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Authors: Judith Cutler
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now.’ She explained, watching Mark’s face tighten with anger at having his own request countermanded. ‘I can’t even wipe my damned nose without having to minute it or write a paper about it. And I thought Simon was good!’
‘He was at the rank he was on when you met him. He’s just like practically everyone else at his level – promoted just beyond his capacity. And he knows it and makes up for it by making everyone else work three times as hard as they ought simply to cover his back.’
‘You never do. And you’re also answerable to the chief direct.’
‘I have a wonderful team, and a guv’nor who insisted that dealing with a spot of real crime from time to time was good for one’s brain and kept one in touch with the workers.’
She shook her head. ‘That cock won’t fight. He’s got the same guv’nor and pretty well the same team, plus you as support.’
‘Or me looking over his shoulder, as he may see it.’
She would rather blame herself than Mark. ‘Perhaps I overestimated his abilities.’
‘If you did, everyone else on his career path has too. We shall see. Meanwhile, why don’t you have a word with the chief, Fran, and get him officially to support your position as Henson’s backstop – yes, in writing for preference – before Gates gets you back into uniform.’
‘What did you say?’ she gasped, not knowing whether to be furious or afraid.
‘No, don’t panic – it’s only a feeling. I suspect Gates doesn’t like anomalies of any sort,’ Mark explained, ‘and yourposition isn’t exactly regular.’ They exchanged a smile – it was he who had suggested it, after all, at which point their relationship had burgeoned. ‘Now, hadn’t you better nip off and change? We don’t want to be too late.’
All the same, when she returned, no longer severe in a trouser suit but almost flirty and feminine in a calf-length skirt, he had fished out the photocopies and spread them on her desk.
‘Mine! Mine! Gimme!’
He held a fistful behind his back. ‘You’ll have to pay with a kiss first…’
‘I’m getting too old to eat so late,’ Mark admitted, reaching across the dressing table for the Rennies.
Fran begged one too. ‘I forgot when I agreed eight that Maeve has never arrived early in her life, and that she likes a good chinwag before she so much as opens the menu. And the service was slow, you must admit that.’
‘Slow! Like tortoises on bromide. And all of us coming back here to fill those special sterile bottles of hers with water whilst under the influence of whisky didn’t help.’
‘And neither did Bill wanting an attic-to-cellar guided tour as if he was on a National Trust outing. Or casing the joint.’
‘But Maeve did say she’d get someone to run preliminary tests at the reservoir tomorrow if our water showed the merest hint of anything dodgy. So the evening was mostly a success.’
‘Not for my tum.’
‘Nor mine. No dessert next time, anyway.’
‘No dessert ever, ever again…’
Considering how long it had taken Pete Webb to get the material on the Alec Minton case, there wasn’t much of it for Fran to look at when she arrived at her desk on Wednesday morning. Half of Fran wanted to shake his officers for such perfunctory reports. The other half agreed with what she was sure had been the tacit, possibly even the open, decision of the investigating team: it had been a suicide and the sooner they could report their findings to the coroner the sooner they could get on with investigating some real crime.
The information they’d gathered gave a bald outline of his life. Alec Minton had been born sixty-three years ago in Leicester. After secondary school he’d been employed as a clerk first by Leicester City Council, where on day-release he’d studied and obtained appropriate qualifications. After ten years or so he’d moved to Birmingham City Council, and thence to South Staffordshire Water, where he’d steadily progressed up
‘He was at the rank he was on when you met him. He’s just like practically everyone else at his level – promoted just beyond his capacity. And he knows it and makes up for it by making everyone else work three times as hard as they ought simply to cover his back.’
‘You never do. And you’re also answerable to the chief direct.’
‘I have a wonderful team, and a guv’nor who insisted that dealing with a spot of real crime from time to time was good for one’s brain and kept one in touch with the workers.’
She shook her head. ‘That cock won’t fight. He’s got the same guv’nor and pretty well the same team, plus you as support.’
‘Or me looking over his shoulder, as he may see it.’
She would rather blame herself than Mark. ‘Perhaps I overestimated his abilities.’
‘If you did, everyone else on his career path has too. We shall see. Meanwhile, why don’t you have a word with the chief, Fran, and get him officially to support your position as Henson’s backstop – yes, in writing for preference – before Gates gets you back into uniform.’
‘What did you say?’ she gasped, not knowing whether to be furious or afraid.
‘No, don’t panic – it’s only a feeling. I suspect Gates doesn’t like anomalies of any sort,’ Mark explained, ‘and yourposition isn’t exactly regular.’ They exchanged a smile – it was he who had suggested it, after all, at which point their relationship had burgeoned. ‘Now, hadn’t you better nip off and change? We don’t want to be too late.’
All the same, when she returned, no longer severe in a trouser suit but almost flirty and feminine in a calf-length skirt, he had fished out the photocopies and spread them on her desk.
‘Mine! Mine! Gimme!’
He held a fistful behind his back. ‘You’ll have to pay with a kiss first…’
‘I’m getting too old to eat so late,’ Mark admitted, reaching across the dressing table for the Rennies.
Fran begged one too. ‘I forgot when I agreed eight that Maeve has never arrived early in her life, and that she likes a good chinwag before she so much as opens the menu. And the service was slow, you must admit that.’
‘Slow! Like tortoises on bromide. And all of us coming back here to fill those special sterile bottles of hers with water whilst under the influence of whisky didn’t help.’
‘And neither did Bill wanting an attic-to-cellar guided tour as if he was on a National Trust outing. Or casing the joint.’
‘But Maeve did say she’d get someone to run preliminary tests at the reservoir tomorrow if our water showed the merest hint of anything dodgy. So the evening was mostly a success.’
‘Not for my tum.’
‘Nor mine. No dessert next time, anyway.’
‘No dessert ever, ever again…’
Considering how long it had taken Pete Webb to get the material on the Alec Minton case, there wasn’t much of it for Fran to look at when she arrived at her desk on Wednesday morning. Half of Fran wanted to shake his officers for such perfunctory reports. The other half agreed with what she was sure had been the tacit, possibly even the open, decision of the investigating team: it had been a suicide and the sooner they could report their findings to the coroner the sooner they could get on with investigating some real crime.
The information they’d gathered gave a bald outline of his life. Alec Minton had been born sixty-three years ago in Leicester. After secondary school he’d been employed as a clerk first by Leicester City Council, where on day-release he’d studied and obtained appropriate qualifications. After ten years or so he’d moved to Birmingham City Council, and thence to South Staffordshire Water, where he’d steadily progressed up
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