To Die Alone by John Dean

the inspector as the door started to close behind him.
    ‘But my news editor says we can’t really wait until your press conference.’
    ‘What press conference?’ asked the inspector, walking back outside and looking down at the young man from the top of the steps.
    ‘Your superintendent says there’ll be one at nine,’ said the reporter, handing the inspector a fax. ‘Reckons he’ll give us all the details we need.’
    ‘Does he indeed?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said another of the reporters, ‘we assume you’ll be putting something out about the other incident as well. We heard there might have been a firearm involved. Can you tell us anything about what happened? Is it true that a shot was—?’
    ‘No comment,’ said the inspector and disappeared into the station without a further word.
    Once in, he walked purposefully up to the first floor and along the main corridor to the office occupied by Philip Curtis. Without knocking, the inspector entered and stood for a moment, surveying the man behind the desk with his customary distaste. Always someone who had respected rank during his Military days, Harris had found that mindset challenged by the arrival of Philip Curtis. More used to senior officers who stood up for their troops, the inspector had quickly come to suspect that the superintendent’s main – and probably only – priority was his own career-advancement. Everyone at Levton Bridge knew that was not the way Jack Harris approached things and it had long been apparent to everyone else in the station that their viewpoints were irreconcilable. Indeed, a scathing Harris had often used the phrase ‘stuffed shirt’ about the divisional commander. Curtis, for his part, confided to his few close allies within the station that he resented the lack of respect afforded to him by his head of CID.
    A tall thin man, with sharply angular features and thinning dark hair, Curtis was flicking through some paperwork and glanced up with irritation when the inspector entered the room.
    ‘How many times do I have to tell you, you should knock before…?’ he began but the look on the inspector’s face caused him to leave the sentence unfinished. ‘Ah, it’s you.’
    Harris gave him a dark look and the superintendent shuffled his papers into a neat pile and placed them carefully in one of the trays on his desk, all moves designed to buy himself time as he pondered how best to play the conversation. Encounters with Jack Harris were rarely easy affairs.
    ‘A busy night then,’ observed the superintendent after a few moments. ‘I tried to ring you but, for some reason, I could not get an answer.’
    ‘Bad reception.’
    ‘Ah, indeed.’ It was always the same answer. ‘So what progress are you making?’
    ‘I was rather hoping that you would tell me,’ said the inspector, ignoring the commander’s gesture to take a seat.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    Harris held up the fax.
    ‘Ah, yes,’ said Curtis. ‘Yes, I was going to talk to you about that. You see—’
    ‘I don’t recall sanctioning a press conference.’
    ‘No, I did that.’
    ‘Without asking me?’
    ‘I felt we needed to issue something, Jack. You know how fast word gets round in this place. The control room received a number of calls last night and the duty press officer suggested that we had to do something. That’s why I was ringing you – or trying to ring you anyway. Since people already seemed to know about the shooting up on the hills, I took the decision in my capacity as ….’
    His voice tailed off as Harris glowered at him. Loath to spark yet another row, Curtis made an effort to look more conciliatory, gesturing once again to the chair.
    ‘Sit down, Jack.’
    Harris hesitated.
    ‘Please.’
    The inspector sighed and sat down, and, arms folded across his chest, eyed the superintendent balefully.
    ‘Perhaps we should start this conversation again,’ said Curtis, encouraged that the inspector did not disagree with the suggestion. ‘So, might I