![[PS & GV #6] Death on Demand](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/576866/thumbs/152x264/ps-gv-6-death-on-demand.jpg)
Twine: Night nurse not known at address given . Shaw considered the implications and a possible scenario for murder. The elderly often formed strong attachments to their carers. It was not unknown for wills to contain bequests. The will, if it existed, was the key.
‘Look,’ he said, meeting Heaney’s eyes, ‘we do need some rules. The National’s big enough, this could be much bigger. The numbers are pretty much fiction at this stage but it might be six, seven thousand. We need to be vigilant. We can’t have any surprises with those numbers of people in narrow lanes and streets. Any protest needs to be well controlled, and above all, static. How many will WAP bring, and where will you demonstrate?’
‘This is for police use only, not the press?’ asked Heaney.
Shaw nodded.
‘Three hundred, that’s our target, but I think we’ll fall well short. Gay rights is strong, and there’s a bus load coming from North London, but the rest is’ – she broke something unseen with her narrow hands – ‘fragmented. Pro-choice is committed, angry even, but I really don’t think we’re a threat to public order, Inspector, although that is not to say there are not strong feelings here. The Christian Right, up close, can be an infuriating theology.’
She took out a photocopied Ordnance Survey map and laid it out on a table which held a visitors book, and across which the candlelight fell. ‘We’ll be in town at dawn, or earlier,’ she said. ‘Our bus will be up here, where it is now. There’ll be someone on board all day. That’s the plan. The rest will go down to the war memorial at the top of the short hill from the shrine. I marked it all up on a map at one of the preliminary meetings. We’ll be in position by ten. Shouting, chanting, a bit of dialogue with those who want to engage. That’s the long and the short of it.’
‘It’s a long day,’ said Shaw. ‘People get hungry, thirsty.’
‘The bus will be stocked up with food and drink. We’re not going near the pubs.’
‘Well, good news for my DS, at least. He’s on duty and he can’t stand a queue at the bar.’
The sound of hail on the roof seemed to change gear, becoming a thunderous percussion.
‘That’s our dispositions,’ she said. ‘Not exactly the February Revolution, is it? Or Bloody Sunday, St Petersburg or Derry for that matter.’
Shaw was glad the chief constable wasn’t present for that particular allusion.
‘Bloody Sunday, an uprising led, if I recall A-level history correctly, by a Russian Orthodox priest,’ said Shaw.
Over their heads the hail suddenly fell silent and sunlight beamed through a rather grimy window into the priest’s cubbyhole.
‘I’d like a promise, Ms Heaney. Let’s swap mobile numbers. If I ring on the day, please answer – OK? I’m happy to trust you, and your organization, but it only takes one individual to create a confrontation of a more physical nature. If you ring me I’ll answer too. I’d like to be able to communicate quickly if there’s a problem …’ They handed each other their phones and keyed in the numbers: she entered hers under NANO, his went under SHAW.
She got up close to another icon, a saint, with dark hair and asymmetric eyes. ‘They worship these, you know. This isn’t just art. Windows on heaven. Portals on the divine. On heaven and hell.’
The image of Ruby Bright’s scream suddenly pulsed in Shaw’s mind. He tried to push it aside, aware that considerations of heaven and hell had little part to play in a twenty-first-century murder inquiry.
‘I need to get back to my team,’ said Shaw.
By the door there was a full length, life-size image of St Seraphim himself, if Shaw was correctly transliterating the elegant Cyrillic script. He paused on the threshold, feeling the need to get close. Six inches away his good eye struggled to maintain focus, a few inches closer and he felt the surface of the picture buckle, and swim, as if it was a borderland, a
‘Look,’ he said, meeting Heaney’s eyes, ‘we do need some rules. The National’s big enough, this could be much bigger. The numbers are pretty much fiction at this stage but it might be six, seven thousand. We need to be vigilant. We can’t have any surprises with those numbers of people in narrow lanes and streets. Any protest needs to be well controlled, and above all, static. How many will WAP bring, and where will you demonstrate?’
‘This is for police use only, not the press?’ asked Heaney.
Shaw nodded.
‘Three hundred, that’s our target, but I think we’ll fall well short. Gay rights is strong, and there’s a bus load coming from North London, but the rest is’ – she broke something unseen with her narrow hands – ‘fragmented. Pro-choice is committed, angry even, but I really don’t think we’re a threat to public order, Inspector, although that is not to say there are not strong feelings here. The Christian Right, up close, can be an infuriating theology.’
She took out a photocopied Ordnance Survey map and laid it out on a table which held a visitors book, and across which the candlelight fell. ‘We’ll be in town at dawn, or earlier,’ she said. ‘Our bus will be up here, where it is now. There’ll be someone on board all day. That’s the plan. The rest will go down to the war memorial at the top of the short hill from the shrine. I marked it all up on a map at one of the preliminary meetings. We’ll be in position by ten. Shouting, chanting, a bit of dialogue with those who want to engage. That’s the long and the short of it.’
‘It’s a long day,’ said Shaw. ‘People get hungry, thirsty.’
‘The bus will be stocked up with food and drink. We’re not going near the pubs.’
‘Well, good news for my DS, at least. He’s on duty and he can’t stand a queue at the bar.’
The sound of hail on the roof seemed to change gear, becoming a thunderous percussion.
‘That’s our dispositions,’ she said. ‘Not exactly the February Revolution, is it? Or Bloody Sunday, St Petersburg or Derry for that matter.’
Shaw was glad the chief constable wasn’t present for that particular allusion.
‘Bloody Sunday, an uprising led, if I recall A-level history correctly, by a Russian Orthodox priest,’ said Shaw.
Over their heads the hail suddenly fell silent and sunlight beamed through a rather grimy window into the priest’s cubbyhole.
‘I’d like a promise, Ms Heaney. Let’s swap mobile numbers. If I ring on the day, please answer – OK? I’m happy to trust you, and your organization, but it only takes one individual to create a confrontation of a more physical nature. If you ring me I’ll answer too. I’d like to be able to communicate quickly if there’s a problem …’ They handed each other their phones and keyed in the numbers: she entered hers under NANO, his went under SHAW.
She got up close to another icon, a saint, with dark hair and asymmetric eyes. ‘They worship these, you know. This isn’t just art. Windows on heaven. Portals on the divine. On heaven and hell.’
The image of Ruby Bright’s scream suddenly pulsed in Shaw’s mind. He tried to push it aside, aware that considerations of heaven and hell had little part to play in a twenty-first-century murder inquiry.
‘I need to get back to my team,’ said Shaw.
By the door there was a full length, life-size image of St Seraphim himself, if Shaw was correctly transliterating the elegant Cyrillic script. He paused on the threshold, feeling the need to get close. Six inches away his good eye struggled to maintain focus, a few inches closer and he felt the surface of the picture buckle, and swim, as if it was a borderland, a
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