Christopher Williams had already spent his hundred grand in his head. He was due to retire in the next few years, and it would be a very welcome bonus. He liked and trusted Danny Bailey; he was a chip off the old block – like his father, if he promised something, he delivered. Williams had been happy to go that extra mile for him. He had done his homework, and he had procured everything Danny had requested.

Another plus was that he had found himself a nice little ally in the forensics department – a dumpy little scientist, with good teeth, nice hair, and a serious coke habit. She was not averse to earning a bit on the side, and he was willing to cultivate her, knowing that she would be very useful to him in the future. Even after he retired, he would keep his hand in. Being the kind of man he was, he had played the long game and, over the years, he had made a point of befriending all the people who would one day be responsible for padding out his pension.

He was pleased with himself; he knew better than anyone that his collars – his knack of finding and removing from society the scum that preyed on women and children – far outweighed his extra-curricular activities. That was the real bonus of being a detective – the force were always loath to accuse people like him of anything dodgy, no matter how much evidence they might have to the contrary. If they did, and if they won the case, every collar he had ever felt, every fucking ponce he had banged up, would be lining up round the block, screaming for a retrial. A bent copper caused all sorts of aggro for the powers-that-be. No one wanted the expense or the bother of a new trial; it was far easier and cleaner to offer early retirement to any officers who were found lacking. It was simple economics.

He was very happy as he walked into the pub in Rainham where he’d arranged to meet Danny Bailey. He liked Essex. The females were always well groomed, always smiling. Essex women were born with an instinctive knowledge of how to make the best of their attributes; they were very smart and savvy. Essex men, however, were a different ball game; they all seemed to have been born with a natural belligerence that caused more fights than John Wayne, and a biological need to become villains. Like the Liverpudlians, they were capable of serious skulduggery from a very early age.

As Danny Bailey ordered their drinks, Williams wondered for a few seconds just how this young man would use the knowledge he was about to give him. But that was not his problem; he had simply performed the task requested of him, and what this man did with the information provided was none of his business.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two