a moment. He watched as a lone fox emerged below from behind a row of parked cars. It slinked from one side of the street to the other, its bushy tail held low to the ground, hunched as if ready for attack or escape. Gilbourne followed its progress, elbows on the steel railing of the fire escape, cigarette smoke curling up into the night sky. He had always admired them, these secret city dwellers who had adapted so well to new surroundings. They lived and thrived, bred, roamed and hunted in one of the busiest cities in the world – and they did it largely unseen, under the radar of regular life. They were loners who had made the night their own. Survivors.
The fox stopped, turned, sniffed the air, and trotted off into the shadows.
‘You think she’s holding something back?’ Gilbourne asked, every word emerging with an exhalation of grey smoke. ‘Something about last night?’
Holt smoothed his hair, swept back from his forehead, patting a few stray strands back into place.
‘Definitely.’
‘I’m not so sure. There’s something that doesn’t quite add up, but I’m not sure it’s down to her.’
Holt studied him. ‘You believe her, boss?’
‘What makes you say that, Nathan?’
Holt took a small sip of his coffee and gave him a shrug. A knowing grin. ‘I mean . . . the way you were with her in the interview. Seemed like . . . you know.’
Gilbourne studied his new partner. He was still getting the measure of him: a fast-track graduate with a fancy degree in criminology and forensic science who couldn’t get out of uniform quickly enough. Who still wanted every case to be The Big One, with wall-to-wall national media coverage, a career-maker that would propel him up the ladder. Who didn’t yet appreciate that a case like that might only come up once in a career, that life was messy and the job was messier, that clean-cut victories were few and far between. The two of them had been teamed up for a couple of months now, Holt on a secondment to Major Crime after nine months on one of the Met’s task force operations targeting gang activity. So he wasn’t totally green, but he still had a lot to learn – if he ever paused long enough to listen.
There was something about him, though. Was it the cockiness? Like he knew more than he was letting on. He had that young cocksure certainty that he would rise through the ranks, that he would make DI within a couple more years. He’d even had the front to say to his face that he’d be disappointed if he wasn’t a detective chief inspector by the time he was forty – a promotion that still eluded Gilbourne for reasons he didn’t like to dwell on. Maybe Holt didn’t realise he was doing it. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure.
Just you wait, lad. Wait for the politics and the government targets and the PC quotas and all the bullshit that goes with it. Wait for it to start pressing down on you every day, like you’re carrying it on your shoulders every time you get out of bed in the morning. Shovelling the same shit every day, just to keep your head above it, without a word of thanks from anyone. Then we’ll see how high you can reach.
Gilbourne was now less than six months away from completing his thirty years in the job, from hitting mandatory retirement. It seemed like a waste to him. He was forty-seven and still had a lot to offer. But maybe it was time to hand over to the fast-track graduates like Holt, the greasy-pole climbers, the politicians, theshiny people, and see how they managed. Until then – even though he was within touching distance of his lump sum and final salary pension – he still took pride in the job, in getting a result. Some of his colleagues, older guys who had gone before him, started letting things slide when retirement approached. Started phoning it in, cutting corners. Doing the bare minimum until they could check out.
That wasn’t Gilbourne’s way.
He was doing the opposite: working harder, putting in more time than before. And he was going to nail this new case fast. Make sure he covered all the angles, got the right result.
He took another drag on his cigarette, pointed at his young partner with the glowing tip.
‘You’ve done some time on property crime right?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘So, answer me this: what’s the easiest way into someone’s house?’
‘How do you mean?’ Holt looked confused. ‘Like . . . forcing a rear door?’
‘Easiest, most straightforward way in? What did you learn in those nine months?’
Holt stared at him as if he was trying to work out the answer to a riddle and didn’t want to be caught out.
‘I guess a downstairs window, left open?’ he said. ‘Like, any unsecured window?’
‘Nope.’
‘Patio doors?’
‘Think about the question I’ve asked, Nathan.’
‘I mean, it would depend on—’
‘The easiest way into a stranger’s house is through the front door, if they’ve opened it themselves and invited you in.’
Holt nodded slowly, eyes narrowing against the smoke from his partner’s cigarette.
