by Lisa Cutts
‘As you well know, sir,’ she said, ‘it’s Sandra, not Sandy, and I guess you’re about to tell me about the body that’s been found.’
‘Either you’re psychic or you’ve seen the CAD too.’
‘I looked at the CAD and saw your email telling me you’d already gone out to it. I’ve stopped a couple of the team from going out on other enquiries in case you need them for a briefing.’
‘I’m very grateful,’ said Harry, glad that even if she was one of the most miserable individuals he had ever met, she was capable, and took on anything with no complaint, merely a look of disdain.
Harry stepped inside the office, closing the door behind him. He wasn’t about to unburden himself to Sandra, yet he had to update her on what he knew, warts and all.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling I know who’s lying out in that field,’ he said, managing to avoid her eye. ‘I think it’s Jenny Bloomfield.’
He waited. No adverse reaction.
She reached over for a handwritten green message form.
‘I took a call while you were out, she said, ‘and put the details on a green for you.’ Sandra pushed the paper across to him and sat motionless while he read it.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘You spoke to Tanya King, Jenny Bloomfield’s daughter.’
Harry took a deep, silent breath and felt his shoulders hunching up to his ears. He would have put good money on hearing the knots in his shoulders tie themselves up.
‘We knew that Jenny went missing the day she was acquitted of murdering DI Bowman’s wife,’ said Sandra. ‘You weren’t the only one who thought she’d simply legged it.
‘Tanya came back from Australia some weeks ago and she’s been doing a bit of her own detective work. Somehow she got wind of the body that’s turned up this morning and demanded I tell her everything about it. I politely informed her that wasn’t going to happen, although I’ve asked her to come in and speak to me as soon as she can.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll go and see her myself. There might be a bit of bad news to break to the family. I’ll be the bearer of that.’
Harry stood up to go.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ he added. ‘Apparently we’re getting a new member of staff we didn’t ask for.’
Sandra froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
‘What?’ she breathed.
Harry couldn’t remember his right-hand woman ever appearing so stuck for words. Often her words were blunt, but never before had he witnessed her struggle to form them.
‘A member of staff we didn’t ask for?’ she repeated, as if saying the sentence again would give it clarity.
‘I know,’ said Harry. ‘I’m hugely suspicious, as every bloody chance I get I ask for money to fund another member of staff, but I may as well be talking to my poxy self.’
He paused, scratched his chin and said, ‘I’m either being sent a useless twat or a wrong ’un. With my fucking luck, he’s both.’
*
Harry walked towards his office. He didn’t hurry, the toll of the last few months showing more and more each day. It wasn’t only the cutbacks and the lack of staff: his incident room had been ripped apart. One of his team, someone under his care, was no longer here. Harry missed him more and more each day.
And the memories were so painful, not to mention the guilt he felt at letting both a colleague and a friend down.
Sometimes this bloody job simply wasn’t worth it.
As he ambled to his boxy office, broken blinds flapping against the grimy window in the breeze, he realized he was mumbling to himself. His girlfriend, Hazel, often scowled in his direction when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was only when he caught her head-tilt and the almost imperceptible tightening of her eyes he realized that, once more, he was mumbling and swearing to himself.
What exactly was he supposed to do with a broken fucking major incident room, not to mention a broken fucking team?
A couple of heads jerked in his direction as he passed through the MIR, confirming what he had feared – he was talking out loud.
‘Ah, Soph,’ he said as he got to his office door and saw one of his DCs loitering in the confines of the corridor. ‘Nice that you’ve taken time out to come and see me.’
He gave her a smile, the best he could manage these days.
She returned it with one almost as pitiful, yet there was something else about her. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, she seemed to be blushing, or at least it was a hot flush.
Tactful as ever, Harry said, ‘You look a bit red there. You coming down with something or is it the menop—’
After noticing the look on her face, he considered his next words carefully, and came to the conclusion it would be best if actually there were none. Instead, he gestured towards his office.
She trotted ahead of him, covering the short distance and coming to a stop inside the doorway.
‘There’s someone here, sir,’ she said when Harry was seated. ‘Apparently he’s new to the team.’
Harry reached up to scratch at an already stubbly chin, facial hair moving faster than his brain.
‘He’s here already?’ he said.
‘You’re expecting him?’
‘I was expecting someone,’ he said. The look of confusion on Sophia’s face had given too much away for the DI’s liking. The last thing he wanted was his staff assuming that he had no idea what was going on. They’d already lost enough faith in him.
‘Well,’ Harry backtracked, ‘I was expecting someone tomorrow, not today. What’s he like?’
He watched Sophia as she smoothed down her skirt and put a hand up to brush away a stray strand of hair. She appeared to become self-conscious of the movement and dropped her arm to her side.
‘He seems . . . he seems okay, I suppose,’ she shrugged.
Something about Sophia’s body language made Harry think there was more to it than she was letting on. If he wasn’t entirely mistaken, his DC might be a bit smitten with their newest arrival.
‘Best you go and get him, then,’ said Harry as he unlocked his computer to find the details of his latest challenge, something he had no time for today.
