again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maternity leave,” Kathy said. “Back I come and everyone’s changed over. I’m shuttled here and there.”
“Your decision though, isn’t it?” Tennison said, flicking through the snaps. Two blond-haired toddlers paddling in the sea, the younger one only just past the baby stage.
Kathy bridled. “No way—I don’t know where I’m going to be sent.”
“No, I meant it’s your decision to have kids. Norma, do you have any?”
Norma shook her head. “No, but I’m not married either.”
Tennison handed back the photographs. “That probation officer for Colin Jenkins, she send over anything?”
Kathy went across to her desk. Norma pointed behind her to the board, a typed list of Colin Jenkins’s clothing and possessions.
“He had to have somebody shellin’ out. His gear, the Armani jacket, designer jeans. Then there’s the money—five hundred quid.”
“Traced to a children’s home,” Kathy said, coming back with a wallet-type cardboard folder. “They’ve sent a few photographs, just small black-and-white jobs.” She laid them out and glanced through the résumé she’d compiled. “No family. Taken into care aged three. His mother OD’d a year later, and he was moved from one—two—three homes, a foster home, and then back again.” She held up the sheet. “That’s about it.”
Tennison looked at the smudgy photographs, which showed Connie standing in various groups, children’s homes and schools, aged from six to roughly thirteen. A good-looking kid, but terribly solemn in all of them. Small wonder, Tennison thought. What a miserable existence . . .
She glanced around as the Squad Room doors swung open, and got a shock. She stared uncomprehendingly at Haskons and Lillie, standing there large as life: two detectives who’d served under her at Southampton Row.
Tennison stood up. “What are you doing here?”
Haskons tossed his raincoat down and gave an elaborate shrug. “You tell us. Thorndike said you needed some backup—so, well, he sent you the cream.”
DC Lillie, the taller, thinner of the two, more easy-going and laid-back than DS Haskons, merely shook his head.
Tennison came around the desk. She wasn’t annoyed, she was totally pissed off. This was getting beyond a fucking joke. She jerked her head for them to follow. “You’d better come into my office.”
They went out. As the doors swung shut, Kathy gave Norma a dig with her elbow. “Catch the little snide line about it being my decision? Who does she think she is!”
Tennison opened the door to her office and ushered the pair inside ahead of her. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She closed the door, not quite slamming it, though she felt like doing so, and stood glowering toward Halliday’s office.
“Inspector Tennison?”
She turned, feeling like the place was suddenly teeming with strange new faces. He trotted toward her, slightly out of breath, looking a bit flustered, holding a scrap of paper. “I’m from Rossington station. DI Ray Hebdon. I was told by Superintendent Halliday to”—he checked the paper—“report to you.”
Tennison made a sweeping gesture, indicating her office. “Please, be my guest.” Hebdon went in.
Tennison rapped on Halliday’s door. There was a brief pause before he answered, during which she ran both hands through her hair, her simmering temper coming nicely to the boil. She went in, marched up to his desk, and came straight out with it.
“First the male model Dalton. Now it’s DS Haskons, DC Lillie, and a pink-faced nervous type from Rossington station. Could I have an explanation?”
Halliday was partly bent over, peeling a hard-boiled egg and dropping the shell in the wastebasket. A plastic lunch box contained three more hard-boiled eggs. He leaned back in his chair, holding up the peeled egg. “They sit like lead in the gut.”
“Don’t I have a say in the matter? Any choice?”
“Chief Inspector, you have
“What do you mean?”
“Maternity leave,” Kathy said. “Back I come and everyone’s changed over. I’m shuttled here and there.”
“Your decision though, isn’t it?” Tennison said, flicking through the snaps. Two blond-haired toddlers paddling in the sea, the younger one only just past the baby stage.
Kathy bridled. “No way—I don’t know where I’m going to be sent.”
“No, I meant it’s your decision to have kids. Norma, do you have any?”
Norma shook her head. “No, but I’m not married either.”
Tennison handed back the photographs. “That probation officer for Colin Jenkins, she send over anything?”
Kathy went across to her desk. Norma pointed behind her to the board, a typed list of Colin Jenkins’s clothing and possessions.
“He had to have somebody shellin’ out. His gear, the Armani jacket, designer jeans. Then there’s the money—five hundred quid.”
“Traced to a children’s home,” Kathy said, coming back with a wallet-type cardboard folder. “They’ve sent a few photographs, just small black-and-white jobs.” She laid them out and glanced through the résumé she’d compiled. “No family. Taken into care aged three. His mother OD’d a year later, and he was moved from one—two—three homes, a foster home, and then back again.” She held up the sheet. “That’s about it.”
Tennison looked at the smudgy photographs, which showed Connie standing in various groups, children’s homes and schools, aged from six to roughly thirteen. A good-looking kid, but terribly solemn in all of them. Small wonder, Tennison thought. What a miserable existence . . .
She glanced around as the Squad Room doors swung open, and got a shock. She stared uncomprehendingly at Haskons and Lillie, standing there large as life: two detectives who’d served under her at Southampton Row.
Tennison stood up. “What are you doing here?”
Haskons tossed his raincoat down and gave an elaborate shrug. “You tell us. Thorndike said you needed some backup—so, well, he sent you the cream.”
DC Lillie, the taller, thinner of the two, more easy-going and laid-back than DS Haskons, merely shook his head.
Tennison came around the desk. She wasn’t annoyed, she was totally pissed off. This was getting beyond a fucking joke. She jerked her head for them to follow. “You’d better come into my office.”
They went out. As the doors swung shut, Kathy gave Norma a dig with her elbow. “Catch the little snide line about it being my decision? Who does she think she is!”
Tennison opened the door to her office and ushered the pair inside ahead of her. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She closed the door, not quite slamming it, though she felt like doing so, and stood glowering toward Halliday’s office.
“Inspector Tennison?”
She turned, feeling like the place was suddenly teeming with strange new faces. He trotted toward her, slightly out of breath, looking a bit flustered, holding a scrap of paper. “I’m from Rossington station. DI Ray Hebdon. I was told by Superintendent Halliday to”—he checked the paper—“report to you.”
Tennison made a sweeping gesture, indicating her office. “Please, be my guest.” Hebdon went in.
Tennison rapped on Halliday’s door. There was a brief pause before he answered, during which she ran both hands through her hair, her simmering temper coming nicely to the boil. She went in, marched up to his desk, and came straight out with it.
“First the male model Dalton. Now it’s DS Haskons, DC Lillie, and a pink-faced nervous type from Rossington station. Could I have an explanation?”
Halliday was partly bent over, peeling a hard-boiled egg and dropping the shell in the wastebasket. A plastic lunch box contained three more hard-boiled eggs. He leaned back in his chair, holding up the peeled egg. “They sit like lead in the gut.”
“Don’t I have a say in the matter? Any choice?”
“Chief Inspector, you have
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