stared at the flowers, but even that small pleasure seemed to have been ripped away from her. ‘If I’m not careful, Palmer, you are going to send me the way of my predecessor.’
‘How
is
Commander Sorensen?’ Palmer asked solicitiously.
‘Struggling, apparently. His wife has refused to relocate to Port Stanley and the poor fellow is hitting the bottle quite hard, by all accounts.’
‘Mm.’ Palmer had heard as much on the grapevine. Marchmain said they were running a book on how long it would take their boss to end up face down in the South Atlantic. Anyway, back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you need me to do anything about the Scanlon situation?’
‘No, no.’ Brewster dismissed the suggestion with an angry wave of her hand. ‘You’ve done enough already.’
‘So, everything is . . . sorted?’
‘Yes. My people . . . our people have gone over the scene and cleaned it up. CID has been told to keep its nose out. The local constabulary will remain nominally in charge. Happily these people couldn’t catch a cold. But I will keep an eye on it, just in case. I consider it my penance for letting you loose on those poor people in the first place.’
Ignorning the barb, Palmer spread his hands wide. ‘So what can I help you with today, ma’am?’
Brewster shuddered, then quickly pulled herself together. Taking a slim manila envelope from a drawer, she pushed it across the desk. ‘Now that Scanlon has been dealt with, we need to move up the food chain.’
‘Yes.’ Palmer stared at the envelope but made no effort to pick it up.
‘So, how much do you know about a gentleman called Maurice Peters?’
10
‘Oi, Carlyle!’
‘Yes, Sarge?’ Having just reported for duty, the young constable eyed the desk sergeant warily, wondering what rubbish job he was going to be awarded today. Alec Jeffreys’ complexion was getting redder by the day. It looked like the half-bottle of Metaxa brandy that he routinely kept under the desk had already taken quite a hammering this morning. Not for the first time, Carlyle thought wistfully of Jeffreys’ predecessor, the voluptuous Sandra Wollard, a forty-something divorcee who had set tongues wagging at the station by ravishing a willing Carlyle at a crime scene. Soon afterwards, she had decamped to the delights of Theydon Bois. Since then, her young paramour had hooked up with Helen, but Sandra still held an unshakeable place in his affections.
Jeffreys gestured towards an older guy standing a couple of feet from the desk. He was slender, maybe a shade over six feet tall; Carlyle pegged him at mid to late fifties. His suspiciously black hair was slicked back across his scalp with Brylcreem, and despite the relatively early hour, there was a dark five o’clock shadow on his jaw. Dressed in a tweed suit with a checked shirt and a red tie, he looked like a character out of a 1950s B movie.
It’s a bit hot for that get-up
, was all Carlyle could think.
The ensemble was completed by a pair of heavy-looking tan brogues. A small canvas holdall sat on the floor next to the desk.
‘This is Inspector Callender,’ Jeffreys explained. ‘He needs to go to the Castle.’
‘And you want me to take him?’ Carlyle’s voice held all the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old facing a plate of Brussels sprouts.
‘No,’ Jeffreys replied sarkily, ‘I want you to give him directions.’
Callender offered Carlyle an apologetic shrug. ‘To be honest, Sergeant, I don’t need a minder.’
‘Protocol,’ Jeffreys replied, moderating his tone only slightly for the benefit of his superior. ‘No one goes into the Castle on their own until further notice. It’s not safe.’
‘I’ve been in far worse places.’ The inspector smiled, trying to keep things light.
Jeffreys, however, was not going to be moved on the issue. ‘If I let you go in there and you get your head kicked in by a bunch of yobbos, I’ll be the one who gets it in the neck.’ He licked his lips; Carlyle sensed he was
‘How
is
Commander Sorensen?’ Palmer asked solicitiously.
‘Struggling, apparently. His wife has refused to relocate to Port Stanley and the poor fellow is hitting the bottle quite hard, by all accounts.’
‘Mm.’ Palmer had heard as much on the grapevine. Marchmain said they were running a book on how long it would take their boss to end up face down in the South Atlantic. Anyway, back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you need me to do anything about the Scanlon situation?’
‘No, no.’ Brewster dismissed the suggestion with an angry wave of her hand. ‘You’ve done enough already.’
‘So, everything is . . . sorted?’
‘Yes. My people . . . our people have gone over the scene and cleaned it up. CID has been told to keep its nose out. The local constabulary will remain nominally in charge. Happily these people couldn’t catch a cold. But I will keep an eye on it, just in case. I consider it my penance for letting you loose on those poor people in the first place.’
Ignorning the barb, Palmer spread his hands wide. ‘So what can I help you with today, ma’am?’
Brewster shuddered, then quickly pulled herself together. Taking a slim manila envelope from a drawer, she pushed it across the desk. ‘Now that Scanlon has been dealt with, we need to move up the food chain.’
‘Yes.’ Palmer stared at the envelope but made no effort to pick it up.
‘So, how much do you know about a gentleman called Maurice Peters?’
10
‘Oi, Carlyle!’
‘Yes, Sarge?’ Having just reported for duty, the young constable eyed the desk sergeant warily, wondering what rubbish job he was going to be awarded today. Alec Jeffreys’ complexion was getting redder by the day. It looked like the half-bottle of Metaxa brandy that he routinely kept under the desk had already taken quite a hammering this morning. Not for the first time, Carlyle thought wistfully of Jeffreys’ predecessor, the voluptuous Sandra Wollard, a forty-something divorcee who had set tongues wagging at the station by ravishing a willing Carlyle at a crime scene. Soon afterwards, she had decamped to the delights of Theydon Bois. Since then, her young paramour had hooked up with Helen, but Sandra still held an unshakeable place in his affections.
Jeffreys gestured towards an older guy standing a couple of feet from the desk. He was slender, maybe a shade over six feet tall; Carlyle pegged him at mid to late fifties. His suspiciously black hair was slicked back across his scalp with Brylcreem, and despite the relatively early hour, there was a dark five o’clock shadow on his jaw. Dressed in a tweed suit with a checked shirt and a red tie, he looked like a character out of a 1950s B movie.
It’s a bit hot for that get-up
, was all Carlyle could think.
The ensemble was completed by a pair of heavy-looking tan brogues. A small canvas holdall sat on the floor next to the desk.
‘This is Inspector Callender,’ Jeffreys explained. ‘He needs to go to the Castle.’
‘And you want me to take him?’ Carlyle’s voice held all the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old facing a plate of Brussels sprouts.
‘No,’ Jeffreys replied sarkily, ‘I want you to give him directions.’
Callender offered Carlyle an apologetic shrug. ‘To be honest, Sergeant, I don’t need a minder.’
‘Protocol,’ Jeffreys replied, moderating his tone only slightly for the benefit of his superior. ‘No one goes into the Castle on their own until further notice. It’s not safe.’
‘I’ve been in far worse places.’ The inspector smiled, trying to keep things light.
Jeffreys, however, was not going to be moved on the issue. ‘If I let you go in there and you get your head kicked in by a bunch of yobbos, I’ll be the one who gets it in the neck.’ He licked his lips; Carlyle sensed he was
Similar Books
