Flesh House

'Don't you think you were a little hard on Munro?' The older man nodded. 'That's the thing about leading a team: some people are motivated by the carrot, others by the stick. The trick is telling which is which. You're a carrot, Munro's a stick. Yes, she'll think I'm an utter bastard, but what do you want to bet she's in there right now giving it a hundred and twenty per cent, just to spite me?' Which sort of made sense. 'Right,' said Faulds,'when we get back I need you to organize two unmarked cars watching the main road. Anyone turns into Nichol's street, I want a PNC check on the number plate. At least one member of each team to be firearms trained.' 'You think he's going to come after her? Not exactly the Flesher's type, is she? Too thin.' 'True, but I'm not prepared to take that risk. Are you?' PC Munro waited until the pool car disappeared before she started swearing. Faulds was such a patronising wanker. ''That's what worries me.' Git.' She marched through to the kitchen, determined to show that stuck-up Brummy arsehole she was perfectly capable of getting information out of a victim. Elizabeth Nichol was up to her elbows in the sink, wearing a flowery pinny with ducks on it, washing up after lunch. Munro grabbed a dishcloth. 'Can I help dry?' The woman nearly jumped out of her skin. 'Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.' Munro picked a plate from the draining board. 'You never told me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?' 'I ... one of each: Jimmy and Kelley.' She was going bright red. 'We're not close.' She sank her hands back into the bubbles. 'Kelley was always the sensitive one. Jimmy ... well, he was always ... difficult. I haven't spoken to him since we were little. Doubt I'd even recognize him now.' Finally they were getting somewhere. Munro moved onto Elizabeth's parents and job - trying to do the same bouncing-back-and-forth-between-subjects trick that Faulds had pulled earlier - pushing a little harder than she normally would. No one could say she'd not been thorough this time. Only it didn't work: instead of providing a steady trickle of information, Elizabeth burst into tears and ran off, leaving a trail of soapsuds behind. Munro stood alone in the kitchen, listening as Elizabeth scurried up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. Then the sound of sobbing filtered down from above. 'Good one, Yvonne. Very professional ...' She wandered into the lounge and slumped into an armchair. It was all that bastard Faulds' fault: if he thought being a Family Liaison officer was such a piece of piss, he should try it sometime. Up to your ears in other people's grief. She spent a few minutes feeling sorry for herself, then switched on her Airwave handset and made some follow-up calls. Then she brewed a pot of tea and went upstairs to apologize. After all, it wasn't Elizabeth's fault she'd been attacked by the Flesher, was it? Sometimes people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes that was the difference between life and death.