Of course Kernow Glan had nothing to do with keeping the Cornish beaches and streets free of litter. Gideon wanted to slap himself for his own stupidity. Days like today, he wondered how on earth he had stumbled into the CID squad room, a place where—supposedly—the finest investigative minds from the Devon and Cornwall Police came together to pool information and create strategy. He eased into a chair, distractedly returning Rufus Pendower’s greeting. His thigh was aching powerfully, his throat dry. He gulped his vending-machine coffee and struggled to focus as Detective Inspector Lawrence took her place in front of the whiteboard.
“Morning, everyone.”
The dozen or so officers grouped around the table fell silent. Gideon was relieved that he’d ended up in Lawrence’s unit when he’d made the move out of uniform. She’d seen Lee’s gifts in action, and although she insisted on plain copper’s methods before psychic intervention, she wasn’t afraid to work with him. She nodded to her assembled team. “Right. Before I update you on Kerdrolla and our other matters in hand, does anyone have any new light to shed based on your own investigations?”
Jim Cardew cleared his throat. He and his partner Holt were the new face of the CID in Cornwall, keen as mustard, fast-tracked through the ranks straight from college. They hadn’t sat out the first decade or so of their career as village bobbies. Gideon, who felt old and slow by comparison, listened carefully to Cardew’s report: intel he and Holt had received, patched together with smart guesswork, and plenty of use of the word upstream, a favourite with Lawrence as she fought her battle to prevent disaster on her turf, not just mop up afterwards. She nodded, clearly pleased. “All right. This confirms my own information, and gives me a case for keeping the Kerdrolla march tomorrow at our current level of alert. Anyone else? DS Tyack-Frayne, it’s not like you not to put goods on our table.”
He liked that she always conscientiously used his married name, even though he and his kind were a challenge to her old-fashioned West Country ideas. He liked that she valued his wares. He still wasn’t sure that his own low-key approach in any way lived up to Cardew’s. He told her what he’d learned from his time spent among the locals in the Kerdrolla pubs and alongside the harbour, then added, “I’ve just received some information from a different angle, as well. Not sure if it’s relevant. An organisation calling itself Kernow Glan seems to be setting up shop around here, somewhere to the right of UKIP and the BNP.”
“They sound cuddly. Wait, Kernow... Glan, did you say? Clean Cornwall?”
“That’s what I thought at first, ma’am. But my source translates it as Cornish Purity.”
Lawrence frowned. “Purity, as in racial?”
“Probably. But my experience of groups like this is that they tar everyone different than themselves with the same big brush. So a march like the one in Kerdrolla might well be a target.”
“Accepted, though it’s something of a long shot. And this source of yours—trustworthy?”
Gideon returned her a wry look for the one she was giving him. “Unimpeachable.”
“Well, I suggest that you and your informant keep an eye on that angle. I am now in receipt of sufficient intel to suggest a high likelihood of some kind of disruption in Kerdrolla tomorrow. So we have today, ladies and gentlemen, to get ourselves upstream of whichever bad bastards are planning to impede the civil liberties of our LGBT citizens and deny them their right of peaceful demonstration, and—”
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Yes, Detective Sergeant?”
Her eyebrows had gone up. She wasn’t used to being interrupted, and he hadn’t actually meant to do it. Heat was crawling once more across the surface of his too-tight skin, and he could hear Lee’s warning voice as if he’d been sitting beside him. “At the risk of denying anyone their rights myself, if we’re this sure there’s going to be an attack, why in God’s name are we letting the march go ahead?”
Way too vehement. Anyone else would have drawn down a sharp, short rejoinder in kind. Gideon saw the flash of it in Lawrence’s eyes, but then something—maybe the goods he’d brought to her in the past, or his long, plodding service, despite his new doubts about its efficacy—stayed her hand. “I didn’t say attack, Gideon. I said disruption. And you know as well as I do that the best way to get a grip on these people is to make them show their hand. We just need to get far enough upstream of them to ensure—”
“Oh, upstream be damned. We’re not salmon. And the kids who’ll be marching tomorrow aren’t your bait.”
Her mouth dropped open. Rufus Pendower’s had, too. He put out a hand to ward off DI Lawrence’s response, which would have blasted several grade-steps off Gideon’s rank and possibly knocked him out of the window and into the car park. “Excuse me, ma’am. I don’t think DS Frayne’s very well.”
