load of mixed grill and wondered if she’d ever looked so cute in uniform. Sumitra had the face of an angel and legs up to her epaulettes.
“Had what you might call a run-in last night,” Bev told her enigmatically. “With Neanderthal Man. Gave me a bit of an appetite.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“You should get out more. What you up to anyway, Summi?”
“Playing catch-up. I’ve been off since Wednesday.”
“You still on porn?”
She nodded. “DOMS.”
Bev thought for a moment. The only DOMS springing to mind were her post-run variety: Delayed Onset Muscular Soreness. Hurt just thinking about it.
Sumitra enlightened her. “Dirty Old Men Syndrome.”
Bev smiled as she caught sight of someone coming in. “Talking of which.”
Sumitra bowed her head, blushing on Bev’s behalf. “Morning, Sir.”
Mike Powell strode to the counter barely acknowledging Bev’s over-bright salutation. Not that she’d lose any sleep.
“Not all old are they?” Bev picked up where they’d left off. “It’s not all dirty macs and liver spots.” Given some of the stuff Bev had seen on vice, neither
age – nor rainwear – came into it.
She looked down. Two sausages and a slice of black pudding were swimming in a pool of tomatoes and egg yolk. She pushed the plate aside. She had a vague feeling of unease and was trying to work
out whether it was more than the usual post-pig-out craving for a fag. “Can I have a look at the paperwork, Summi?”
“Don’t see why not. Clear it with Wiseman first.”
“Sure.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Just curious.”
“Not keeping you busy downstairs?” Sumitra smiled.
Bev held out her hands. “Rushed off me feet, mate.”
Sumitra frowned, gently took hold of Bev’s wrist, scrutinised a palm that resembled a road map. “That looks nasty, Beverley. Have you put anything on it?”
Bev winced; tried to hide it with a smile. “Double Savlon. Honest.”
“You read tea leaves as well, Ghoshie?”
They looked up to find Powell looming, a take-out coffee and a couple of doughnuts on a tray.
“Sir?” The query was Sumitra’s; Bev had already caught the drift.
He nodded at the women’s hands. “If that’s not just a harmless bit of palmistry – you want to watch out. People’ll talk. They’ll have you snogging in the rape
suite before you know it.”
Sumitra snatched her hand away. Bev studied her fingernails. “You should hear what they say about you.” She noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t get
anywhere near his voice.
“Y’know, Morriss, I wouldn’t have thought you had time to sit on your backside talking crap.” He jabbed a thumb at Sumitra. “And if she was any good at telling the
future she’d have told you about the old man. He’s in his office. Popped my head round already. Can’t see him for steam. Makes Raging Bull look like Ronnie Corbett.’
“It’s just not on.” Byford was at the window, his back to Bev. The rain had cleared but a leaden sky was making no promises. Bev was sitting in front of his desk, trying to
work out what, exactly, was off. It was either her handling of the Henry Brand interview or the fact that some plonker on the front desk had given the headteacher from hell Byford’s home
number. Come to think of it, probably both. Byford turned, perched on the sill.
“Just because he’d met the woman at a parents’ evening and she insists it’s crucial to the case, he assumes it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe she threatened extra homework.”
“And that’s another thing.” He moved to his own chair, sat facing her. “There are enough jokers round here without you going into a stand-up routine at the drop of a
hat.”
“Sir.” For a man whose office walls were plastered in old Private Eye covers, she reckoned he had little room to talk. But when on thin ice – keep shtum. His mood
wasn’t entirely down to Elizabeth Sharpe’s out-of-hours call. Bev knew he was pissed off with last
“Had what you might call a run-in last night,” Bev told her enigmatically. “With Neanderthal Man. Gave me a bit of an appetite.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“You should get out more. What you up to anyway, Summi?”
“Playing catch-up. I’ve been off since Wednesday.”
“You still on porn?”
She nodded. “DOMS.”
Bev thought for a moment. The only DOMS springing to mind were her post-run variety: Delayed Onset Muscular Soreness. Hurt just thinking about it.
Sumitra enlightened her. “Dirty Old Men Syndrome.”
Bev smiled as she caught sight of someone coming in. “Talking of which.”
Sumitra bowed her head, blushing on Bev’s behalf. “Morning, Sir.”
Mike Powell strode to the counter barely acknowledging Bev’s over-bright salutation. Not that she’d lose any sleep.
“Not all old are they?” Bev picked up where they’d left off. “It’s not all dirty macs and liver spots.” Given some of the stuff Bev had seen on vice, neither
age – nor rainwear – came into it.
She looked down. Two sausages and a slice of black pudding were swimming in a pool of tomatoes and egg yolk. She pushed the plate aside. She had a vague feeling of unease and was trying to work
out whether it was more than the usual post-pig-out craving for a fag. “Can I have a look at the paperwork, Summi?”
“Don’t see why not. Clear it with Wiseman first.”
“Sure.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Just curious.”
“Not keeping you busy downstairs?” Sumitra smiled.
Bev held out her hands. “Rushed off me feet, mate.”
Sumitra frowned, gently took hold of Bev’s wrist, scrutinised a palm that resembled a road map. “That looks nasty, Beverley. Have you put anything on it?”
Bev winced; tried to hide it with a smile. “Double Savlon. Honest.”
“You read tea leaves as well, Ghoshie?”
They looked up to find Powell looming, a take-out coffee and a couple of doughnuts on a tray.
“Sir?” The query was Sumitra’s; Bev had already caught the drift.
He nodded at the women’s hands. “If that’s not just a harmless bit of palmistry – you want to watch out. People’ll talk. They’ll have you snogging in the rape
suite before you know it.”
Sumitra snatched her hand away. Bev studied her fingernails. “You should hear what they say about you.” She noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes, didn’t get
anywhere near his voice.
“Y’know, Morriss, I wouldn’t have thought you had time to sit on your backside talking crap.” He jabbed a thumb at Sumitra. “And if she was any good at telling the
future she’d have told you about the old man. He’s in his office. Popped my head round already. Can’t see him for steam. Makes Raging Bull look like Ronnie Corbett.’
“It’s just not on.” Byford was at the window, his back to Bev. The rain had cleared but a leaden sky was making no promises. Bev was sitting in front of his desk, trying to
work out what, exactly, was off. It was either her handling of the Henry Brand interview or the fact that some plonker on the front desk had given the headteacher from hell Byford’s home
number. Come to think of it, probably both. Byford turned, perched on the sill.
“Just because he’d met the woman at a parents’ evening and she insists it’s crucial to the case, he assumes it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe she threatened extra homework.”
“And that’s another thing.” He moved to his own chair, sat facing her. “There are enough jokers round here without you going into a stand-up routine at the drop of a
hat.”
“Sir.” For a man whose office walls were plastered in old Private Eye covers, she reckoned he had little room to talk. But when on thin ice – keep shtum. His mood
wasn’t entirely down to Elizabeth Sharpe’s out-of-hours call. Bev knew he was pissed off with last
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