hissed, leaning across the desk. “It turned into a bit of bender last night.”
“Oh yes?” said Kershaw, opening her mailbox.
“You should have come,” he said. “We had a good laugh at Obsessions – you know, the lap dance place?”
Suddenly, he started tapping on his keyboard. Glancing over her shoulder, Kershaw saw DI Bellwether standing behind them, deep in conversation with the Sarge.
Bellwether, a tall, fit-looking guy in his early thirties, was all matey smiles, although it was clear from his body language who was boss. Streaky had put on his jacket and adopted the glassy smile he employed with authority. Kershaw could tell he resented the Guv – not because the guy had ever done anything to him, but probably because Bellwether had joined the Met as a graduate on the now-defunct accelerated promotion programme, which meant he’d gained DI rank in five years, around half the time it would have taken him to work his way up in the old days. The very mention of accelerated promotion or, as he preferred to call it, arse-elevated promotion, would turn Streaky fire-tender red.
Kershaw thought his animosity toward Bellwether was all a bit daft, really, since Streaky was a self-declared career DS without the remotest interest in promotion. As he never tired of explaining, becoming an inspector meant kissing goodbye to paid overtime, spending more time on ‘management bollocks’ than proper police work, and having to count paperclips to keep the boss-wallahs upstairs happy. An absolute mug’s game, in other words.
She could overhear the two of them discussing the latest initiative from the Justice Department.
“We’ll make it top priority, Guv,” she heard Streaky say. He was always on his best behaviour with the bosses, and never uttered a word against any of them personally – a self-imposed discipline that no doubt dated from his brief stint as an NCO in the Army.
As Bellwether breezed over, she and Browning got to their feet – Kershaw pleased that she’d chosen her good shoes and newest suit this morning.
“Morning Natalie, Tom. Are you early-birds enjoying the dawn chorus this week?”
Ha-ha, thought Kershaw, while Browning cracked up at the non-witticism.
“What are you working on, Natalie?” Bellwether asked her, with what sounded like real interest, causing Browning’s doggy grin to sag.
“I’m on a floater, Guv, Polish female washed up near the Barrier.”
“Cause of death?”
“OD. Some dodgy pseudo-ecstasy called PMA.”
“PMA? That rings a bell…” mused Bellwether. “Let me surf my inbox and give you a heads-up later today.”
Kershaw stifled a grin. Bellwether was alright, but he had caught a nasty little dose of jargonitis from attending too many management workshops.
As soon as he left, Streaky called her over.
“So let me guess,” he drawled, flipping through Waterhouse’s PM report. “The good doctor has got you all overexcited about a dodgy drugs racket. You do know he’s a tenner short of the full cash register?”
“The tox report backs it up though, Sarge,” said Kershaw, keeping her voice nice and low. He had once announced to the whole office that women’s voices were on the same frequency as the sound of nails scraped down a blackboard. Scientific fact, he said.
Streaky just grunted. “So you’ve got an OD with this stuff, wassitcalled… PMT …” – no fucking way was she taking that bait – “but even assuming you had a nice juicy lead to the lowlife who supplied the drugs, what’s your possible charge?”
Keeping her voice nice and steady, Kershaw said: “Well, Sarge, it could be manslaughter…”
Streaky whistled: “ Manslaughter. We are thinking big, aren’t we?”
“Supplying a class-A drug to someone which ends up killing them is surely a pretty clear-cut case, Sarge.” As soon as the words left her mouth she realised how up herself they made her sound.
Streaky leaned back in his swivel chair and put his arms behind his
“Oh yes?” said Kershaw, opening her mailbox.
“You should have come,” he said. “We had a good laugh at Obsessions – you know, the lap dance place?”
Suddenly, he started tapping on his keyboard. Glancing over her shoulder, Kershaw saw DI Bellwether standing behind them, deep in conversation with the Sarge.
Bellwether, a tall, fit-looking guy in his early thirties, was all matey smiles, although it was clear from his body language who was boss. Streaky had put on his jacket and adopted the glassy smile he employed with authority. Kershaw could tell he resented the Guv – not because the guy had ever done anything to him, but probably because Bellwether had joined the Met as a graduate on the now-defunct accelerated promotion programme, which meant he’d gained DI rank in five years, around half the time it would have taken him to work his way up in the old days. The very mention of accelerated promotion or, as he preferred to call it, arse-elevated promotion, would turn Streaky fire-tender red.
Kershaw thought his animosity toward Bellwether was all a bit daft, really, since Streaky was a self-declared career DS without the remotest interest in promotion. As he never tired of explaining, becoming an inspector meant kissing goodbye to paid overtime, spending more time on ‘management bollocks’ than proper police work, and having to count paperclips to keep the boss-wallahs upstairs happy. An absolute mug’s game, in other words.
She could overhear the two of them discussing the latest initiative from the Justice Department.
“We’ll make it top priority, Guv,” she heard Streaky say. He was always on his best behaviour with the bosses, and never uttered a word against any of them personally – a self-imposed discipline that no doubt dated from his brief stint as an NCO in the Army.
As Bellwether breezed over, she and Browning got to their feet – Kershaw pleased that she’d chosen her good shoes and newest suit this morning.
“Morning Natalie, Tom. Are you early-birds enjoying the dawn chorus this week?”
Ha-ha, thought Kershaw, while Browning cracked up at the non-witticism.
“What are you working on, Natalie?” Bellwether asked her, with what sounded like real interest, causing Browning’s doggy grin to sag.
“I’m on a floater, Guv, Polish female washed up near the Barrier.”
“Cause of death?”
“OD. Some dodgy pseudo-ecstasy called PMA.”
“PMA? That rings a bell…” mused Bellwether. “Let me surf my inbox and give you a heads-up later today.”
Kershaw stifled a grin. Bellwether was alright, but he had caught a nasty little dose of jargonitis from attending too many management workshops.
As soon as he left, Streaky called her over.
“So let me guess,” he drawled, flipping through Waterhouse’s PM report. “The good doctor has got you all overexcited about a dodgy drugs racket. You do know he’s a tenner short of the full cash register?”
“The tox report backs it up though, Sarge,” said Kershaw, keeping her voice nice and low. He had once announced to the whole office that women’s voices were on the same frequency as the sound of nails scraped down a blackboard. Scientific fact, he said.
Streaky just grunted. “So you’ve got an OD with this stuff, wassitcalled… PMT …” – no fucking way was she taking that bait – “but even assuming you had a nice juicy lead to the lowlife who supplied the drugs, what’s your possible charge?”
Keeping her voice nice and steady, Kershaw said: “Well, Sarge, it could be manslaughter…”
Streaky whistled: “ Manslaughter. We are thinking big, aren’t we?”
“Supplying a class-A drug to someone which ends up killing them is surely a pretty clear-cut case, Sarge.” As soon as the words left her mouth she realised how up herself they made her sound.
Streaky leaned back in his swivel chair and put his arms behind his
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