Gideon drew a dragon’s breath to scarify Rufus in his turn, but it caught in his throat and he began to cough. The stench of wolfsbane rose out of nowhere, a fog of it clouding his vision. He pushed out of his seat. “Sorry,” he managed. “Just need a bit of air.”
There wasn’t any in the squad room, or the corridor beyond it. He had to stumble into the foyer before his lungs would inflate. The double doors were open to the breeze. Grateful there was no-one at the reception desk, he went to lean in the doorway, taking deep gulps of the bright morning and trying not to let his blasted, aching, stupid sodding leg buckle under him. The inside of his head was full of staticky, bestial snarls, and he could barely attend to Lawrence and Pendower when they came to stand in front of him, faces pale with concern. “I’m fine,” he said flatly. “You didn’t need to come out.”
“You don’t look fine,” Pendower said. “You’re flushed, like you’ve got a fever. Is everything all right with Lee?”
“With Lee? What’s Lee got to do with it?”
“Well, I—I don’t know. I was worried the two of you might have had a fight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lawrence intervened. “When has Gideon ever allowed his personal life to affect his duties like this? Aren’t you well, Detective Sergeant? I noticed you were limping when you left the room.”
Gideon was fond of his colleagues. Lawrence was a good boss, and he’d come to like and respect Rufus too. He couldn’t have explained for the life of him why he wanted to pick the two of them up, rip them limb from limb and eat them. “I’ve got a touch of that summer flu, that’s all,” he said, making an enormous effort to sound human and sane. “And I pulled a muscle yesterday. I’m perfectly all right now.”
“I’m not sure.” She paused, suspicion gathering. “Oh, hang on. Did that bloody source of yours tell you about John Tregear?”
“Ray’s father?” John Tregear was in jail, and no man had more richly deserved it. Gideon allowed himself a brief fantasy that a fellow inmate might have finished the bastard off. “What about him?”
“He got an early release. He’s out.”
The lino-tiled floor jolted under Gideon’s feet. “What?”
“I meant to tell you today. I know there was a lot of animosity, between you and—”
“Never mind me. How the devil have they released him, after what he did to that poor boy?”
Lawrence sighed. “The poor boy is the problem. John Tregear hired a new lawyer, who had Kitto submit to a psychiatric evaluation, and who came to the conclusion—which I can’t argue—that the lad is a sandwich short of a picnic now. So all the evidence he gave back then...”
“Was invalidated.” Gideon turned sharply and took a couple of steps down towards the car park. Normally nothing would have induced him to walk off on his DI, but he could hardly breathe for rage and dismay. He clutched at the hand rail. “Tregear attacked three police officers. What about them?”
“With Kitto’s testimony undermined, he’s already done three years for assault. He kept his nose clean, signed up for all their courses and therapy. Fell on his sword with remorse at his appeal hearing. There was nothing they could do to keep him in.”
“The therapy hasn’t worked.”
Lawrence came to join him on the steps, Pendower an anxious shadow behind her. “I’m sorry?”
“Whatever therapy Tregear is meant to have had, it didn’t stop him turning up outside my house yesterday. And he wasn’t out for a stroll on the moors, either—he was wearing his damned horse-skull mask.”
“Shit,” Pendower whispered, causing Lawrence to glance at him in surprise. “You have to warn Lee. He’s all on his own. With—with the baby, I mean.”
“I’m just about to phone him now.” Unreasonable irritation boiled up in Gideon. “What else do you think I’d do? I don’t need you to tell me how to take care of my partner.”
“Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“Pendower, go back to the squad room. Tell the others I’ll be five minutes.” Lawrence took hold of Gideon’s arm, and waited until Pendower was out of earshot. “You might look like a bear with a sore head, but you don’t normally act like one. Would you care to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Other than a homicidal nutcase hanging around in my garden?”
“If he was wearing a mask, how can you be sure it was him? Doesn’t Ray Tregear wear the Penglas head at some of the festivals these days?”
“It wasn’t Ray.” Gideon was as sure of this as he’d been of the contrary the night before. “I have to call Lee.”
“Very well. If you’re that concerned, I’ll have a car and an officer set watch on your house. I think your lad can look after himself, mind, Gideon.”
Yes. Visions assailed Gideon: his gentle other half bouncing a rowdy drunk out of the bar where he’d used to work, knocking down burly bankers like ninepins in the Island pub. “I know,” he said. “That’s the only reason why I’m phoning him instead of getting in my car and driving home now.”