One thing he did know was that this was going to test what little patience he had left.
Chapter 7
‘Welcome,’ said Harry, a tight smile taking hold of his mouth. Following a brief handshake, he offered his newest detective constable a seat.
Harry tried not to take an instant dislike to the man: first impressions weren’t always so accurate.
Dane Hoopman was good-looking, charming, articulate and, as far as Harry could tell, intelligent. So as a man whose complexion made him hide from the sun, who had stubble that had usually advanced across his freshly shaved face by mid-morning, and who’d lost a front tooth to a game of rugby in the 1990s – a match he hadn’t even won – Harry was irritated by him.
Consciously, Harry clenched his jaw and ran his tongue along the inside of his veneer. ‘I’ve had a quick look at your short service record,’ he said at last, a little more begrudgingly than he had intended.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ said Dane, legs crossed and seemingly relaxed on the first day of a job that, a couple of hours ago, no one in the whole of East Rise Police Station knew about.
‘You’ve taken us by surprise, I have to admit,’ said Harry as he pushed back his chair and tried to appear more at ease than he actually felt. ‘Deputy Chief Bannister clearly knew you were coming, and it would seem from the email I’ve just received from HR that they were also aware of your arrival.’
None of this seemed to faze the officer sitting in front of the detective inspector.
‘I see you’ve already worked in a couple of departments,’ said Harry, glancing over at his computer screen. ‘A number of operations you’ve been involved with and the various teams you’ve been a part of all speak positively of you.’
Harry watched him closely: there was something about him he d
idn’t like, but couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was probably his own insecurities of late, burdening himself with all that had gone on around him. He was getting older and with it more cynical and jaded. He knew he shouldn’t take it out on his new officer.
‘That’s kind,’ said Dane, with what Harry could have sworn was a twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ve really enjoyed my role as a DC and with no family at all or anyone to rely on me, promotion is my aim. I must admit I’ve always had my sights set on detective inspector; by the time I’m your age, I’d like that to be a possibility.’
Harry felt himself bite the inside of his mouth. Normally, he would throw his head back and laugh; share the joke with his audience that he was in fact only fifteen years older. Except he didn’t want to share the joke. Not only did Harry not like this imbecile, he didn’t want to see the funny side, least of all with him. That had perhaps been the problem of late: too much on his mind and everything weighing too heavily. Whatever it was, his mind was now telling him only one thing – this man was a prat.
‘Sorry?’ said Dane, forehead creased by a frown.
That surprised Harry: he imagined the newcomer used Botox.
‘Sorry? What?’ said Harry, worried for a minute that he had actually called him a prat out loud. It wouldn’t be the first time he had inadvertently said what was on his mind. He could still remember the trouble he had caused in a Gold Group meeting when ‘trawling the ocean bed’ had come up on his wank-word bingo card and he’d shouted ‘House’. The deputy chief constable had looked very angry.
‘Oh, I thought you’d said something,’ said the detective constable.
‘Perhaps it’s my age,’ said Harry with a wry smile. ‘I’m talking to myself now.
‘Anyway, we need to get you introduced to the others on the team; I’ll get DS Sandra Beckinsale to do that. She’s a decent enough person, bit dry but a bloody good worker. She can get you access to the systems, HOLMES and all that sort of thing.’
‘Keen to get stuck in, but I’m not HOLMES trained.’
‘Right. That’s going to be a problem, but we can get you access and training later. There’s always loads of work, and if you need anything let me or Sandra know.’
Dane clearly took that as his cue to leave and stood up.
‘Before you go,’ said Harry, ‘no one’s explained to me why you’re here in Major Crime.’
He flashed a smile at Harry and said, ‘I asked for an attachment here on my last appraisal, sir. Never thought they’d agree, but here I am.’
‘Just one more thing,’ said Harry, looking up at this member of staff he knew very little about. ‘Anything else I should know? Any problems or welfare concerns?’
A grin broke out on the officer’s face.
‘Nothing at all, sir. An unblemished record. What you see is what you get.’
Then
Stealing, nicking, choring, whatever you want to call it – I loved it. Why get a job when you can take what you want?
I liked to travel by bus, take in the view, sit at the back and pick out a victim. It wouldn’t be long before some confused old coffin-dodger would get on, fumble around with their change and take a seat by themselves.
This particular Wednesday, market day in this one-horse town, I took my seat and didn’t have to wait long before I saw the old girl shuffle on, huge shopping bag on one arm, nan bag on the other. That’s where she put her purse, inside the nan bag, outside pocket. My job was almost too easy.
I maintained my air of nonchalance, not even giving my target one more glance as I made my way to the door, rang the bell and waited for the stop opposite the Post Office.
As I jumped down, I turned to look in Dixon’s window, smiling as I saw her in the reflection struggling to get down the step.
I gave her a tedious three-minute wait until she got across the road and shuffled to the Post Office to get in line and collect her money.
