head.
“Ah yes,” he said, “I remember my early days as a dewy-eyed young Detective Constable…”
Here we go, she thought.
“It was all so simple. Wielding the warrant card of truth and the truncheon of justice, I would catch all the nasty villains fair and square, put them in the dock, and Rumpole of the Bailey would make sure they went away for a nice long stretch. End of.”
She resisted the urge to remind him that actually, Rumpole had been on the dark side, aka defence counsel.
“Then I woke up,” he yawned, “and found myself back in CID.” He leaned forward and waved the PM report under her nose. “Even if you did find the dealer – which you won’t – and you prove he supplied the gear – which you can’t – I can assure you that our esteemed colleagues at CPS will trot out 101 cast-iron reasons why it is nigh-on impossible to get a manslaughter conviction in cases of OD. The main one being it’s ‘too difficult to establish a chain of fucking causality’, if memory serves.”
He scooted the report into his pending tray with a flourish.
“I’ll tell those long-haired tossers in Drug Squad about it. They might be interested if there are some killer Smarties doing the rounds. You carry on trying to trace the floater, just don’t spend all your time on it.”
“Yes, Sarge.” She hesitated, “But I still think that whoever gave the female the PMA – maybe her boyfriend, this guy Pawel – panicked and dumped her in the river after she OD-ed. I mean why else would she be starkers?”
She tensed up, half-expecting him to go ballistic at that; instead, he sighed, and picking up the report again with exaggerated patience, flicked through to the page he was looking for.
“The levels of PMA found in the blood may have caused hallucinations” – he shot her a meaningful look – “… the subject’s core temperature would have risen rapidly, causing extreme discomfort …PMA overdose victims often try to cool off by removing clothing…” another look, “wrapping themselves in wet towels and taking cold showers…” he slapped the report shut, looked up at her, “Or maybe, detective, seeing as they are off their tits, by jumping in the fucking river!”
By now, Streaky’s chin had gone the colour of raw steak, a bad sign, so she decided not to push her luck. He picked another bit of paper out of his tray and shoved it at her.
“Here you go, Ms Marple, the perfect case for a detective with a special interest in pharmaceuticals – a suspected cannabis factory in Leyton. Enjoy!”
Three hours later, Kershaw was shivering in her car, outside the dope factory, with the engine running in a desperate bid to warm up, smoking a fag and trying to remember why she ever joined the cops.
Thank God that ponytailed, earring-wearing careers teacher from Poplar High School couldn’t see her now. When she’d announced, aged sixteen, that she wanted to be a detective, he’d barely been able to hide his disapproval. He clearly had no time for the police, but could hardly say so. Instead, he adopted a caring face, and gave her a lecture on how ‘challenging’ she’d find police culture as a woman. She’d responded: “But Sir, isn’t the only way to change sexist institutions from the inside?”
In truth, the police service hadn’t been her first career choice. As a kid, when her friends came to play, she’d inveigle them into staging imaginary court cases with the kitchen of the flat standing in for the Old Bailey. Turned on its side, the kitchen table made a convincing dock for the defendant, while the judge, wearing a red dressing gown and a tea towel for a wig, oversaw proceedings from the worktop. But the real star of the show was Natalie, who, striding about in her Nan’s best black velvet coat, conducted devastating cross-examinations and made impassioned speeches to the jury – aka Denzil, the family dog. As far as she could recall, she was always the prosecutor, never the
“Ah yes,” he said, “I remember my early days as a dewy-eyed young Detective Constable…”
Here we go, she thought.
“It was all so simple. Wielding the warrant card of truth and the truncheon of justice, I would catch all the nasty villains fair and square, put them in the dock, and Rumpole of the Bailey would make sure they went away for a nice long stretch. End of.”
She resisted the urge to remind him that actually, Rumpole had been on the dark side, aka defence counsel.
“Then I woke up,” he yawned, “and found myself back in CID.” He leaned forward and waved the PM report under her nose. “Even if you did find the dealer – which you won’t – and you prove he supplied the gear – which you can’t – I can assure you that our esteemed colleagues at CPS will trot out 101 cast-iron reasons why it is nigh-on impossible to get a manslaughter conviction in cases of OD. The main one being it’s ‘too difficult to establish a chain of fucking causality’, if memory serves.”
He scooted the report into his pending tray with a flourish.
“I’ll tell those long-haired tossers in Drug Squad about it. They might be interested if there are some killer Smarties doing the rounds. You carry on trying to trace the floater, just don’t spend all your time on it.”
“Yes, Sarge.” She hesitated, “But I still think that whoever gave the female the PMA – maybe her boyfriend, this guy Pawel – panicked and dumped her in the river after she OD-ed. I mean why else would she be starkers?”
She tensed up, half-expecting him to go ballistic at that; instead, he sighed, and picking up the report again with exaggerated patience, flicked through to the page he was looking for.
“The levels of PMA found in the blood may have caused hallucinations” – he shot her a meaningful look – “… the subject’s core temperature would have risen rapidly, causing extreme discomfort …PMA overdose victims often try to cool off by removing clothing…” another look, “wrapping themselves in wet towels and taking cold showers…” he slapped the report shut, looked up at her, “Or maybe, detective, seeing as they are off their tits, by jumping in the fucking river!”
By now, Streaky’s chin had gone the colour of raw steak, a bad sign, so she decided not to push her luck. He picked another bit of paper out of his tray and shoved it at her.
“Here you go, Ms Marple, the perfect case for a detective with a special interest in pharmaceuticals – a suspected cannabis factory in Leyton. Enjoy!”
Three hours later, Kershaw was shivering in her car, outside the dope factory, with the engine running in a desperate bid to warm up, smoking a fag and trying to remember why she ever joined the cops.
Thank God that ponytailed, earring-wearing careers teacher from Poplar High School couldn’t see her now. When she’d announced, aged sixteen, that she wanted to be a detective, he’d barely been able to hide his disapproval. He clearly had no time for the police, but could hardly say so. Instead, he adopted a caring face, and gave her a lecture on how ‘challenging’ she’d find police culture as a woman. She’d responded: “But Sir, isn’t the only way to change sexist institutions from the inside?”
In truth, the police service hadn’t been her first career choice. As a kid, when her friends came to play, she’d inveigle them into staging imaginary court cases with the kitchen of the flat standing in for the Old Bailey. Turned on its side, the kitchen table made a convincing dock for the defendant, while the judge, wearing a red dressing gown and a tea towel for a wig, oversaw proceedings from the worktop. But the real star of the show was Natalie, who, striding about in her Nan’s best black velvet coat, conducted devastating cross-examinations and made impassioned speeches to the jury – aka Denzil, the family dog. As far as she could recall, she was always the prosecutor, never the
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