Every day brought a new surprise and she loved it.
And this case had been another weird one. A police marksman under investigation for murder? She turned off the shower and grabbed a pure white bath sheet. She’d have to take her own to Dan’s flat sometime, his were so murky and grey and hardly absorbed the water. That was, if she was planning on spending more time there.
She smiled. Enough of that for now. Concentrate on today first, and the big interview with Crouch. They had a good picture of what went on in the house, had interviewed the other marksman and the partner of the dead man, had done all the ballistics and forensics tests. They’d gone through Crouch’s background too; a big surprise there, something they had to ask him about and that strange password at his house as well.
Some of it looked suspicious, didn’t it? But it could be entirely innocent of course. Well, they’d find out. For all his oddities, his lack of any grace, Whiting wasn’t renowned as a man who gave up without finding the answers. And she wouldn’t either. Claire was surprised to find herself thinking they might make a strangely effective team.
She chose one of her standard black trouser suits from the wardrobe. A woman could never have too many of those, clothes for all occasions, even CID work. Comfortable, hard-wearing and smart. It would be a fascinating day. Another fascinating day.
Adam pushed open the door of Tom’s bedroom, trod softly over the green-and-white Plymouth Argyle carpet and looked down at his sleeping son. His face was soft with a serene dream.
Imagining a win for Argyle today? Or that girl in his class he was working on the geography project with – was it Helen? – the one he’d so shyly spoken about at the only family dinner he’d managed to get to that week. He was nine now, reaching that age when girls stopped being repugnant and took on an unexpected and incomprehensible allure. Adam grinned at the thought of what that would mean in the times to come.
Tom’s dark hair was tousled, stuck up and springy over his pillow. He was his father’s son, all right. Adam ran a hand through his own hair. It could take ten minutes work in the morning to make it presentable. And when Tom started shaving, he’d no doubt suffer his father’s fate as well, the shadow of a beard by midday at the latest.
Adam reached out and gently pushed at Tom’s shoulder until the boy’s eyes blinked open. He watched the passing seconds in the reflections as his son made sense of the world.
‘Good morning, young sleep monster.’
‘Hi, Dad. Is it football time?’
‘Yes, football in a minute. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to Bristol, so we’ve got time for some breakfast first.’
Tom struggled upright. ‘And a kick-about before we go?’
Adam had been hoping he’d ask. ‘I should think so. We’ve got to practise some of the moves Argyle might try this afternoon, haven’t we? It’s a big match. A local derby. Your first … an important moment in a young man’s life, eh? Like working on a project with a pretty young lady called Helen?’
Adam ducked the pillow that came flying towards him.
Claire and Detective Sergeant Suzanne Stewart sat next to each other on the plastic chairs, Whiting on the other side of his desk. Claire thought the pile of change was smaller today. Perhaps he’d bought himself a coffee? If so, there was no evidence of it and he hadn’t offered to get one for them. The man didn’t seem to enjoy any little human comforts. Despite her best efforts not to, in her mind she’d started to characterise him as a machine, an automaton.
Claire caught a hint of Suzanne’s perfume, noted her new-looking navy jacket, smiled to herself. This was the woman Dan had described as “your classic dumpy and dowdy plodder of a plod” when telling the story of how he’d first met her and Adam Breen on the Edward Bray murder case. The two of them had never got on, Suzanne believing Dan had
And this case had been another weird one. A police marksman under investigation for murder? She turned off the shower and grabbed a pure white bath sheet. She’d have to take her own to Dan’s flat sometime, his were so murky and grey and hardly absorbed the water. That was, if she was planning on spending more time there.
She smiled. Enough of that for now. Concentrate on today first, and the big interview with Crouch. They had a good picture of what went on in the house, had interviewed the other marksman and the partner of the dead man, had done all the ballistics and forensics tests. They’d gone through Crouch’s background too; a big surprise there, something they had to ask him about and that strange password at his house as well.
Some of it looked suspicious, didn’t it? But it could be entirely innocent of course. Well, they’d find out. For all his oddities, his lack of any grace, Whiting wasn’t renowned as a man who gave up without finding the answers. And she wouldn’t either. Claire was surprised to find herself thinking they might make a strangely effective team.
She chose one of her standard black trouser suits from the wardrobe. A woman could never have too many of those, clothes for all occasions, even CID work. Comfortable, hard-wearing and smart. It would be a fascinating day. Another fascinating day.
Adam pushed open the door of Tom’s bedroom, trod softly over the green-and-white Plymouth Argyle carpet and looked down at his sleeping son. His face was soft with a serene dream.
Imagining a win for Argyle today? Or that girl in his class he was working on the geography project with – was it Helen? – the one he’d so shyly spoken about at the only family dinner he’d managed to get to that week. He was nine now, reaching that age when girls stopped being repugnant and took on an unexpected and incomprehensible allure. Adam grinned at the thought of what that would mean in the times to come.
Tom’s dark hair was tousled, stuck up and springy over his pillow. He was his father’s son, all right. Adam ran a hand through his own hair. It could take ten minutes work in the morning to make it presentable. And when Tom started shaving, he’d no doubt suffer his father’s fate as well, the shadow of a beard by midday at the latest.
Adam reached out and gently pushed at Tom’s shoulder until the boy’s eyes blinked open. He watched the passing seconds in the reflections as his son made sense of the world.
‘Good morning, young sleep monster.’
‘Hi, Dad. Is it football time?’
‘Yes, football in a minute. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to Bristol, so we’ve got time for some breakfast first.’
Tom struggled upright. ‘And a kick-about before we go?’
Adam had been hoping he’d ask. ‘I should think so. We’ve got to practise some of the moves Argyle might try this afternoon, haven’t we? It’s a big match. A local derby. Your first … an important moment in a young man’s life, eh? Like working on a project with a pretty young lady called Helen?’
Adam ducked the pillow that came flying towards him.
Claire and Detective Sergeant Suzanne Stewart sat next to each other on the plastic chairs, Whiting on the other side of his desk. Claire thought the pile of change was smaller today. Perhaps he’d bought himself a coffee? If so, there was no evidence of it and he hadn’t offered to get one for them. The man didn’t seem to enjoy any little human comforts. Despite her best efforts not to, in her mind she’d started to characterise him as a machine, an automaton.
Claire caught a hint of Suzanne’s perfume, noted her new-looking navy jacket, smiled to herself. This was the woman Dan had described as “your classic dumpy and dowdy plodder of a plod” when telling the story of how he’d first met her and Adam Breen on the Edward Bray murder case. The two of them had never got on, Suzanne believing Dan had
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