wait till we pass an estate agent’s –
you can’t pay as much for a house in Penrith as what you’d need for a bedsit
here.’
Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.
‘Don’t
you wish you’d kept your place?’
DS Leyton
shakes his head.
‘Wasn’t
an option, Guv. To start off we lived at my old ma’s gaff – after
that we were just renting – crippling it was – I don’t know how
young ‘uns can afford it.’
DS
Jones is nodding.
‘Most
of my friends who got jobs in London have to live in the suburbs – though
they still seem to spend all their wages on rent, and commute for three hours a
day.’
Skelgill
hunches his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.
‘I’m beginning
to wonder what’s the attraction.’
Though
this is a statement rather than a question, DS Jones evidently feels obliged to
supply an explanation.
‘I
suppose it’s the buzz, Guv – music and media and fashion – and if
you work in the creative industries – advertising, digital and so forth.’
DS Leyton
chips in.
‘Seems
like all the publishers and their cronies are down here, too, Guv.’
Skelgill
ponders for a moment.
‘Sarah
Redmond’s in Edinburgh, mind.’
They
walk on for a while before DS Jones remarks upon this apparent idiosyncrasy.
‘I was
reading how there’s a lot of crime fiction writers based in Scotland – a murder they call themselves – like a murder of crows.’
Skelgill
tuts.
‘The raw
material must be better up there.’
DS
Leyton pretends to be offended.
‘I’d
have thought my old manor would win the gold medal for that, Guv – the good
old East End.’
DS
Jones grins.
‘That’s true crime – it’s a different genre.’
And
now Skelgill offers a wisecrack.
‘Aye
– there and the City, eh?’
This
raises a chuckle from the two sergeants, and Skelgill joins in, happy to amplify
the response to his own joke. The atmosphere around them is picking up
and they seem in good spirits, despite their long day. They are now
passing hostelries and restaurants, and there are more people about, young couples
and small groups, some in casual wear, others still business-suited, though not
yet thinking about heading home. Skelgill and Leyton find their progress
interrupted by the sound of a football match being shown inside a pub –
the doors are open and a sudden cry of frustration goes up. The place is
packed with a standing audience, mostly males and many of them wearing England
shirts. DS Leyton takes a couple of steps closer and rises upon tiptoes.
Apparently he is unsuccessful; he taps one of the smokers crowding the entrance
on the shoulder and asks him a question. The answer is curt, and he nods
and returns to his colleagues and they begin to move on.
‘Nil-nil,
Guv – qualifier for the Euros – over at Wembley – I’d
forgotten that was tonight.’
‘Who
are we playing?’
‘It’s
a real banana skin, Guv – Fitzrovia.’
‘Ha-ha,
Leyton. Who is it really?’
DS
Leyton grins. ‘Estonia, Guv.’ Then he gazes skywards rather
philosophically. ‘Think England’ll ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’
Skelgill
puffs out his cheeks, and pulls an anguished face, but before he can answer DS
Jones draws them to a halt.
‘Guv
– I was thinking we could eat here.’ She gestures to an inauspicious-looking
Thai restaurant. ‘It’s been going for years – it’s good value and
the portions of noodles are legendary.’
‘Music
to my ears.’ Skelgill immediately makes for the entrance, though his
colleagues hang back.
‘Shouldn’t
we check in, Guv?’ DS Jones points with a finger of the hand that holds
her overnight bag. ‘The hotel’s only five or six doors along.’
Skelgill
frowns and beckons them with a toss of his head.
‘Come
on – my hangover’s gone at last – the drinks are on me.’
Despite
being well acquainted with the fallibility of this figure of speech, obediently
they follow him inside – though they each
you can’t pay as much for a house in Penrith as what you’d need for a bedsit
here.’
Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.
‘Don’t
you wish you’d kept your place?’
DS Leyton
shakes his head.
‘Wasn’t
an option, Guv. To start off we lived at my old ma’s gaff – after
that we were just renting – crippling it was – I don’t know how
young ‘uns can afford it.’
DS
Jones is nodding.
‘Most
of my friends who got jobs in London have to live in the suburbs – though
they still seem to spend all their wages on rent, and commute for three hours a
day.’
Skelgill
hunches his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.
‘I’m beginning
to wonder what’s the attraction.’
Though
this is a statement rather than a question, DS Jones evidently feels obliged to
supply an explanation.
‘I
suppose it’s the buzz, Guv – music and media and fashion – and if
you work in the creative industries – advertising, digital and so forth.’
DS Leyton
chips in.
‘Seems
like all the publishers and their cronies are down here, too, Guv.’
Skelgill
ponders for a moment.
‘Sarah
Redmond’s in Edinburgh, mind.’
They
walk on for a while before DS Jones remarks upon this apparent idiosyncrasy.
‘I was
reading how there’s a lot of crime fiction writers based in Scotland – a murder they call themselves – like a murder of crows.’
Skelgill
tuts.
‘The raw
material must be better up there.’
DS
Leyton pretends to be offended.
‘I’d
have thought my old manor would win the gold medal for that, Guv – the good
old East End.’
DS
Jones grins.
‘That’s true crime – it’s a different genre.’
And
now Skelgill offers a wisecrack.
‘Aye
– there and the City, eh?’
This
raises a chuckle from the two sergeants, and Skelgill joins in, happy to amplify
the response to his own joke. The atmosphere around them is picking up
and they seem in good spirits, despite their long day. They are now
passing hostelries and restaurants, and there are more people about, young couples
and small groups, some in casual wear, others still business-suited, though not
yet thinking about heading home. Skelgill and Leyton find their progress
interrupted by the sound of a football match being shown inside a pub –
the doors are open and a sudden cry of frustration goes up. The place is
packed with a standing audience, mostly males and many of them wearing England
shirts. DS Leyton takes a couple of steps closer and rises upon tiptoes.
Apparently he is unsuccessful; he taps one of the smokers crowding the entrance
on the shoulder and asks him a question. The answer is curt, and he nods
and returns to his colleagues and they begin to move on.
‘Nil-nil,
Guv – qualifier for the Euros – over at Wembley – I’d
forgotten that was tonight.’
‘Who
are we playing?’
‘It’s
a real banana skin, Guv – Fitzrovia.’
‘Ha-ha,
Leyton. Who is it really?’
DS
Leyton grins. ‘Estonia, Guv.’ Then he gazes skywards rather
philosophically. ‘Think England’ll ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’
Skelgill
puffs out his cheeks, and pulls an anguished face, but before he can answer DS
Jones draws them to a halt.
‘Guv
– I was thinking we could eat here.’ She gestures to an inauspicious-looking
Thai restaurant. ‘It’s been going for years – it’s good value and
the portions of noodles are legendary.’
‘Music
to my ears.’ Skelgill immediately makes for the entrance, though his
colleagues hang back.
‘Shouldn’t
we check in, Guv?’ DS Jones points with a finger of the hand that holds
her overnight bag. ‘The hotel’s only five or six doors along.’
Skelgill
frowns and beckons them with a toss of his head.
‘Come
on – my hangover’s gone at last – the drinks are on me.’
Despite
being well acquainted with the fallibility of this figure of speech, obediently
they follow him inside – though they each
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