Read Online Talking to the Dead by Harry Bingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Harry Bingham
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dislike, lust, and distaste from every masculine pore. But he’s also an intelligent officer, who recognizes that the old days weren’t exactly bathed in an eternal glow of success, and that other approaches have their merits too. Merits like actually working, for example.
“No,” he says, “it’s not the same.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying that I’m on the team or not, so I stay in my chair, trying to read the runes.
“What else are you on? You’re getting Penry ready for court, aren’t you?”
I tell him that I should be done with that by the end of the week, which seems implausibly early, even to me.
“And our friends and colleagues at the CPS think so too? Gethin Matthews thinks so?”
CPS: Crown Prosecution Service. And no, they don’t think so, nor does D.C.I. Matthews, but I tell Jackson that they will think so by the end of the week.
Jackson does the shaggy-eyebrowed thing at me. “And if you join Lohan full-time, which D.C. Griffiths am I going to be getting?”
I open and close my mouth. I don’t know what to say.
“Look, Fiona. Lohan would benefit from additional female staff. Of course, it would. Gethin asked me if I wanted you transferred over when the case broke. And I thought about it. I wanted to say yes.”
I mouth the words “thank you” again, but the thank-you isn’t the point just now. It’s the thing that’s hovering over the horizon, about to sock me between the eyes.
“The good D.C. Griffiths I’d have like a shot. But the other one … ? The one I ask to do something, and that something never seems to get done. Or if it gets done, it’s done wrong. Or done slowly. Or done after fifteen reminders. Or done in a way that breaks the rules, causes complaints, or pisses off your fellow officers. The Griffiths who decides that if something is boring her, she’s going to make a mess of it until she’s moved to something else.”
I make a face. I can’t say I don’t know what he’s talking about. I do.
“Am I, for example, going to get the officer who makes Brendan Rattigan’s widow break down over some bit of total speculation about her dead husband’s sex life.”
I bite my lip.
Jackson nods.
“I got a call from Cefn Mawr this morning. I handled it. No official complaint. Nothing that’s going any further. But I didn’t want to have to take that call. I don’t want to have to wonder all the time if you’re going to use your mature, intelligent judgment or if you’re going to say and do the very first thing that comes into your head.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Jackson doesn’t mention it—he doesn’t have to—but he and I are both well aware of another incident last year. I was still in my first year in CID, meaning that I was still a training detective constable, effectively on probation. There was a missing persons case, and we were going through the long process of interviewing friends and family. I’d been paired up for most of the interviews, so I could learn from my elders and betters. Then I was given my first solo gig out in Trecenydd—basically a person we were sure had nothing to tell us, just so I could practice my skills and develop my confidence. Unfortunately, the interviewee thought it would be a clever idea to put his hand on my breast. I didn’t react with dignity and maturity, and a few minutes later I was calling an ambulance, so that my interviewee could receive treatment for a dislocated kneecap.
The whole incident was a bit hard to get into any kind of perspective. On the one hand, no one doubted that he had sexually harassed me and that I had a right to defend myself. On the other hand, there were questions raised about the appropriate and proportionate use of force. A disciplinary inquiry cleared me of wrongdoing, but these things do leave a smell.
Jackson was in charge of that case too. He handled it well, I guess. He yelled at me the regulation amount, then did a help-us-to-help-you bit, which I think he meant. We had a
“No,” he says, “it’s not the same.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying that I’m on the team or not, so I stay in my chair, trying to read the runes.
“What else are you on? You’re getting Penry ready for court, aren’t you?”
I tell him that I should be done with that by the end of the week, which seems implausibly early, even to me.
“And our friends and colleagues at the CPS think so too? Gethin Matthews thinks so?”
CPS: Crown Prosecution Service. And no, they don’t think so, nor does D.C.I. Matthews, but I tell Jackson that they will think so by the end of the week.
Jackson does the shaggy-eyebrowed thing at me. “And if you join Lohan full-time, which D.C. Griffiths am I going to be getting?”
I open and close my mouth. I don’t know what to say.
“Look, Fiona. Lohan would benefit from additional female staff. Of course, it would. Gethin asked me if I wanted you transferred over when the case broke. And I thought about it. I wanted to say yes.”
I mouth the words “thank you” again, but the thank-you isn’t the point just now. It’s the thing that’s hovering over the horizon, about to sock me between the eyes.
“The good D.C. Griffiths I’d have like a shot. But the other one … ? The one I ask to do something, and that something never seems to get done. Or if it gets done, it’s done wrong. Or done slowly. Or done after fifteen reminders. Or done in a way that breaks the rules, causes complaints, or pisses off your fellow officers. The Griffiths who decides that if something is boring her, she’s going to make a mess of it until she’s moved to something else.”
I make a face. I can’t say I don’t know what he’s talking about. I do.
“Am I, for example, going to get the officer who makes Brendan Rattigan’s widow break down over some bit of total speculation about her dead husband’s sex life.”
I bite my lip.
Jackson nods.
“I got a call from Cefn Mawr this morning. I handled it. No official complaint. Nothing that’s going any further. But I didn’t want to have to take that call. I don’t want to have to wonder all the time if you’re going to use your mature, intelligent judgment or if you’re going to say and do the very first thing that comes into your head.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Jackson doesn’t mention it—he doesn’t have to—but he and I are both well aware of another incident last year. I was still in my first year in CID, meaning that I was still a training detective constable, effectively on probation. There was a missing persons case, and we were going through the long process of interviewing friends and family. I’d been paired up for most of the interviews, so I could learn from my elders and betters. Then I was given my first solo gig out in Trecenydd—basically a person we were sure had nothing to tell us, just so I could practice my skills and develop my confidence. Unfortunately, the interviewee thought it would be a clever idea to put his hand on my breast. I didn’t react with dignity and maturity, and a few minutes later I was calling an ambulance, so that my interviewee could receive treatment for a dislocated kneecap.
The whole incident was a bit hard to get into any kind of perspective. On the one hand, no one doubted that he had sexually harassed me and that I had a right to defend myself. On the other hand, there were questions raised about the appropriate and proportionate use of force. A disciplinary inquiry cleared me of wrongdoing, but these things do leave a smell.
Jackson was in charge of that case too. He handled it well, I guess. He yelled at me the regulation amount, then did a help-us-to-help-you bit, which I think he meant. We had a
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