Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Forty-One

Chief Superintendent Brian Ogilvy was in his office, his head deep into the Daily Mail. As Malin entered, he looked up and pointed to a chair. Carefully folding the paper, he dropped it into his in-tray and placed both hands flat on his desk.

"A successful investigation, Malin. Not that it matters, but the Chief Constable asked if we needed help with the investigation. Thanks to you and your team, we did not need him poking his nose into our business. Thank God it went tits up for them. You can close the case but put a couple of the plonks on finding who the unknown corpses are."

"When you consider there will be no conviction, why waste any more time? I'll have the paperwork typed and filed in records," said Malin. "That is unless you have anything to add."

Ogilvy leant back in his chair. "I have thoughts, but it's circumstantial, and I'd never prove it in a month of Sundays."

"I'll leave you with your thoughts, Sir."

"One mistake can ruin your life, so sometimes it's best to move on."

"If you say so." Malin stood and left.

The other officers working on the case lifted their heads as he entered the operations room. He could not help but notice his team watching him, waiting for new instructions. "Case closed, everyone. Sort the paperwork and dump it on my desk. The governor will be stating the outcome to the media this afternoon."

"Cup of tea, boss?" asked a constable.

"Thanks. Coffee black and no sugar."

The year 2002

Chief Superintendent Walker drummed his fingers on his desk and stared hard at John. "Great story and I have no idea how you know the details of our investigations. But as far as I can recall, you're close to the truth."

John began to laugh, but it changed into a violent coughing fit, his features unreadable.

"Jesus Christ, you should be in the hospital."

In between bouts of trying to breathe, John muttered, "I know everything. I've told you the truth, and if you give what I said a moment's thought, the only part I might have made up was when they drowned. The plan was to let them remain sealed in the drain and die a slow death, but an act of God killed them. There was no way I could have arranged for the tunnel to flood. The rest was, in many ways, common knowledge. You seem to have forgotten I was a detective. I read the papers, and Malin, who couldn't keep his mouth shut if he tried, was promoted for his work on that case."

"What is it with you? You know I could have you arrested and held without charge while I have your home searched and your wife interviewed."

John shuffled in his seat. "You could, but you won't unless you have taped this conversation. Even then, you could never get a conviction."

"Have you finished?" shouted Walker.

"No, I fucking haven't," said John as a coughing fit turned his face red.

"But I have to hurry. My keepers didn't give me much time."

"What's with the keepers?"

"Need to know, and you don't. Give me time to finish before you ask stupid questions. When the Little brothers drowned, things went quiet. What did you lot do? You ran around in ever-decreasing circles with your thumbs up your bums. The old days may not be fashionable, but a kick in the bollocks always worked wonders. Anyway, I digress. You must remember the Langton's, a family of thugs from London who arrived and set up a protection racket. Fortunately for me, they made a mistake when they battered a friend. My local pub landlord told them to get lost while swinging a baseball bat.