Lawrence’s eyebrows rose. Gideon had been his own boss in his years as constable of Dark, but understood perfectly well the necessity for rank and structure in the force. Normally he observed the forms with scrupulous courtesy, especially when his superior officer was female. Today he just didn’t care. He sank down on the step and pulled out his mobile. Behind him, he was aware of Lawrence retreating, striding back across the foyer, probably to fetch whatever tools she used to rip strips off insubordinate sergeants. Indifference went through him in a grey tide. To his relief, Lee picked up on the second ring. “Hey. Is everything all right there?”
“It’s fine. Kiddo’s just having her third lunch. You sound rough, though—what’s up?”
“I want you to be careful. John Tregear got out of jail.”
“You are kidding. Jailbreak?”
“Nope. Our fantastic justice system let him go. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. But it must’ve been him we saw near the house last night, not Ray, so to watch your back, and call me or 999 if he turns up again. And keep the doors locked, okay?”
“Okay, but...” A hesitation, while the background noises Gideon loved to hear came down the line: his daughter singing to the dog while she ate, a ripple of music from the radio. “I’d feel pretty stupid, calling 999 for something like that, Gid. And—you know, I didn’t see anyone last night at all, and you were running a fever.”
“Will you for once just bloody well do as I say?”
The second it was out, Gideon would have given the world to recall it. “Shit,” he said, before the stunned silence from the other end of the line could form a reply. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to talk to you like that. I’m just—”
“It’s okay.” He sounded sincere, his ordinary loving self, and Gideon could have kissed him for it. One of the many perfections of Lee’s personality was his willingness to grab a sincere apology and use it like a sponge to wipe out whatever had gone before. “I will do as you say, Detective Sergeant, sir. I think you’ve got flu, though.”
Gideon was grateful that everyone who knew him took his bursts of bad temper as a sign that he was sick, not just a grumpy sod. “Maybe. Didn’t mean to throw my weight about.”
“Oh, I never mind that. Can’t you plead illness and come home and throw it some more?”
So sexy, even when he didn’t mean to be. That sweet far-west accent was made for seduction, for weekday invitations to bed. Gideon drew breath to reply, but a hand fell on his shoulder, quenching his ardour cold. He twisted round. DI Lawrence was back, a severe-faced uniformed sergeant by her side. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay. Mind you do.”
He got stiffly to his feet. Maybe he did have flu after all. The woman in uniform was his old friend Jenny Spargo, and a new haircut and the absence of her usual smile shouldn’t have prevented him from recognising her. “Afternoon, Sergeant Spargo,” he said cautiously. Had Lawrence brought her along as an arresting officer? He didn’t think he’d pushed it that far, but... “Detective Inspector, I have to apologise to you. I don’t know—”
“Be quiet, Gideon, before you get yourself in any deeper.”
“I understand if you need to reprimand me, ma’am.”
“Oh, I’d have loved to. But then I thought about this tirelessly patient, good-natured sergeant who’s been choosing the right heads to knock together for the last dozen years or so, and I decided it’s not his fault if his evil twin turned up to work today in his place. I’m writing you off sick. Spargo here is going to drive you home, and after that she’ll remain on your premises for the day, just to put your mind at rest about John Tregear. We’ll give you someone overnight as well.”
“Oh, no. Thank you, ma’am, but surely Jenny has better things to do than nursemaid me.”
Spargo grinned broadly. “You’re joking. A trip out to Dark, and a chance to have a cuppa with Lee and your kiddie? It’s that or desk work, Gid. Don’t spoil it for me.”
Lawrence gave her a repressive frown, but nodded. “Do as you’re bidden. And for God’s sake try and be your normal sane self for tomorrow—I’m going to need every officer I can get on duty in Kerdrolla.”
“With respect, ma’am, I still think you should cancel the event.”
“Your opinion is noted. It’s not in my hands, and it won’t be unless we register a far higher level of threat than we’ve seen so far. I am not using the young people of Cornwall as bait, Detective Sergeant.”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“So you ought to be. The other reason I chose Spargo to take you home is your unfailing chivalry to female officers.”
“I think it failed a bit today, but... Sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I mean that you’re less likely to argue or put up a struggle when she stops off at our medical unit for the doctors to have a look at your damned leg.”