Jack caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “Phwoar,” he said, turning up his nose. “That smells like someone just let off a stink bomb. Are you sure it’s okay to eat?” He picked up the packaging, which told him the offending article was meant to be egg mayonnaise. “This says ‘best before 11th January’,” he told Quinlan. “That’s yesterday.”
Quinlan sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and then took a tentative bite. “I didn’t get time to eat it yesterday, but those dates are only a guide. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Jack looked at him in alarm. “You’re not telling me it’s been left in your desk drawer all night, are you?” he asked incredulously.
Quinlan nodded. “It tastes fine,” he said, taking another bite.
Jack shook his head in disbelief. Was Quinlan mad? The radiator was literally next to his desk, and it was belting out enough heat to make him perspire after only a few minutes in the room. What would it have done to the bacteria in the sandwich overnight?
“Seriously, mate,” he warned, “I really wouldn’t eat that if I were you.”
Quinlan grinned. “I can assure you I ate far worse in my university days,” he boasted. “I’ve got the constitution of an ox.”
Tyler hoped he was right.
“So, what’s your development, then?” he asked, trying not to breathe in the sulphurous odour of Andy’s lunch.
“Two minutes before you came in, I had a call from fingerprint bureau at The Yard. We’ve got a match on the syringe we found in the hospital room.”
“That’s brilliant news,” Jack said.
“I know,” Quinlan said, munching away happily. “It’s a thumbprint belonging to an IC3 female called Angela Marley. She’s got a long list of petty convictions, mainly for drugs, shoplifting and prostitution. And get this, her long-time pimp is none other than Claude Winston.”
Jack let out a low whistle. “So, the net begins to tighten.”
◆◆◆
Oliver Clarke, his artificially tanned face impassive, sat through the machine’s irritatingly long beep and the boring introductions that preceded the second interview getting underway in earnest.
He studied the pretty strawberry blonde with the soft Irish accent as she cautioned his client and recapped what had happened during the first interview. She pointed out that they had taken a brief break at his request, in order for him to confer with his solicitor, and she confirmed that he was happy they had been given sufficient time for Clarke to properly advise him.
Clarke smirked at that. They had had ample time – after all, how long does it take to say, ‘Keep your mouth shut and say nothing?’
Clarke decided that DS Sergeant had a very sexy voice; it was reminiscent of Maureen O’Hara, the Irish American actress who had played John Wayne’s fiery love interest in the 1952 classic, ‘The Quiet Man’. His father had loved that film, but then his father had loved every picture that John Wayne had ever appeared in.
Clarke guessed that she’d be about five-eight in her stockinged feet, which was only three inches shorter than him. Beneath the jacket of her blue pinstriped business suit, he imagined a pair of firm boobs – probably contained by a sports bra – straining to break free. He thought about her bottom, which he had ogled when they had risen for a break. As a rule, he preferred women with pear shaped bums, whereas Sergeant’s was tighter and rounder, not that he would have kicked her out of his bed because of it.
He was generous like that.
During the first interview, he’d noticed that if the light caught her at the wrong angle it could make her hair appear more ginger than blonde, but he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for ginger mingers so that was fine with him.
Her most striking feature, he decided, was the dazzling green eyes that changed vibrancy in accordance with her mood; they blazed with fire when she became angry and thawed to ice when she was asking questions.
Sergeant was currently wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses, which gave her the scholarly appearance of a stern-faced schoolmistress; it was a look he found deeply arousing. He wondered what she was like in the sack, and if she’d be up for anything kinky. Before he could stop himself, his mind had conjured up a fantasy in which she had handcuffed him to the bed and was about to straddle him. The image triggered a lascivious smile, and he quickly dry washed his face to mask it; DS Sergeant was a woman of the world, and if she spotted him staring at her like that, she would know there was only one thing on his mind, and that it wasn’t the interview.
As he looked up, his eyes locked with DC Murray’s, and the skeletal detective with the goatee beard and scruffy suit glowered at him loathingly.
Awkward! he thought, realising that Murray had caught him mentally undressing Susan Sergeant. He tried to defuse the situation with a ‘busted, but you can’t really blame me?’ grin, but Murray was having none of it.
Averting his eyes, Clarke realised that he would have to be more careful in the future. The sour-faced detective didn’t miss much; his eyes were sharp, and his tongue was even sharper.
Most police officers were inherently wary of rubbing a solicitor up the wrong way, but Murray seemed hellbent on doing exactly that, and it had put him on the back foot.
Clarke suddenly became aware that DS Sergeant had stopped speaking and everyone was looking at him.
“Is that right?” she asked him impatiently.
“Sorry?” he spluttered, realising that he had become so wrapped up in his thoughts that he’d zoned out of what was going on around him.
DS Sergeant was not impressed. “Your client said you’re going to read out a prepared statement from him – is that right?”
Mullings wasn’t too happy about his lapse in concentration either. “You need to get your ears cleaned out, bruv,” he chipped in.
Murray smirked at him as
