The Rule of Fear. Luke Delaney

walk away.’ He looked at them with a mix of disappointment and fear before disappearing into the long, straw-like grass, the reeds closing behind him in the breeze as if he’d never been there.

      ‘Fucking paedophile,’ King accused him once he was gone. ‘We should have waited till he did something. Could have nicked him and turned his flat over. There’s probably enough shit on his computer to send him down for years.’

      ‘We couldn’t wait until he touched one of them,’ she reminded him. ‘We would have been slaughtered once people found out.’

      ‘Maybe we were a little too honest in our approach,’ King tested her.

      ‘Easy,’ she warned him. ‘You can’t gild the lily when it comes to kids. They have a nasty habit of contradicting you.’

      ‘I guess,’ he nodded.

      Renita looked for a long time in the direction Swinton had walked. ‘If you’re that sure we’ll find evidence in his flat maybe we should nick him and search it. Or we could always try and get a search warrant.’

      ‘No,’ King shook his head slowly. ‘Too risky. We’d never get a search warrant and if we do a Section 18 and find nothing we’ll look like idiots. I’m not having someone like Swinton make a fool of me. No forensics, remember? And the victims can’t identify him.’

      ‘OK, Sarge,’ Renita said. ‘Then how do we stop him?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe for this once, we’ll have to bend a few rules. For the sake of the children, if nothing else. And stop calling me Sarge all the time. Driving me bloody mad.’

      ‘I thought you wanted us to,’ she reminded him.

      ‘The others maybe,’ he told her, ‘but not you. Doesn’t sound right coming from you for some reason. Just call me Jack, will you?’

      ‘OK,’ she nodded once, a little unsure, following his eyes as they continued to stare at the space where Swinton had disappeared into the long grass. ‘Let it go,’ she encouraged him. ‘Swinton will come again.’

      ‘Creepy little bastard, wasn’t he,’ King answered, his eyes still not moving.

      ‘Maybe,’ she only partly agreed. ‘But looks can sometimes be deceiving. Maybe he’s just a little simple or maybe he’d just rather hang out with the kids than the adults on the estate. At least they have some semblance of innocence. He probably couldn’t handle the adults. They’d rip him up for arse paper.’

      ‘So what you saying?’ He finally looked at her. ‘That he’s just lonely or something?’

      ‘We all need human contact,’ she reminded him. ‘Maybe talking to the kids is the only way he can get any?’

      ‘Human contact?’ King scoffed. ‘I know what kind of contact he’s after and when he gets it I’ll be there to nail the little freak to the floor. Come on,’ he told her, the bile still in the tone of his voice, the thought of Swinton like an oil slick in his mind. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

      King and Renita stood with a small group of off-duty uniformed cops in the Trafalgar pub enjoying a drink at the end of another long day as they discussed the early success of the Unit while the others listened admiringly. Renita did most of the talking and teasing as King played along, increasingly distracted by the growing pain in his shoulder and back that spread and flourished in his head. He left his half-drunk pint on the bar, made his excuses and headed to the toilet where he found an empty cubicle and locked himself inside. He wasn’t due to take any buprenorphine for a few more hours, but decided to tackle the pain before it got out of hand – exceeding his daily dose of the drug again. His GP had told him he should be thinking about coming off the opioid, reducing his dosage slowly, but things seemed to be going the other way. He popped two from the tinfoil and plastic capsules and hid them in the palm of his hand, assuring himself he’d come off the pills as soon as work became less hectic and he had time to try an alternative.

      He left the sanctuary of the cubicle and headed back to the bar where it was apparent he’d hardly been missed as he recovered his drink and subtly transferred the drugs from his palm to his mouth, quickly washing them down with the warming, flattening beer, unaware he was being watched by intelligent, experienced eyes from the other side of the bar.

      Frank Marino drained his drink and weaved his way through the revellers until he stood next to King – appearing almost surprised to see him. ‘Jack,’ he nodded.

      ‘Frank,’ King nodded back.

      ‘I was just getting them in,’ Marino told him. ‘Can I get you one?’

      ‘I’m good, thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m in a round.’

      Marino looked at Renita and the others. ‘Of course,’ he said, while checking they were too occupied with their own conversation to hear his. ‘Same old faces, eh?’ he suddenly asked, catching King unawares.

      ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

      ‘This lot talking to Renita,’ Marino smiled. ‘I don’t come here often, but whenever I do they seem to be in here.’

      ‘Everyone has their way of winding down,’ King defended them.

      ‘Winding down or drinking to forget?’ Marino questioned. King just shrugged. ‘You don’t want to wind down too much,’ Marino explained. ‘Not if you want to go further than sergeant.’

      ‘Maybe,’ King half agreed.

      ‘Hardly ever used to see you in here at all before you got hurt,’ Marino reminded him. ‘The occasional leaving-do maybe. What was it – rugby in the winter for the borough and cricket in the summer, keeping fit and studying when you weren’t?’

      ‘Something like that,’ King answered, shifting a little uncomfortably.

      ‘But not since you returned to duty?’ Marino continued. ‘I still pop along to watch the odd game when I can. Always a bit surprised to see you not playing.’

      ‘My injuries,’ King insisted. ‘They need a little more recovery time.’

      ‘Shame,’ Marino told him. ‘It sure is a better use of time than hanging around the pub.’

      ‘Listen,’ King snapped a little, the irritation coarse in his throat. ‘Why you suddenly so worried about what I do in my own time?’

      ‘You’re very young,’ Marino advised him, sounding almost paternal. ‘I occasionally still get to hear what the senior management are saying.’

      ‘And what are they saying?’ King asked impatiently.

      ‘What they’re saying is you could go all the way,’ Marino answered. ‘Maybe even to the very top. And I agree. We could do with a few like you at the top, instead of the usual bean-counters who’ve never nicked anyone in their careers. But it won’t happen if you get too used to …’ Marino paused, looking around their surroundings to make his point more clear, ‘this.’

      King relaxed somewhat. ‘It’s just short term,’ he tried to reassure him. ‘Last chance to live like a real cop before they drag me off to Bramshill and tie me to a desk. Work hard, play hard – just for a while.’

      ‘Of course,’ Marino nodded. ‘But I’ve been doing this job a very long time and I’ve seen many a promising career disappear in the bottom of a glass. This job’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it.’ Once he was sure his comments had registered he placed his empty glass on the bar and made his excuses. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get on with your fun. Take it easy, eh.’

      King watched him wind through the drinkers and head to the exit, Marino’s words of warning spinning around his head. He patted his trouser pocket and felt the pack of buprenorphine inside. So what if Marino had seen him take them – there was no way he could have known what they were. But why would Marino be watching him so closely? He shook