on, live dangerously.’
‘No French maids?’
‘I could do you something a lot better than that,’ he said with a grin.
‘We-ell … Oh, all right.’
Maybe she owed him for the mistake over that lentilburger.
8
‘These crime figures …’
Words of doom, coming from Mayo’s secretary, Delia Brown, she who ruled him like an old-fashioned but benevolent nanny. She stood militantly between him and the bank of foliage plants that some office design consultant, brought in to tart up the working environment, had deemed necessary for someone of his rank Her figure, small as it was, blocked out even more of the light, forcing him to put down his pen and pay attention.
‘These crime figures from Inspector Kite,’ she repeated firmly, tapping the sheaf of papers in her hand, ‘they have to be checked and be ready for me to print out by the end of the week.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised hastily.
‘Right-oh.’ Her eyes held him to his promise, telling him he couldn’t bamboozle her. She knew very well how he hated administration above all things, and juggling with crime figures more than any of it. He suppressed a sigh. He’d do his best to keep his promise: he knew it was her efficiency that helped to keep his head above the sea of relentless paperwork: his subordinates’ reports became comprehensible under her hands, papers magically stacked themselves in order of importance to be dealt with, he wasn’t even allowed to see anything that was irrelevant. She fielded his telephone calls and only put through those which she considered necessary. She had a limitless memory for facts, figures and people. Martin Kite called her Mighty Mouse, with some justification. Mayo noted now, with amusement, that she was exactly the same height as the young rubber plant behind her, less than shoulder height with him, but then, few could match his height and bulk.
‘On your desk by tomorrow morning,’ he said, but she raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t make rash promises until you’ve been through this!’ she warned, smiling slightly, putting his appointments diary, open at the day’s date, on his desk. Even from where he stood, he could see that today left little room for manoeuvre – except
for what Delia called a ‘window’ around lunchtime, which he didn’t point out in case she found something to fill it with.
‘Inspector Kite in yet?’
‘He’s somewhere around – I’ll send him in, shall I?’
‘Please. And Delia – I’ll do my best with this lot, hmm?’ He gave her his warmest smile.
She nodded and went out quickly, before he could notice how pink her cheeks were. She’d have died if he had noticed. The chief reason she defended him against all comers was because he made her heart flutter under her neat jumper and gold chain as nobody else ever had done since she’d had a crush, thirty years ago, on the biology master at school. Mayo went back to his files, not as unaware of the effect he had on her as she would have liked to think, but it embarrassed him, so he pretended not to notice, which suited both of them.
At ten, he spent half an hour with Kite, who’d requested a meeting to run through the complicated evidence he was required to give in court later that week, a case at last successfully brought to prosecution. A young peer of the realm had been using his recently inherited stately home for activities not usually regarded as compatible with noblesse oblige . Kite had led a spectacular dawn raid, rousing not only his Lordship, but several tired businessmen and their companions, from narcotics-induced slumber. Lord Spenderhill was hopefully due to go down for a long time for supply and possession of illegal substances. Amongst other things.
That dealt with, Mayo braced himself for a meeting with the ACC, who was found to be clutching a copy of the Advertiser in one hand and what was left of his hair in the other when Mayo went into his office. ‘Seen this?’ he barked, pointing
‘No French maids?’
‘I could do you something a lot better than that,’ he said with a grin.
‘We-ell … Oh, all right.’
Maybe she owed him for the mistake over that lentilburger.
8
‘These crime figures …’
Words of doom, coming from Mayo’s secretary, Delia Brown, she who ruled him like an old-fashioned but benevolent nanny. She stood militantly between him and the bank of foliage plants that some office design consultant, brought in to tart up the working environment, had deemed necessary for someone of his rank Her figure, small as it was, blocked out even more of the light, forcing him to put down his pen and pay attention.
‘These crime figures from Inspector Kite,’ she repeated firmly, tapping the sheaf of papers in her hand, ‘they have to be checked and be ready for me to print out by the end of the week.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised hastily.
‘Right-oh.’ Her eyes held him to his promise, telling him he couldn’t bamboozle her. She knew very well how he hated administration above all things, and juggling with crime figures more than any of it. He suppressed a sigh. He’d do his best to keep his promise: he knew it was her efficiency that helped to keep his head above the sea of relentless paperwork: his subordinates’ reports became comprehensible under her hands, papers magically stacked themselves in order of importance to be dealt with, he wasn’t even allowed to see anything that was irrelevant. She fielded his telephone calls and only put through those which she considered necessary. She had a limitless memory for facts, figures and people. Martin Kite called her Mighty Mouse, with some justification. Mayo noted now, with amusement, that she was exactly the same height as the young rubber plant behind her, less than shoulder height with him, but then, few could match his height and bulk.
‘On your desk by tomorrow morning,’ he said, but she raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t make rash promises until you’ve been through this!’ she warned, smiling slightly, putting his appointments diary, open at the day’s date, on his desk. Even from where he stood, he could see that today left little room for manoeuvre – except
for what Delia called a ‘window’ around lunchtime, which he didn’t point out in case she found something to fill it with.
‘Inspector Kite in yet?’
‘He’s somewhere around – I’ll send him in, shall I?’
‘Please. And Delia – I’ll do my best with this lot, hmm?’ He gave her his warmest smile.
She nodded and went out quickly, before he could notice how pink her cheeks were. She’d have died if he had noticed. The chief reason she defended him against all comers was because he made her heart flutter under her neat jumper and gold chain as nobody else ever had done since she’d had a crush, thirty years ago, on the biology master at school. Mayo went back to his files, not as unaware of the effect he had on her as she would have liked to think, but it embarrassed him, so he pretended not to notice, which suited both of them.
At ten, he spent half an hour with Kite, who’d requested a meeting to run through the complicated evidence he was required to give in court later that week, a case at last successfully brought to prosecution. A young peer of the realm had been using his recently inherited stately home for activities not usually regarded as compatible with noblesse oblige . Kite had led a spectacular dawn raid, rousing not only his Lordship, but several tired businessmen and their companions, from narcotics-induced slumber. Lord Spenderhill was hopefully due to go down for a long time for supply and possession of illegal substances. Amongst other things.
That dealt with, Mayo braced himself for a meeting with the ACC, who was found to be clutching a copy of the Advertiser in one hand and what was left of his hair in the other when Mayo went into his office. ‘Seen this?’ he barked, pointing
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