‘Whoa!’ the man involuntarily let slip at the sight of his new and attractive colleague.
‘I beg your pardon?’ replied Sullivan coldly.
‘I meant... hello Sarge. I’m DC Calbot’
Sullivan raised an eyebrow, by way of suggesting to the detective constable that he might consider standing in the presence of a senior officer. The expression was quickly interpreted and Calbot jumped to his feet.
‘Completely forgot you were turning up today.’
‘So it would appear,’ Sullivan responded. ‘And Chief Inspector Broderick?’
‘Ah, yeah, sorry. Guv’s not here.’
‘I see. When will he be back?’
‘Tomorrow. Dentist,’ Calbot replied, in his trademark staccato manner.
‘Tomorrow?’ Sullivan questioned incredulously.
‘Abscess. Right at the back.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘Let’s hope so, eh?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sullivan responded, once more uneasy with Calbot’s disrepectful tone.
‘Joke.’ Calbot grinned.‘ Just a joke, Sarge.’
Sullivan’s blank expression told the DC that she had no intention of sharing it.
The acrid smoke swirled around Martin Tavares’ nostrils as the ash grew longer at the tip of his half spent cigarette. His free hand gripped the armchair as if it were a long-lost friend.
The home he had shared with Jennie all their married life was now full of well meaning, but interfering relatives and friends -all hoping to be helpful. Martin barely registered their presence. He didn’t want help: he wanted Jennifer back. The hushed whispers of the assembled body faded as his concentration was drawn towards the monotonous ticking of the clock on the far wall, its hands showing a quarter to three. For a fleeting moment, he found solace in its stability; its rhythmic continuity. Time would never fade. It could never die or be extinguished. It would always be there, moving forward, expanding. Time didn’t come to an end - only life did. He knew Jennie would not have agreed. She had her faith. Her belief in the continuation of the spirit and soul. But soon she would be nothing more than burnt ashes and a ghost in a thousand grief-filled, haunted dreams. Two people died that night, Martin thought. If there was a God, he hoped that Jennie had found her heaven , because one thing was certain - he had found hell.
Sullivan was still unsure what to make of Calbot. His apparent laid back approach to work seemed to her a bit “affected”. A little too worked at to utterly convince. He was certainly easy on the eye,although very far from being her type. Too young for a start and far too cocky. Too much like a lot of young coppers, she thought - gobby and overly styled. Male estate agents seemed to suffer from a similar kind of self- presentation. All gelled hair and trimmed stubble above the water. All desperate paddling and no underpants beneath. He had some charm, however, so she wouldn’t completely write him off. Not yet anyway.
‘So, you’re being chucked in at the deep end are you?’ Calbot ventured.
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Sullivan bridled yet again at Calbot’s inappropriate question.
‘Massetti’s smelt some cheap labour. You’re filling in while DS Marquez is off with glandular.’
‘Glandular?’ Sullivan queried.
‘Fever. Second time in a year. Wiped him out completely.’
‘This department does seem to have more than its fair share of painful medical conditions. I trust you’re not likely to collapse with anything soon?’
‘No Sarge. I’m well fit.’ Calbot twinkled.
‘Any chance of bringing me up to speed with your present case work?’ Sullivan asked, changing the subject. Calbot grabbed the uppermost file from his desk and handed it to her.
‘This one’s fresh. Boat mechanic down at the West Marina accidentally dropped a boat on his wife’s head. Guv’s not completely convinced it was, though.’
‘What? A boat?’
‘No, an accident. Awaiting forensics.’
‘Aren’t we always? This file. It’s a bit chaotic isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, not his strong point, paperwork,’ Calbot replied.
‘Nor yours, by the look of things.’
Calbot smiled as if Sullivan had just given him a compliment. ‘The last bloke they sent over from your lot... nice guy. Bolton, wasn’t it? Lawrence Bolton?’
‘No idea,’ Sullivan answered curtly.
‘Not that we saw much of him. We reckoned he thought he was on a bit of a holiday.’
‘Really.’
‘We got wind that he’d left the force altogether. Does security now, up in Marbella. Earns three times what he was picking up with the force. At least that’s what we heard...’
‘Well, then you’ve probably heard quite enough,’ Sullivan replied, aware that she was quickly losing her patience.
‘Probably,’ he answered back. The glare on Sullivan’s face told him all he needed to know. ‘Coffee, Sarge?’
The ice cold water cascaded over his body as he stared unceasingly at the small black mark on the cream tiles. The sound of trickling water had only deepened Martin’s trance-like state. He barely registered the voice which came, muffled but insistent through the wooden door.
‘Martin? It’s David. Are you all right?’
David had been on some sort of suicide watch since leaving the hospital. He had not consciously admitted this to himself, but that’s what his constant monitoring of Martin amounted to. As a voluntary hospital porter, he had seen trauma and grief many times before and could spot the signs of imminent self -harming well in advance. Concentrating on his brother-in-law had stopped him from drowning in a sea of his own grief. His beautiful sister - his kind, funny and ever present sister was now lying cold within the hospital’s morgue. That same morgue to which he had pushed so many hundreds of dead bodies over the years. He could feel the pain and anger rising inside him. He must keep control. Concentrate on the living. Care and protect the living.
‘Martin? It’s me. Please let me know that you’re all right.’
6
The clanging of metallic trays against the recesses in the counter did nothing to help Ferra’s headache that morning. The police canteen in which he and Bryant were queuing had been recently refurbished and a new “self- service” regime instigated. The new decor was an obvious pastiche of Starbucks, but sadly, the opportuity for it’s customers to serve themselves with any speed or efficiency was being undermined considerably by the painfully slow cashier at the end of the line. The food and coffee were of a better standard though, but then the rise in quality had also meant a hike in prices. But if you didn’t pack yourself a sandwich – and a number of officers didn’t, wouldn’t or couldn’t – then there was little else by way of convenient choice.
‘Three-nil tonight, I reckon,’ Calbot offered his colleagues as he joined the line and reached for a ham and cheese sandwich.
‘Two-one,’ Bryant replied.
‘Nah, no chance they’ll score. Two-nil, maybe.’
‘Both goals Berbatov?’
‘Oh yeah. What do you reckon, Ferra?’
‘Not a whole lot, really,’ the officer replied. ‘Not been keeping up with it. I still reckon Porto for the cup, though.’
Calbot pulled a face. ‘I reckon you need to start watching golf, mate.’
‘I don’t want to die in my sleep ,thank you.’
The men laughed and moved a little further along the line picking up soft drinks along the way. Calbot took
