Blood Atonement by Dan Waddell Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan Waddell
his most patient voice that he wanted that plan to be ‘return to work’, she’d shaken her head slowly as if he was a drooling vegetable. By this stage he’d switched off and just agreed and nodded and agreed and nodded, anything to stop the tests and the meetings and the action plans and get back to doing what he believed he did best. The upshot was that he was now back at work, with a letter at home explaining the terms of his return, but beyond noting his first date back he’d not taken any of it in.
‘Vaguely.’
Harris didn’t detect the rueful irony in his voice. ‘One of the conditions of you returning so soon was a restriction on your working hours. For the first six months, we agreed that you should work no more than forty-five
hours a week.’
He knew that bit. ‘Yes, no more than nine hours a day’
And how many hours did you work yesterday?’
Foster furrowed his brow. Was he being serious? What
do you mean?’
‘It’s hardly a difficult question, Grant. How many hours did you work yesterday?’
He was up at four, home at midnight. Take an hour or
so off for getting dressed and driving to and from home.
About nineteen,’ he said to Harris.
‘Ten more than you should’ve done.’
Foster tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead his jaw flapped open like a fish. Did Harris really just say that? He ran the words through his mind again.
Yes, he had said it.
‘Brian, are you being serious? A woman was murdered,
her daughter kidnapped. I was on duty — I was at the scene.
Do you expect me to clock off and go home just because
it’s teatime?’
‘You have an action plan …’
‘Action plan? I’m a detective. I solve crimes. I put people in prison. A fourteenyear-old girl is missing, maybe murdered. You honestly expect me to ignore all that and
go along with some spurious timetable created by bureaucratic, time-serving pen-pushers with no idea of what actual police work entails?’
“I helped draw up that timetable,’ Harris snapped back.
Foster put his hands on his hips, shook his head. What
can I do in the face of such lunacy? he thought.
Harris took a breath and continued. ‘It’s my job to do
what’s best for this department, this police force and the people of London. And for you.’
What about what’s best for Naomi Buckingham?’
Harris’s face darkened once more. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Grant. There are two other DCIs working full time on this case. I’m in charge. If she’s alive, we’ll find her.
You will help us do that, but within the bounds of your
return to work action plan.’
If I hear the words ‘action plan’ once more then I’m
going to run to the window and hurl myself into the street below, Foster thought. He ran his hand down his face.
And you’ve also missed your last two counselling
sessions. You must keep going — when’s your next one?’
‘Tomorrow, 5 p.m.’
‘Then you’ll go. We can cope. We need you fit and well
and able to give of your best.’
Foster shook his head. It was beginning to ache. No
one had been this concerned about him since his gran
passed away when he was seven. His mental health
appeared to be of more concern to his DS than the safety of a missing girl. The world has gone bloody mad, he
thought.
‘So what’s happening today?’ he asked, eager to switch
the subject back to the investigation, even if he was to have only a peripheral role in it.
We’re going speak to every paedo and pervert in a
fifteen-mile radius. I will save you that particular pleasure, however, in favour of some victimology. I want you to get out there and have a word with Katie Drake’s colleagues at the charity shop. Find out as much about her as you
can. There’s some news from forensics. Good news. A
hair was found on Katie Drake’s clothing. Apparently,
because of its length, first impressions are that it belongs to a male. I need you to try and find out who the men were in her life.
‘Vaguely.’
Harris didn’t detect the rueful irony in his voice. ‘One of the conditions of you returning so soon was a restriction on your working hours. For the first six months, we agreed that you should work no more than forty-five
hours a week.’
He knew that bit. ‘Yes, no more than nine hours a day’
And how many hours did you work yesterday?’
Foster furrowed his brow. Was he being serious? What
do you mean?’
‘It’s hardly a difficult question, Grant. How many hours did you work yesterday?’
He was up at four, home at midnight. Take an hour or
so off for getting dressed and driving to and from home.
About nineteen,’ he said to Harris.
‘Ten more than you should’ve done.’
Foster tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead his jaw flapped open like a fish. Did Harris really just say that? He ran the words through his mind again.
Yes, he had said it.
‘Brian, are you being serious? A woman was murdered,
her daughter kidnapped. I was on duty — I was at the scene.
Do you expect me to clock off and go home just because
it’s teatime?’
‘You have an action plan …’
‘Action plan? I’m a detective. I solve crimes. I put people in prison. A fourteenyear-old girl is missing, maybe murdered. You honestly expect me to ignore all that and
go along with some spurious timetable created by bureaucratic, time-serving pen-pushers with no idea of what actual police work entails?’
“I helped draw up that timetable,’ Harris snapped back.
Foster put his hands on his hips, shook his head. What
can I do in the face of such lunacy? he thought.
Harris took a breath and continued. ‘It’s my job to do
what’s best for this department, this police force and the people of London. And for you.’
What about what’s best for Naomi Buckingham?’
Harris’s face darkened once more. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Grant. There are two other DCIs working full time on this case. I’m in charge. If she’s alive, we’ll find her.
You will help us do that, but within the bounds of your
return to work action plan.’
If I hear the words ‘action plan’ once more then I’m
going to run to the window and hurl myself into the street below, Foster thought. He ran his hand down his face.
And you’ve also missed your last two counselling
sessions. You must keep going — when’s your next one?’
‘Tomorrow, 5 p.m.’
‘Then you’ll go. We can cope. We need you fit and well
and able to give of your best.’
Foster shook his head. It was beginning to ache. No
one had been this concerned about him since his gran
passed away when he was seven. His mental health
appeared to be of more concern to his DS than the safety of a missing girl. The world has gone bloody mad, he
thought.
‘So what’s happening today?’ he asked, eager to switch
the subject back to the investigation, even if he was to have only a peripheral role in it.
We’re going speak to every paedo and pervert in a
fifteen-mile radius. I will save you that particular pleasure, however, in favour of some victimology. I want you to get out there and have a word with Katie Drake’s colleagues at the charity shop. Find out as much about her as you
can. There’s some news from forensics. Good news. A
hair was found on Katie Drake’s clothing. Apparently,
because of its length, first impressions are that it belongs to a male. I need you to try and find out who the men were in her life.