idea was that police officers should travel to and from work in uniform. Joanne had laughed out loud when she read it. You go in and out of your house in your uniform and it won’t be more than a day before your windows are egged and your tyres are flat. And that’s in a nice area.
Joanne punches her details into the computerized thing on the wall that lets the surgery staff know you’ve arrived. The old people never use it, so you can sometimes jump the queue a bit while they wait for the receptionist to deal with them. She takes a seat next to a smiling old lady, who says to her, ‘Flu jab?’, and Joanne says yes. Just because it’s easier.
There’s a pharmacy within the surgery, which Joanne thinks is a terrific idea. No more driving round in the pouring rain, clutching your prescription, nowhere open after 5 p.m. This pharmacy keeps the same hours as the doctors, so you’re done and dusted all in one go.
Joanne spies a copy of World of Interiors – which her Auntie Jackie calls ‘World of Inferiors’, and bypasses it, opting instead for the December issue of Good Housekeeping . Unusual to find an up-to-date copy in here, she thinks, and muses over ways to liven up Christmas dinner: Why not try goose? Or guinea fowl? Her eyes settle on a salmon terrine (suitable for diabetics), but her thoughts are never far from the missing girl.
When Joanne first moved to CID she found it hard to live alongside the job. She wasn’t like those TV detectives, the ones who never switch off, the ones who drink heavily, who go against the boss and lose their family to the force in the process.
Joanne’s problem was more subtle than that. She found she suffered from a heavy guilt the minute her thoughts drifted elsewhere,the minute she went back to the mundane tasks of normal living.
If she wasn’t thinking about her current case, she felt that she should be.
She was more used to it now. She managed it better. She’d come to liken it to the creative process she’d heard artists speak about. When their attention was diverted by other things, their subconscious was busily working away on their behalf, figuring things out, solving problems.
Joanne found that if she let her mind wander, if she let it relax, then ideas and answers would pop up like traffic cones. One minute they were absent and the next they were everywhere she looked.
She hears the buzzer signalling they’re ready for the next patient, and her name appears. The old lady next to her seems a bit perturbed that Joanne is going in ahead of her, but Joanne doesn’t bother to explain she’s not really having the flu jab after all.
She’s nervous because she’s going to have to undress. She’s not prudish, not even shy, she just doesn’t like to see the look on the face of whoever she is undressing for .
She knocks once before going in, and Dr Ravenscroft, Joanne’s GP since childhood, greets her. ‘Joanne! Good to see you. Take a seat. How are you today?’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘And how’s your aunt? I’ve not seen her in a while.’
‘Same old, same old – they don’t call her Mad Jackie for nothing.’
He chuckles.
‘She’s still living with you, then?’ he asks.
‘Think I’m going to be stuck with her for ever.’
He smiles sympathetically. ‘And what about you? Are you still busy fighting crime?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’ He starts typing, bringing up her notes. ‘Now, what can I do for you today?’
‘I’d like a breast reduction.’
He doesn’t look up. ‘Not really a fan of them myself,’ he mumbles absently, and Joanne’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to that. ‘You’re having upper-back pain, sweat rashes?’
‘Pretty much,’ she answers. ‘The back pain’s not continuous but it’s vicious when it hits. My main problem, though, is here,’ and she motions to the area between her neck and shoulder.
‘Trapezius,’ he says. ‘Gets quite tight in there, does it?’
Joanne
Joanne punches her details into the computerized thing on the wall that lets the surgery staff know you’ve arrived. The old people never use it, so you can sometimes jump the queue a bit while they wait for the receptionist to deal with them. She takes a seat next to a smiling old lady, who says to her, ‘Flu jab?’, and Joanne says yes. Just because it’s easier.
There’s a pharmacy within the surgery, which Joanne thinks is a terrific idea. No more driving round in the pouring rain, clutching your prescription, nowhere open after 5 p.m. This pharmacy keeps the same hours as the doctors, so you’re done and dusted all in one go.
Joanne spies a copy of World of Interiors – which her Auntie Jackie calls ‘World of Inferiors’, and bypasses it, opting instead for the December issue of Good Housekeeping . Unusual to find an up-to-date copy in here, she thinks, and muses over ways to liven up Christmas dinner: Why not try goose? Or guinea fowl? Her eyes settle on a salmon terrine (suitable for diabetics), but her thoughts are never far from the missing girl.
When Joanne first moved to CID she found it hard to live alongside the job. She wasn’t like those TV detectives, the ones who never switch off, the ones who drink heavily, who go against the boss and lose their family to the force in the process.
Joanne’s problem was more subtle than that. She found she suffered from a heavy guilt the minute her thoughts drifted elsewhere,the minute she went back to the mundane tasks of normal living.
If she wasn’t thinking about her current case, she felt that she should be.
She was more used to it now. She managed it better. She’d come to liken it to the creative process she’d heard artists speak about. When their attention was diverted by other things, their subconscious was busily working away on their behalf, figuring things out, solving problems.
Joanne found that if she let her mind wander, if she let it relax, then ideas and answers would pop up like traffic cones. One minute they were absent and the next they were everywhere she looked.
She hears the buzzer signalling they’re ready for the next patient, and her name appears. The old lady next to her seems a bit perturbed that Joanne is going in ahead of her, but Joanne doesn’t bother to explain she’s not really having the flu jab after all.
She’s nervous because she’s going to have to undress. She’s not prudish, not even shy, she just doesn’t like to see the look on the face of whoever she is undressing for .
She knocks once before going in, and Dr Ravenscroft, Joanne’s GP since childhood, greets her. ‘Joanne! Good to see you. Take a seat. How are you today?’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘And how’s your aunt? I’ve not seen her in a while.’
‘Same old, same old – they don’t call her Mad Jackie for nothing.’
He chuckles.
‘She’s still living with you, then?’ he asks.
‘Think I’m going to be stuck with her for ever.’
He smiles sympathetically. ‘And what about you? Are you still busy fighting crime?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Wonderful. Wonderful.’ He starts typing, bringing up her notes. ‘Now, what can I do for you today?’
‘I’d like a breast reduction.’
He doesn’t look up. ‘Not really a fan of them myself,’ he mumbles absently, and Joanne’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to that. ‘You’re having upper-back pain, sweat rashes?’
‘Pretty much,’ she answers. ‘The back pain’s not continuous but it’s vicious when it hits. My main problem, though, is here,’ and she motions to the area between her neck and shoulder.
‘Trapezius,’ he says. ‘Gets quite tight in there, does it?’
Joanne
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