He met her gaze. ‘I like things neat,’ he said. ‘I like things tidy. I don’t like things dragging on. Besides—’ the chief inspector again located a page on his desk that seemed to catch his interest ‘—you said it yourself. We’re talking about a shooting in a school. The longer we leave it… Well. It makes people nervous, let’s put it like that.’
‘What people?’
‘Don’t be naive, Inspector. People. Just people.’
They heard a jubilant holler from the open-plan office outside. They heard clapping. Lucia and her boss looked towards the sound but their view was obscured by the smoked-glass wall.
‘How long are you giving me?’
‘You’ve got until Monday. I need your report before lunchtime. ’
‘So one day. Effectively you’re giving me one day.’
‘It’s Thursday. You’ve got this evening and you’ve got Friday and you’ve got the weekend.’
‘I have plans for the weekend.’
‘Then prioritise, Lucia. You can give me the report right now if you’d prefer.’
Lucia folded her arms. ‘Prioritise.’
Cole nodded, almost smiled.
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate your advice.’
Walter called out to her as she strode past his desk. She ignored him, carried on walking, but Harry was blocking her path. He was on one knee clutching a fistful of paper towels. There was a puddle of liquid and a cracked coffee pot beside him. The spilt coffee had been the source of the applause, Lucia realised. It would have been Walter who had cried out with glee.
‘Here,’ she said and she bent to Harry’s side.
‘Goddammit,’ Harry muttered, relinquishing the paper towels to Lucia. There was a welt on the side of his hand. He raised the mark to his mouth and sucked.
‘What happened?’
‘I dropped it. Goddammit.’ He inspected the burn on his hand.
‘When you’re done on the floor with Harry, Lulu, I’ll be waiting for you on my desk.’
Lucia did not turn around. ‘You should put something on that hand,’ she said.
‘It’s okay.’ Harry stood and shoved the burnt hand into his pocket. The broken pot dangled from his left. ‘I’d better do something with this.’
Lucia got up. She threw the paper towels into the bin by Walter’s desk and made to follow Harry.
‘Don’t do that, Lulu. Don’t give me the silent treatment.’
She should have kept walking. She should have left Walter in the arms of his ego. Yet she could sense his leer even with her back to him, could picture him reclining in his chair. The others would be watching too – willing her to retort but just as ready to laugh if she stayed silent.
She turned. ‘What’s your problem, Walter? What is it that you want to say?’
‘It’s our problem, Lulu. Yours and mine. It’s my girlfriend,’ he said. ‘I think she knows.’
‘Your girlfriend?’ said Lucia. ‘Didn’t she burst?’
There was laughter. Heads in the office poked above partitions. Phones were cradled or receivers covered with palms. Walter’s leer was contagious. It had contaminated the entire department.
‘I’m serious, Lulu. We’re going to have to call this thing off. We’re going to have to call it a day.’
‘You’re breaking my heart, Walter. Truly, you’re breaking my heart.’
‘But listen.’ He glanced at the faces around him and then at the office Lucia had just left. ‘Cole’ll be gone by six. What say you and I sneak into his office, turn down the lights and say one last goodbye on his couch.’
Lucia looked at Walter’s smirk, at the blotched skin on his jowls and at his thighs too fat for his suit, and all she could do was shake her head. And then, willing herself not to but unable to resist, she voiced the only retort that came to mind.
‘You’re a prick, Walter. A fucking prick.’
She got home and she opened the door and she wished she had a dog.
She thought perhaps she might get one. Nothing too big but not a ratty dog either. A spaniel, maybe. A beagle. She would call it Howard and she would feed it from her plate and let it sleep on one side of her bed. She would teach it to attack fat men called Walter and chief inspectors with halitosis but Walters before chief inspectors.
The flat was hot. The air felt recycled, as though it had been warmed and sucked free of oxygen by a hundred pairs of lungs, and then exhaled and sealed into the box that she still could not think of as home.
She hung her bag by the door. She checked the phone, washed her hands, splashed her face. There was an apple in the fridge and she ate it, ignoring the bruises but cringing at the texture. She took two slices of bread from the freezer and dropped them into the toaster but while she stared at a wall and thought of nothing, the toast burnt. She threw it away and poured some red wine into a whisky glass instead.
In the living room she opened the window. There was no breeze; the temperature was the same outside as it was in. She had a fan somewhere but wherever it was it was broken. She had a hairdryer. Set to low it would feel about the same.
The living room was the only room of the flat she liked. The kitchen was poky, the bathroom full of mould and the bedroom dark and a mess. The living room was bright all day and it was comfortable. There was a rug and her TV and a view, if she leant right out of the sash window, of a corner of the common. The sofa, underneath the throws, was a disturbing shade of green but its embrace was perfectly judged – an arm around the shoulder rather than a full-bodied hug. Although sometimes, on days like today for instance, the hug would have been welcome too.
It was in the living room that she kept her books. She read a lot. Novels mainly; history books if she felt she had been gorging on Rebus. The books filled the shelves the landlord had left for her, as well as her IKEA bookcase. She liked to let her eyes graze upon the spines. She liked being able to identify a book without being close enough to read its title. The battered corners, the creases on each cover – they were a mark of familiarity. They were a comfort.
Tonight she did not read. The book she had started lay where she had left it the night before the shooting. She had snapped its spine and placed it face down upon the floor, as though such treatment might render it more compliant, more accessible, less determined to make hard work of itself. It was about Stalingrad: the battle, the siege. It was never going to make for an easy read. The problem was she had read too much to give up but not enough to start counting down towards the end. She had reached page one hundred and forty-three and it had not even started snowing.
She picked up the television remote control. She put it down again. She always checked the listings but there was never anything on that she felt the urge to watch. Someone had told her to get Sky, to get a Freeview box at least, and she had agreed that it would probably be worth it, which was as far as she had got.
She stood up and wandered to the window. She looked out at the common and she knelt with her chin on her hands on the sill and then she got up and poured herself some more wine. In the end she gathered her case notes from her desk and returned with them to the sofa. From the pile she plucked a transcript at random. It was an interview with one of the kids. Not one of hers. A DC had taken this one. She had read it before and though she did not remember it, she knew that it said nothing. Nothing. It spoke of pain and grief and shock and more pain but from her perspective, her professional perspective, that was nothing.
She picked up the remote control again and this time flicked on the television. She hit mute and stared at the images as she thought about Szajkowski and about the children and about the upturned chairs in the hall. Then she willed herself not to. She willed herself to think about something else. For a while nothing came to her, until she remembered what she had said to the DCI, about the weekend, about her plans, and she wondered whether he had believed her.
.
