Twenty-TwoTony Oakes placed the phone back in the cradle and sat pondering in his dimly lit cubby hole that was supposed to be an office. The small window looked out onto the grey police station's car park. Trees could be seen in the distance, providing some colour to the drab facade. He picked up his mobile phone, finding the number he needed. He placed the phone to his ear, waiting impatiently. “Chris. It's Tony.” The other man responded. “Not bad thanks. You?” He listened to the reply, drumming his fingers on his pad. “I need some info. Last year when you tackled Jake Stevenson up the Lickey Hills. Could you tell me the exact spot where you lost him?” He drummed his fingers some more as the other man gave him a location. “Okay. Cheers for that. You can go back to sleep now. Speak soon.”
