still menaces me and will find me; I must end it.
I had had enough, so I picked the phone up and got the morgue.
Some man the other end mumbled: ‘Suarez? Who she then?’
I said: ‘Today isn’t the metaphysics course for you, sweetheart – so just do your job and get your nose into your dockets.’
‘Oh God, more bleeding work,’ he said. He went off. In the end he came back and said: ‘87471 and 2? You mean those women from Kensington? Christ, they haven’t hardly been tagged yet.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘You’ve had plenty of time, three hours.’
‘Three hours?’ he yelled. ‘What do you think we are here, bleeding miracle workers?’
‘You’d better turn yourself into a miracle for your own sake,’ I said, ‘otherwise I’ll be over, and then there’ll be a miracle fewer in the world; now I mean it.’
‘Oh, come on, give us a chance, Sarge,’ the man down at the morgue said. ‘There’s like a waiting list here, you know.’ He sniggered. ‘We’ve got all these quiet people keep turning up here the whole time.’ He added: ‘But at least they don’t get on the blower screaming their head off the way you do.’
I said in a very low grey voice: ‘Get off the line. Put someone with a normal brain on.’
‘No point losing your rag,’ he said cheekily, ‘there’s no one but me here, the mob’s at lunch, I’m just minding the fridges, sorry.’
I said: ‘I shall be over in thirty minutes, and if that report isn’t waiting for me when I arrive, I shall tear someone’s head off, probably yours. Come to that, what’s your name anyway? Let’s see what makes you tick.’
He finally grasped the major point, that I was serious. ‘Veale.’
‘You sound like third footman to Satan the night hell was invented,’ I said. ‘Now pull your finger out with a loud pop – I want that file, I want action, and I want the whole lot now, now, now, not sometime next Thursday week, you berk.’
‘But where’s the fire?’ he bleated. ‘They’re not going anywhere – I can’t understand what the rush is.’
‘Thank God you’re not paid to understand what it is,’ I said, ‘but if you must know, the rush is so I can catch the bastard that did it – didn’t you know that that’s what detective sergeants are for?’
‘All right, all right, friend,’ he said, ‘now calm down – anyone’d think they were Marilyn Monroe the way you’re going on.’
‘Compared to you they were,’ I said, ‘and don’t ever tell me to calm down. Now get going while you’ve still got your ears on your head, otherwise I’ll likely find myself drawing twenty for murder, and you can guess who the corpse’ll be.’
‘It means changing the order in the arrival files,’ said Veale, ‘and that’s a terrible administrative problem, that is.’
‘It’s you that’s the terrible problem,’ I said, ‘not just your files.’
‘You people pull rank, you do,’ Veale said bitterly. ‘You coppers really feel your bloody oats.’
‘It must be spring coming on,’ I said.
I knew there would be no action at the morgue till after lunch, so I left the Factory and went over to see Frank Ballard; he only lived ten minutes away from it by motor. I found him in his wicker chair by his sitting-room window, lying back like a musician worn out after a concert.
He said: ‘Hullo, you look bothered. Sit down, what’s the matter?’
I said: ‘I badly want to talk to you.’
‘That’s good, I’m here to be talked to,’ he said. ‘Does me good, makes me feel useful.’ He added: ‘So they’ve taken you back at the Factory; I knew they would.’
‘Frank,’ I said, ‘I really care about this one, can I just talk to you about it for a minute?’
‘Carstairs/Suarez?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m up to date,’ he said.
I said: ‘There seem to be features.’
‘Features?’
‘Suarez says herself she was very ill.’
‘How do you know? Are you clairvoyant?’
‘No. I searched
I had had enough, so I picked the phone up and got the morgue.
Some man the other end mumbled: ‘Suarez? Who she then?’
I said: ‘Today isn’t the metaphysics course for you, sweetheart – so just do your job and get your nose into your dockets.’
‘Oh God, more bleeding work,’ he said. He went off. In the end he came back and said: ‘87471 and 2? You mean those women from Kensington? Christ, they haven’t hardly been tagged yet.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘You’ve had plenty of time, three hours.’
‘Three hours?’ he yelled. ‘What do you think we are here, bleeding miracle workers?’
‘You’d better turn yourself into a miracle for your own sake,’ I said, ‘otherwise I’ll be over, and then there’ll be a miracle fewer in the world; now I mean it.’
‘Oh, come on, give us a chance, Sarge,’ the man down at the morgue said. ‘There’s like a waiting list here, you know.’ He sniggered. ‘We’ve got all these quiet people keep turning up here the whole time.’ He added: ‘But at least they don’t get on the blower screaming their head off the way you do.’
I said in a very low grey voice: ‘Get off the line. Put someone with a normal brain on.’
‘No point losing your rag,’ he said cheekily, ‘there’s no one but me here, the mob’s at lunch, I’m just minding the fridges, sorry.’
I said: ‘I shall be over in thirty minutes, and if that report isn’t waiting for me when I arrive, I shall tear someone’s head off, probably yours. Come to that, what’s your name anyway? Let’s see what makes you tick.’
He finally grasped the major point, that I was serious. ‘Veale.’
‘You sound like third footman to Satan the night hell was invented,’ I said. ‘Now pull your finger out with a loud pop – I want that file, I want action, and I want the whole lot now, now, now, not sometime next Thursday week, you berk.’
‘But where’s the fire?’ he bleated. ‘They’re not going anywhere – I can’t understand what the rush is.’
‘Thank God you’re not paid to understand what it is,’ I said, ‘but if you must know, the rush is so I can catch the bastard that did it – didn’t you know that that’s what detective sergeants are for?’
‘All right, all right, friend,’ he said, ‘now calm down – anyone’d think they were Marilyn Monroe the way you’re going on.’
‘Compared to you they were,’ I said, ‘and don’t ever tell me to calm down. Now get going while you’ve still got your ears on your head, otherwise I’ll likely find myself drawing twenty for murder, and you can guess who the corpse’ll be.’
‘It means changing the order in the arrival files,’ said Veale, ‘and that’s a terrible administrative problem, that is.’
‘It’s you that’s the terrible problem,’ I said, ‘not just your files.’
‘You people pull rank, you do,’ Veale said bitterly. ‘You coppers really feel your bloody oats.’
‘It must be spring coming on,’ I said.
I knew there would be no action at the morgue till after lunch, so I left the Factory and went over to see Frank Ballard; he only lived ten minutes away from it by motor. I found him in his wicker chair by his sitting-room window, lying back like a musician worn out after a concert.
He said: ‘Hullo, you look bothered. Sit down, what’s the matter?’
I said: ‘I badly want to talk to you.’
‘That’s good, I’m here to be talked to,’ he said. ‘Does me good, makes me feel useful.’ He added: ‘So they’ve taken you back at the Factory; I knew they would.’
‘Frank,’ I said, ‘I really care about this one, can I just talk to you about it for a minute?’
‘Carstairs/Suarez?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m up to date,’ he said.
I said: ‘There seem to be features.’
‘Features?’
‘Suarez says herself she was very ill.’
‘How do you know? Are you clairvoyant?’
‘No. I searched
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