a chance.’ He leaned in closer, bringing with him the stench of aftershave and dead cigarettes. ‘I don’t like you, Constable.’
‘You hide it well, Guv.’
Was that a twitch of a smile?
Then Powel backed off, turned and marched away down the stairs. ‘Enjoy your meeting with Professional Standards, tomorrow. I’ll bring in a cardboard box so you can empty your desk afterwards.’
Clunk. The door closed, and Callum was alone again.
‘And screw you too, Guv.’
Powel’s voice echoed up from the landing below: ‘I’m still here, Constable.’
Of course he was.
Callum logged off his steam-powered computer, stretched, yawned, slumped in his seat for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet.
The office’s fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, giving everything the warm and welcoming ambience of a horror film. Shame he was the only one there to enjoy it.
One more yawn, a sigh, and a rummage in the bottom drawer of his desk for the paperback-sized Tupperware box he’d stuck in there first thing this morning. He went back in for the dog-eared hardback copy of The Monsters Who Came for Dinner. Checked his watch. Just gone two. With any luck the lunchtime rush at the building society would have petered out by now, but if it hadn’t at least he’d have something decent to read.
Callum pulled on his jacket and stuffed his sandwiches in one pocket, crisps in the other. Right, time to—
The office door swung open and McAdams loomed into the room.
Sod.
McAdams frowned. ‘And where, exactly, do you think you’re going, Constable MacGregor?’
So near, and yet so far. ‘Lunch, Sarge.’
‘Lunch? Off to hide in the park reading … What is that, a kid’s book?’
‘It’s a classic.’
‘Maybe if you’re six years old.’ He checked his watch. ‘And you don’t have time. That mummy needs its home found. Get your arse to work.’
Again with the sodding haikus.
‘I’ve been working.’ Callum picked up the list, all eight pages of it, and shoogled it. ‘Now, I’m going to waste my contractually mandated lunchtime in the building society, trying to get them to give me some of my own money, so I can buy food for my pregnant girlfriend. That all right with you?’
McAdams snatched the list from his hand and flicked through the sheets. Frowned. ‘Constable, why do these museums have the word “dick” written next to them?’
Ah …
‘I’m waiting, Constable.’
Right. Yes. Er …
Ah, OK: ‘It’s not “Dick”, Sarge, it’s “D.I.C.K.” Database Incomplete – Currently Checking. Most of them don’t have an electronic register of all the exhibits in storage, so they’re getting back to me.’
McAdams raised an eyebrow, making a line of wrinkles climb its way up his forehead. ‘“Checking” doesn’t start with a K, Constable.’
Innocent face. ‘Doesn’t it, Sarge?’
‘But I appreciate the creative effort.’ He pointed at the empty desks. ‘Where’s Captain Sulky and The Wheels?’
‘DC Watt’s off to a deposition – that schoolteacher they caught rubbing himself against old ladies in the big Waterstones. DS Hodgkin has a doctor’s appointment.’
‘Hmmm …’ McAdams’ mouth pulled down at the edges. ‘Ah well, I suppose it can’t be helped.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘You, with me. Mother’s office. Now.’
What?
They weren’t going to fire him, were they? They couldn’t. Professional Standards hadn’t even questioned him yet. They couldn’t fire him till after that, surely?
Or maybe they could.
Callum took one last look around the miserable little office – with all its stains and dusty surfaces – then followed McAdams out into the corridor, across the hall, and in through the door opposite. The one with a small brass plaque on it, marked: ‘DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MALCOLMSON ~ DIVISIONAL INVESTIGATIVE SUPPORT TEAM’.
Mother’s office was a bit nicer than her team’s, but not by much. It was just big enough for a scarred Formica desk, a line of filing cabinets down one wall, a whiteboard on the other surrounded by pictures of cats cut out of an old calendar, and a single chair for visitors.
Mother was behind her desk, sooking on the end of a biro, but a uniformed PC stood in the middle of the room, at attention: black trousers; big black boots; black fleece with her ID number on the epaulettes; black, police-issue bowler under one arm. Her curly black hair was pulled back in a bun, exposing the dark skin at the nape of her neck.
OK … Maybe they weren’t going to fire him. Maybe they were going to arrest him instead.
Mother wrinkled her mouth around the pen and stared at Callum. ‘Is this it?’
McAdams propped himself up against a filing cabinet. ‘Everyone else is out.’
‘Suppose he’ll have to do.’ She turned. ‘Constable Franklin, this is Detective Constable Callum MacGregor. Not the brightest spade in the undertaker’s, but he’s all ours. For our sins.’ Another grimace. ‘Callum, this is Constable Franklin. She’s joining us from E Division. That means you’re no longer the new boy. You will show her the ropes. You will be nice to her. And most of all,’ Mother poked the desk with the sooked end of her pen, ‘you will not lead her astray. Are we crystal?’
Babysitting. Even more joy.
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Good.’ Mother plucked a sheet of paper from her in-tray and held it out. ‘Now, if neither of you have anything better to do—’
Callum stuck up his hand. ‘Actually, Boss, I—’
‘—and I know for a fact that you don’t, you can chase this up.’
Constable Franklin took the piece of paper. ‘Ma’am.’ The word was forced out, resentment dripping from that one syllable like burning pus.
‘Tell me, Constable, do you have a fighting suit?’
‘A fighting …?’ It must have dawned, because she nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good. You’re a DC now: change out of that uniform. You look like you’re about
