enough of the intellectual stuff, and he could see that his
sergeant was becoming increasingly fascinated. 'Come on, Wes, we've got work to
do ...come back to the twentieth century.'
Wesley raised a reluctant hand in
farewell and followed Heffernan back to the incident room. At that moment dead Spaniards
seemed a lot more appealing to him than dead
Americans.
Steve Carstairs got out of his car
and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He strolled casually up
to the small village shop just as he had seen the DCs on television police dramas
stroll up to the entrance of a gangster's haunt in the seedy centre of some
decaying metropolis. Oh, for the excitement of the Met: he'd be off to London
like a shot if his mum wasn't quite so good at providing for his every need. It
would be impossible to keep the hours Steve did at work and play and still do
your own washing.
WPC Trish Walton, young and new to
the job. followed Steve warily, secretly excited at being put with someone from
CID ...especially someone attractive from CID. She adjusted her hat and followed
Steve into the shop, standing behind him as he flashed
his warrant card at the shopkeeper.
The thin, balding man suddenly
looked indignant. That's three days I've waited. They sent some young PC who
didn't look as though he'd been out of school five minutes ... he didn't seem interested.
I told him. I said .. .'
'Sorry, sir, I'm not with you.'
'Shoplifter... pinched some cans of
lager from over there. Ran off...'
'Sorry, sir, we've not come about
that. Have you seen this woman at all?' He produced a fuzzy photograph of Sally
Johnson, the best her husband had been able to provide. 'She used to live at this
shop fifty years ago ... name of Sally Johnson. It's thought she might have
come back here.'
The shopkeeper looked annoyed. 'I'm
not interested in some woman who used to live here. What are you doing about my
lager? I can't afford shoplifting ... it's hard enough to keep this place going
as it is.'
Steve looked around at the shop, laid
out like a miniature supermarket. The shelves were half filled with the bare
necessities...hardly the place to buy your smoked salmon and sun-dried
tomatoes.
'I suggest you keep all the drink behind
the counter, sir. That's what they usually go for.'
'There's normally no problem. I know
all my customers ...mostly old folk who've got no cars and can't get to the
hypermarket outside Tradmouth.'
Steve took out his notebook - better
show willing. 'So who was this shoplifter? Some old dear getting a bit
forgetful?' He smirked.
The shopkeeper wasn't amused. 'It
was some young tearaway with a shaved head, dressed like a tramp. I knew he was
trouble as soon as he came through that door.'
'Anything else you can tell me about
him?'
'In his twenties. I'd say.
Vicious-looking character ...dirty...'
'We'll keep an eye out, sir.'
'Four cans, he stole.'
'As I said, sir. we'll keep an eye
out.' Steve pushed the photograph of Sally Johnson forward. 'Has this woman
been here at all?'
The shopkeeper shook his head.
'And you've not seen her in the
village or hanging around outside the shop?'
'I've got no time to notice who's outside
the shop. I'm open till ten most evenings.'
The shop door opened and a woman
came in, smiled at the shopkeeper and picked up one of the wire baskets at the
door. A customer. The shopkeeper's manner changed. 'Morning. Mrs Penrose. Nice
day again.'
'We'll leave you to it,' Steve said as
he pushed the photograph back into his wallet. 'If you see the woman, let us
know, won't you.'
The shopkeeper was about to answer
when Mrs Penrose placed her basket containing a lonely box of teabags on the
counter in front of him.
Steve, hands in pockets, sauntered
back to the car. 'Another blank ... CID work isn't all glamour, you know.
Trish. You stick with me and you'll learn a thing or two about detection.'
WPC Trish
sergeant was becoming increasingly fascinated. 'Come on, Wes, we've got work to
do ...come back to the twentieth century.'
Wesley raised a reluctant hand in
farewell and followed Heffernan back to the incident room. At that moment dead Spaniards
seemed a lot more appealing to him than dead
Americans.
Steve Carstairs got out of his car
and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He strolled casually up
to the small village shop just as he had seen the DCs on television police dramas
stroll up to the entrance of a gangster's haunt in the seedy centre of some
decaying metropolis. Oh, for the excitement of the Met: he'd be off to London
like a shot if his mum wasn't quite so good at providing for his every need. It
would be impossible to keep the hours Steve did at work and play and still do
your own washing.
WPC Trish Walton, young and new to
the job. followed Steve warily, secretly excited at being put with someone from
CID ...especially someone attractive from CID. She adjusted her hat and followed
Steve into the shop, standing behind him as he flashed
his warrant card at the shopkeeper.
The thin, balding man suddenly
looked indignant. That's three days I've waited. They sent some young PC who
didn't look as though he'd been out of school five minutes ... he didn't seem interested.
I told him. I said .. .'
'Sorry, sir, I'm not with you.'
'Shoplifter... pinched some cans of
lager from over there. Ran off...'
'Sorry, sir, we've not come about
that. Have you seen this woman at all?' He produced a fuzzy photograph of Sally
Johnson, the best her husband had been able to provide. 'She used to live at this
shop fifty years ago ... name of Sally Johnson. It's thought she might have
come back here.'
The shopkeeper looked annoyed. 'I'm
not interested in some woman who used to live here. What are you doing about my
lager? I can't afford shoplifting ... it's hard enough to keep this place going
as it is.'
Steve looked around at the shop, laid
out like a miniature supermarket. The shelves were half filled with the bare
necessities...hardly the place to buy your smoked salmon and sun-dried
tomatoes.
'I suggest you keep all the drink behind
the counter, sir. That's what they usually go for.'
'There's normally no problem. I know
all my customers ...mostly old folk who've got no cars and can't get to the
hypermarket outside Tradmouth.'
Steve took out his notebook - better
show willing. 'So who was this shoplifter? Some old dear getting a bit
forgetful?' He smirked.
The shopkeeper wasn't amused. 'It
was some young tearaway with a shaved head, dressed like a tramp. I knew he was
trouble as soon as he came through that door.'
'Anything else you can tell me about
him?'
'In his twenties. I'd say.
Vicious-looking character ...dirty...'
'We'll keep an eye out, sir.'
'Four cans, he stole.'
'As I said, sir. we'll keep an eye
out.' Steve pushed the photograph of Sally Johnson forward. 'Has this woman
been here at all?'
The shopkeeper shook his head.
'And you've not seen her in the
village or hanging around outside the shop?'
'I've got no time to notice who's outside
the shop. I'm open till ten most evenings.'
The shop door opened and a woman
came in, smiled at the shopkeeper and picked up one of the wire baskets at the
door. A customer. The shopkeeper's manner changed. 'Morning. Mrs Penrose. Nice
day again.'
'We'll leave you to it,' Steve said as
he pushed the photograph back into his wallet. 'If you see the woman, let us
know, won't you.'
The shopkeeper was about to answer
when Mrs Penrose placed her basket containing a lonely box of teabags on the
counter in front of him.
Steve, hands in pockets, sauntered
back to the car. 'Another blank ... CID work isn't all glamour, you know.
Trish. You stick with me and you'll learn a thing or two about detection.'
WPC Trish
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