Gibbons’s father. “Ring her and ask.”
“I’d rather like to do that myself,” said Carmichael hastily.
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Gibbons was rummaging in her capacious handbag. “I have the number and address right here somewhere … ah, yes, here’s my address book.”
She produced an old-fashioned address book with a spray of irises across its worn cover and opened it. “Here you are, Chief Inspector,”
she said. “And as long as I’ve got you here, I’ll take down your address as well, if you would be so kind. I very much want to write a note to your lovely wife—she was so kind to us that first morning.”
“She’d appreciate hearing from you,” said Carmichael, pulling out his notebook and a pencil.
He excused himself once they had exchanged information, secretly relieved to leave Gibbons to his parents. He had never been much of a hand at visiting the sick, and he was quite anxious to talk to this Dawn Melton. If Gibbons had indeed gone to visit her on Tuesday night, then it might well have been an act of random violence that had felled his sergeant, rather than some insidious plot involving elderly pawnbrokers and/or stolen jewelry.
Or, he thought glumly to himself, the reason for the shooting could be hidden in some dark corner of Gibbons’s personal life, which would make the situation even worse. As an experienced homicide detective, Carmichael knew only too well how easily lives could be destroyed by a police investigation. It would be even worse for a detective, who would have every nook and cranny of his private affairs exposed to the eyes of his colleagues. Carmichael was not sure how one could recover from that.
Detective Sergeant Chris O’Leary had started his day very early, determined to make up for yesterday’s sin of omission in neglecting to mention the drink he’d had with Gibbons on the Tuesday. In truth, he had pretty well forgotten all about it until Carmichael had reminded him and he was feeling guilty over that. He was, after all, supposed to be a detective, and he ought to have realized that he had been the last known person to see Gibbons before the shooting.
So he was fully determined to discover at the very least what time Gibbons had left the pub. He had not taken much notice at the time, but his memory of the pub that night was of a quiet place, with only a few patrons scattered about. If he closed his eyes and tried to envision the scene—something he had spent a great deal of time doing since yesterday—he seemed to remember passing a group of men by the door as he left. He did not know any of them
personally, but he believed at least two of them worked in the Narcotics Division. If he could track them down, they might remember seeing Gibbons leave.
But his first port of call must be to the bartender, Bob Crebbin. Crebbin was tolerably well known to all those at Scotland Yard who enjoyed the odd drink after work, O’Leary among them, but he had no notion where the man lived. He did, however, recollect that Crebbin had at one time been a detective himself, or at least a policeman, and that should make him fairly easy to find. By a quarter to eight, O’Leary had compelled the Scotland Yard computers to divulge Crebbin’s current address and was on his way to Barking.
Once arrived there, however, he found an unexpected obstacle in the person of Dora Crebbin, Bob’s wife. She answered the door with a cigarette in her mouth and a suspicious glint in her eye.
“Bob’s not up yet,” she announced flatly. “He works nights, does Bob.”
O’Leary tried to summon up his most ingratiating smile, but was a little hampered by the dangling cigarette.
“But I really need to speak with him,” he said. “It’s a matter of a friend of mine, you see. A fellow policeman.”
Dora snorted to show her opinion of the police.
“It wouldn’t take long,” added O’Leary, aware that a wheedling tone was entering his voice. “Bob could go right back to
“I’d rather like to do that myself,” said Carmichael hastily.
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Gibbons was rummaging in her capacious handbag. “I have the number and address right here somewhere … ah, yes, here’s my address book.”
She produced an old-fashioned address book with a spray of irises across its worn cover and opened it. “Here you are, Chief Inspector,”
she said. “And as long as I’ve got you here, I’ll take down your address as well, if you would be so kind. I very much want to write a note to your lovely wife—she was so kind to us that first morning.”
“She’d appreciate hearing from you,” said Carmichael, pulling out his notebook and a pencil.
He excused himself once they had exchanged information, secretly relieved to leave Gibbons to his parents. He had never been much of a hand at visiting the sick, and he was quite anxious to talk to this Dawn Melton. If Gibbons had indeed gone to visit her on Tuesday night, then it might well have been an act of random violence that had felled his sergeant, rather than some insidious plot involving elderly pawnbrokers and/or stolen jewelry.
Or, he thought glumly to himself, the reason for the shooting could be hidden in some dark corner of Gibbons’s personal life, which would make the situation even worse. As an experienced homicide detective, Carmichael knew only too well how easily lives could be destroyed by a police investigation. It would be even worse for a detective, who would have every nook and cranny of his private affairs exposed to the eyes of his colleagues. Carmichael was not sure how one could recover from that.
Detective Sergeant Chris O’Leary had started his day very early, determined to make up for yesterday’s sin of omission in neglecting to mention the drink he’d had with Gibbons on the Tuesday. In truth, he had pretty well forgotten all about it until Carmichael had reminded him and he was feeling guilty over that. He was, after all, supposed to be a detective, and he ought to have realized that he had been the last known person to see Gibbons before the shooting.
So he was fully determined to discover at the very least what time Gibbons had left the pub. He had not taken much notice at the time, but his memory of the pub that night was of a quiet place, with only a few patrons scattered about. If he closed his eyes and tried to envision the scene—something he had spent a great deal of time doing since yesterday—he seemed to remember passing a group of men by the door as he left. He did not know any of them
personally, but he believed at least two of them worked in the Narcotics Division. If he could track them down, they might remember seeing Gibbons leave.
But his first port of call must be to the bartender, Bob Crebbin. Crebbin was tolerably well known to all those at Scotland Yard who enjoyed the odd drink after work, O’Leary among them, but he had no notion where the man lived. He did, however, recollect that Crebbin had at one time been a detective himself, or at least a policeman, and that should make him fairly easy to find. By a quarter to eight, O’Leary had compelled the Scotland Yard computers to divulge Crebbin’s current address and was on his way to Barking.
Once arrived there, however, he found an unexpected obstacle in the person of Dora Crebbin, Bob’s wife. She answered the door with a cigarette in her mouth and a suspicious glint in her eye.
“Bob’s not up yet,” she announced flatly. “He works nights, does Bob.”
O’Leary tried to summon up his most ingratiating smile, but was a little hampered by the dangling cigarette.
“But I really need to speak with him,” he said. “It’s a matter of a friend of mine, you see. A fellow policeman.”
Dora snorted to show her opinion of the police.
“It wouldn’t take long,” added O’Leary, aware that a wheedling tone was entering his voice. “Bob could go right back to
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