latest and youngest tyro in the typing pool.
43
That was the occasion when one of the senior CID officers seated at the
far end of the table had got to his feet, drained his coffee, and come across
to lay a gentle hand on Sharon's sun-tanned shoulder.
'You mean sexual harassment, I think. As you know, we usually exercise the
recessive accent in English; and much as I admire our American friends, we
shouldn't let them prostitute our pronunciation, young lady!'
He had spoken quietly but a little cruelly; and the uncomprehending Sharon
was visibly hurt.
'Pompous prick! Who the hell does he think he is?' she'd asked when he was
gone.
So Barbara told her.
Not that she knew him personally, although his blue eyes invariably smiled
into hers, a little wearily sometimes but ever interestedly, whenever the two
of them passed each other in the corridors; and when she sometimes fancied
that he looked at her as though he knew what she was thinking.
God forbid!
It was not of Morse, though, but of Strange that she was thinking that
morning when she tapped the customary twice on his office door and entered.
Sometimes, when he sat there behind his desk tie slightly askew, a light
shower of dandruff over the shoulders of his jacket, hairs growing a little
too prominently from his ears and from his nostrils, white shirt rather less
than white and less than smoothly ironed it was then, yes, that she wished to
mother him.
She Barbara! - less than half his age.
That he'd never had such a complicated effect on other women, she felt
completely convinced.
Well, no; not completely convinced . .
chapter ten He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody
(Joseph Heller, Catch-22') 'probably some nutter! ' growled Strange as he
slipped a paper-knife inside the top of the envelope, and unfolded the
single, thin sheet of paper contained therein. And for a while frowned
mightily; then smiled.
'Have a look at that, Babs!' he said proudly, making as if to hand the sheet
across the desk.
'May well be what we've been waiting for from my appeal, you know.'
'Won't there be some fingerprints on it?' she asked tentatively.
'Ah!'
'You can get fingerprints from paper?'
'Get almost anything from anything these days,' mumbled Strange.
'And what with DNA, forensics, psychological pro- filing soon be no need for
us detectives any more!'
But in truth he appeared a little abashed as he held the top of the sheet
between his thumb and forefinger and leaned forward over the desk; and
Barbara Dean leaned forward herself, and read the undated letter, typed on a
patently antiquated machine through a red black ribbon long past its
operative sell-by date, with each keyed character unpredictably produced in
either colour.
45
You got it right when you said the calls wasn't from the person that
done it because thatwsame, see! I made them calls. But you got it wrong
when you didn' t look a bit longer in the village. Mister Strange. So you
want some help so there' s a fellow due out of Bullingdon Friday next week
24th OK. WATCH HIM CAREFULLY!
The Ringer.
PS You can buy me a pint of Bass in the Maidens if you recognize me.
'Bit illiterate?' suggested Strange.
'I wonder if he really is,' said Barbara, replacing her spectacles in their
case.
'You should wear 'em more often. You've got just the face for specs, you
know. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?'
No one ever had, and Barbara hoped she wasn't blushing.
'Thank you.'
'Well?'
'I'm not in the Crime Squad, sir.'
'But you don't think he'd last long in the typing- pool?'
'You fairly sure it's a ' he'?'
'Sounds like it to me.'
Barbara nodded.
'Not much of a typist, like I say.'
'Spelling's OK- ' recognize', and so on.'
'Can't spell ' was'.'
'That's not really spelling though, is it? You sometimes get typists who are
sort of dyslexic with some words. They try to type ' was', say, and they hit
the ' s' before the ' a'. Do things like that regularly but they don't seem
to notice.'
'Ah!'
'Grammar's not so hot, I agree. Probably good enough to pass GCSE, I
