Chapter 24

All Things Must Pass

The end came sooner than expected. Within the month, DC Stephen Randalph resigned, effective immediately.

He’d been served with papers alleging discipline offences in contradiction of the rules on honesty and integrity, orders and instructions and, thrown in for good measure, discreditable conduct. The matter was classed as gross misconduct overall and the result was in little doubt. He’d said it was the only thing he could do; besides, he already had other employment.

Thurstan reminded him they could still pursue the case against him in his absence and record his dismissal anyway, even though he’d quit. And they could even place him on the list barring him from further police employment. Gandalph seemed strangely unworried about it. All he’d say about his new job was it involved computers and moving to London.

Traditionally, in the police, such a move required a substantial piss-up. The numbers attending didn’t really matter, just the consumption of large amounts of alcohol. Gandalph declined. He said he had an early train to catch and didn’t want to make a bad start with his new employers.

At the end of the day, they stood face to face. Gandalph handed over his police identification card and issued mobile phone. They said nice things to each other, then shook hands.

In a moment of near insanity, Thurstan couldn’t stop himself from embracing his DC in a hug. Immediately, he began to regret such an awkward show of emotion but, when he felt the pressure of Gandalph’s arms around his shoulders, he knew it had been the right thing to do.

Once or twice, in the weeks that followed, Thurstan tried to call but Gandalph’s mobile phone number no longer existed. Enquiries with members of the old crew from MIT gained nothing further. It was like Stephen Randalph had ceased to exist.

The next week didn’t get any better. The last email he checked that Friday told him he’d been posted to the Central Property Office, effective the following Monday.

Thurstan packed everything he wanted to take with him and would have said goodbye to someone but there was no one there. The cistern for the men’s urinals shrieked, groaned then shuddered. He locked the front door, posting the keys through the letter box.

At home, he stuffed his possessions in the cupboard under the stairs, poured himself a Bushmills whiskey and downed it in one. He already knew Lizzie had to work late, she’d called him earlier from her new job in Manchester with the NCA, for all intents and purposes the UK’s version of the FBI.  A big job had broken out, all hands to the pumps, but the remains of last night’s Indian curry were in the fridge, all he had to do was plate it up and put it in the microwave.

He phoned a taxi, booked his return journey for 11 pm, and went to the pub. When he returned home, his keys had mysteriously stopped working. Lizzie opened the door to a man with tears running down his face who was clearly in need of someone to lean on.