Life on Mars: Get Cartwright. Tom Graham

all in one piece,’ Sam said, ignoring Gene and focusing on Annie. ‘And I got a name. The gunman’s called Carroll – ex-DCI Michael Carroll.’

      Hearing the name, Annie’s eyes went wide as saucers.

      ‘Carroll!’ she gasped.

      Sam nodded. He desperately wanted to tell her that he knew she had spoken to Carroll – but in front of the Guv, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

      Frowning, Gene looked from Sam to Annie to Sam again, and said: ‘Um, do you want to include your Uncle Gene in this private chinwag? I mean, I know I’m only your boss and superior officer and professional role model and all that …’

      ‘DCI Carroll’s one of the names on Annie’s list,’ said Sam.

      ‘Oh aye?’ grunted Gene. ‘Annie’s list of what? Blokes round the department she’s ready to gobble for a quid?’

      Annie was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to even hear this. But Sam reacted sharply.

      ‘Jesus Christ, Guv, that’s bang out of order what you just said!’ he shouted. Then he glanced guiltily at the large cross standing boldly atop the church, backlit by the sun, and mouthed at it: Sorry. In a lower voice, he hissed at Gene: ‘Flippin’ heck, Guv, that’s bang out of order what you just said.’

      ‘Loosen up, Tyler. I understand the way it is. How else is Inspector Jugs going to get promotion if it ain’t on her knees?’

      Sam kept his temper in check, took a moment to gather his thoughts, then explained patiently: ‘Mickey Carroll is a retired DCI. He was on the force back in the sixties. Annie’s been digging into the old records and reckons him and a couple of others were on the payroll of a local villain.’

      ‘And what’s Annie doing spending her time on cold cases, eh?’ Gene asked, narrowing his eyes and peering at Annie suspiciously. ‘Ain’t we got enough villains on the prowl to keep her fully occupied?’

      ‘I think there’s secrets hidden in them files, Guv,’ said Annie. ‘Nasty secrets. I got the strong impression that Carroll was corrupt – him and others. DS Ken Darby, DI Pat Walsh …’

      ‘Pat Walsh!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Of course! Carroll mentioned the name Pat in there. It’s got to be Pat Walsh, his old DI. Guv, we’re uncovering something here. If Annie’s right, and they’re both bent coppers from the sixties, then I think there’s more than just coincidence going on here. We should track down Walsh – ten-to-one he can shed some light on what’s happening inside that church right now.’

      ‘Well this is all ‘appening a bit sharpish,’ said Gene.

      ‘You can thank Annie for that, Guv.’

      Gene sneered: ‘Don’t lay it on with a trowel, Tyler.’ He pulled his coat straight and added: ‘Okay. This DI Pat Walsh. Where do we find him?’

      ‘57, Streeling Street.’ It was a uniformed officer standing close by who spoke up. Sam, Annie and Gene turned to look at him. The bobby added: ‘It’s a call that came through right before this one. Mrs Walsh, 57 Streeling Street, reporting a break-in and possible missing person – her husband, Patrick Walsh. Some of the other lads went to see to that one. I got sent here.’

      Sam reacted at once: ‘Let’s get over there, Guv – pronto!’

      He sprinted towards the Cortina where it sat amid the patrol cars, gleaming in the mid-morning sun. Annie ran with him. They leapt in, Sam in the front passenger seat, Annie in the back – and then waited while Gene sauntered arrogantly over, paused to light a cigarette, adjusted the leather strap of his string-back glove, then pretended to forget which pocket he’d put his car keys in. He was not to be rushed – least of all by his minions and flunkeys.

      ‘Come on, come on!’ Annie hissed from the back, glaring through the windscreen at Gene.

      This isn’t a police investigation for Annie, any more than it is for me, Sam thought. Annie’s unearthing her own identity here – and all the dark secrets that identity contains. And as for me – this is the start of the showdown, the final face-off between me and Clive Gould, the murderer of Annie’s father, the Devil in the Dark itself …

      Without warning, Annie leant forward and slammed her fist into the Cortina’s car horn.

      ‘Come on!’ she cried.

      Gene’s expression changed. His cheeks flushed red. A cold, hard light glittered in his eyes. He threw away his barely smoked fag, stomped furiously over to the Cortina, and flung open the rear door.

      ‘Out!’ he barked.

      ‘Oh, let’s just get going, Guv,’ Sam urged him.

      ‘I said, out!’

      Annie glared up at Hunt, and for a moment Sam thought she might suddenly launch herself at him in a ferocious attack. But no. She angrily clambered out of the car and threw her leather handbag down hard on the ground.

      Gene stared into her face and said in a low, dangerous voice: ‘You honked my horn …’

      He flexed his hands, making his black leather driving gloves creak ominously.

      Annie stared right back at him, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes narrow and enraged. Then she picked up her bag and strode away.

      ‘Annie!’ Sam called after her, but her only reaction was to rip aside a cordon of blue police tape as she went.

      Gene watched her go with an expression like a very pissed off lion – then, slowly, clambered into the driving seat next to Sam. Without saying a word, he fired up the engine, brushed a speck of imaginary contamination from the horn, and hit the gas.

       CHAPTER THREE: ONE SPENT CARTRIDGE

      The Cortina howled to a stop outside the bungalow at 57 Streeling Street. There was a patrol car parked by the front drive, inside which a WPC could just be seen, comforting a distressed woman. A PC lurked at the front of the bungalow, licking the tip of a tiny pencil and making notes.

      Gene sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead.

      ‘What’s the story with her, eh, Tyler?’ he asked.

      ‘Annie’s got things on her mind,’ Sam replied, refusing to be drawn into details.

      Gene snorted in contempt: ‘Got things on her mind?! She’s a bird – minds don’t come into it!’ And before Sam could spring to her defence, he added: ‘Do me a big favour, Tyler. Get her sorted.’

      ‘She’s her own person, Guv.’

      ‘In her own little head maybe, but not in my department. Stompin’ about, telling me to get a move on, honkin’ my ruddy horn ...!’ A flame of indignation flickered anew at the memory. ‘I don’t know what her problem is, and frankly I don’t give a stuff. But if you don’t rein your tart in, Tyler, I’m gonna throw her over my knee and give her a damned good slippering. And I may not be speaking metaphorically.’

      ‘Just give her some space, Guv. She’ll be okay.’

      ‘It’s my horn, in my motor!’

      ‘I know, Guv.’

      ‘And I’m the boss! And it’s bloody Sunday and I’m missing The Big Match! Don’t my feelings count for nothing round here?’

      ‘I’ll have a little chat with her later.’

      ‘Do that, Tyler – before I have a little chat with her. And you know how my little chats tend to pan out.’

      And with that, Gene threw open the car door and clambered