The speed this woman was going, I probably had time for a pint. I glanced across at the pub two doors down from the Post Office. My mouth watered at the thought of a lager, but that would have to wait.
She came out, hairnet and all, and went in the direction of Woolworth’s. My favourite shop: it didn’t have CCTV and its security guard was not only incompetent but extremely lazy.
My heart surged as she went inside, followed closely by me.
I kept a discreet distance behind her as she made her way to the card section, and I waited patiently while she browsed, picking up card after card and reading every single word.
All the time she was unaware I was getting closer to the pension money inside her unzipped handbag.
I kept my breathing slow and inched ever closer. It was hardly as exciting as pointing a gun in someone’s face, but even so, it gave me quite a rush as I bent down to pick out a ‘Good luck in your new job’ card, my other hand inside her bag.
A few feet along the aisle, a small child was screaming and crying, his mother desperate to placate him. The old woman turned her head to look, giving me the perfect opportunity to grab her purse and slide it inside my jacket.
It felt reassuringly heavy inside my lining.
Pleased I had managed to grab the purse and secrete it in one movement, I congratulated myself on a smooth job as I walked towards the High Street and my well-earned pint.
I liked Wednesdays: most of the old biddies almost burst their colostomy bags to get to the Post Office and to their pensions on Tuesdays, but Wednesdays were much better. The town was busier, and besides, if they could afford to leave it one more day, they didn’t need their money as much as I did, did they?
Chapter 8
That afternoon, the incident room held the kind of manic that was usual on the first day of a job breaking: Sandra Beckinsale was her own unique mix of terse and blunt, Harry was battling for staff and funding, and the detective constables were torn between a desire to be on a new murder and to continue battling through their existing workload.
Sophia had already made herself available, hoping for all the overtime she could get, and was thinking about who else might be put on the enquiry. Dane Hoopman was new to the team with no apparent work-load. It made sense that he would be thrown in at the deep end, and she could act as his lifebuoy.
She gave a little shudder at the thought just as Dane walked through the incident room door.
She watched him scan the room, almost an air of arrogance about him. With his handsome face and what she could only imagine was a toned body underneath the expensive-looking suit, he had every right to appear in control.
First-day nerves clearly hadn’t kept him up all night.
The thought of Dane keeping her up all night made her breathe a long sigh, louder than she’d have liked.
‘All right there, Soph?’ said Tom Delayhoyde from the desk opposite her.
She glanced over at him, momentarily distracted from the current object of her desire, frown creasing her face.
‘You want to stop huffing and puffing like that,’ said Tom, peering at her over a stack of box files. ‘And I’d lay off the gurning at your age too. You can hardly afford any more wrinkles.’
‘Fuck off, wank—’
Aware of another presence at the side of her desk, she broke off and looked up into the face of their newest colleague.
‘Am I interrupting?’ he said, with a smile on his face that Sophia took to be one of bemusement. This wasn’t the impression she wanted to make on him. Quite why she wanted to make any impression on him, she wasn’t yet sure. She wasn’t one to have relationships with colleagues: that was a tried and failed method of getting a boyfriend.
Her attraction to him was purely physical, yet it didn’t usually take such a firm grip of her emotions. She frequently fancied men she met at work, but never struggled for something to say.
‘Dane’s talking to you,’ said Tom helpfully.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she said, annoyed at herself for behaving like a love-struck teenager.
Sophia was aware that she was watching his mouth as he spoke. Shaking her head, she said, ‘Yes, course I will.’
She pushed her chair back and looked across at Tom, who was staring at her in a worrying way: clearly, she was making a fool of herself.
A sure sign that she needed to get her act together, fast. ‘It’s down here,’ she said, pointing in the direction of the cubbyhole used by three of the detective sergeants. ‘I’ll show you.’
Very aware that she was in front of him, she wondered if he was checking her out as she walked along the worn corridor, past the ladies’ toilets, tiny, filthy kitchen and towards the farthest point of the incident room.
As they approached the door, she called over her shoulder, while attempting to see if he had in fact been watching her. ‘Let me know if you’re working on the new murder, it’ll be a good one to cut your teeth on.’
Once again, Sophia found herself acutely aware of what she’d just said: not everyone shared the same warped sense of judgement as Major Crime when categorizing violent deaths.
She stopped at the door, needlessly jerked her thumb in the direction of the sign that read ‘Detective Sergeants’ and tried to work out his expression.
It wasn’t one of horror, so that was a start. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the same amused look that his face had taken on towards her earlier bewilderment and shameful incoherence.
‘When I say, “good one”,’ she said, feeling the need to explain and prolong their conversation, ‘I mean that it sounds like an interesting and slightly unusual one, so you can get to grips with HOLMES and how everything works.’
He was standing very close; she was sure he had moved towards her and not the other way around.
Expensive aftershave.
‘Sophia,’ barked Sandra from only a few feet away. ‘Bring him in. I’ve got a briefing in fifteen minutes for this new job. Don’t waste your time going to it, you and Dane will be working on something else, though I could do with you both on the murder. Give me five minutes to welcome him and come back with two new investigator’s books.’
