without the milk – she fretted about how she would find time today to hassle the letting agents, let alone wangle a half-day off for the boiler repairman. Life had been a lot less stressful when Mark had lived here. Not that he was some spanner-wielding DIY god – Mark drove a desk in a Docklands estate agents and the only gadgets he’d mastered were the remote controls for the telly and the Skyplusbox – but it was so much easier when there were two of you to sort out the tedious household stuff.
As she attacked her last surviving nail, unshakeable habit and source of much mickey-taking at the station, her gaze fell on the dusty surface of the TV cabinet and the darker rectangle where the plasma screen used to sit. She’d let Mark take it when they split up last month.
How did I get to be sitting alone in a rented flat that I can’t afford, drinking black tea in my coat? she thought suddenly, and felt her eyes prickle.
She reminded herself how unbearable the atmosphere between her and Mark had become in those last few weeks, when their dead relationship lay in the flat like a decomposing body which they stepped over and around without ever acknowledging. By comparison, the previous phase had been preferable. The rows had started a couple of months ago, after she got the job at Newham CID and started coming home late and lagered-up two or three times a week. If she was in luck, he’d be asleep when she crawled into bed beside him, but if not, there’d be trouble. He’d complain she reeked of booze and fags, but they both knew that wasn’t the real issue. Mark never really accepted her argument that she went drinking with the guys not because she fancied any of them, but because bonding was fundamental to the job. The argument would get more and more heated, and then he’d start in on her language. Since you joined the cops, Nat, you talk more like a bloke than a bird.
The last accusation hit home; but you couldn’t spend all day holding your own with a bunch of macho guys, then come home and morph into Cheryl Cole. Sometimes she felt like she’d actually grown a Y-chromosome over the last few years.
Kershaw had always felt comfortable around men – probably because she’d been brought up by her father. The photos of her as a kid said it all – playing five-a-side with him and his mates in the park … holding up her first fish – a carp – caught at Walthamstow Reservoir … draped in a Hammers scarf on the way to the footie. Dad told her, more than once, that he never missed having a son, because with her he got the best of both worlds – a beautiful, clever little girl who could clear a pool table in under ten minutes.
Two years ago, when they told him the cancer was terminal, he confided, in a hoarse whisper that tore her heart out, that looking back, he had one regret: I should have remarried after your Mum died, he said, so you had someone to teach you how to be a lady.
Checking her watch, Kershaw gave a very unladylike sniff, wiped her face, and told herself to stop being such a wuss. Then, gulping the rest of the lukewarm tea down with a grimace, she picked up her bag.
As she closed the front door behind her, she heard her dad’s voice.
Up and at ’em, girl, it said, up and at ’em.
Parking in the minuscule car park attached to Newham nick was the usual struggle, and it didn’t improve Kershaw’s mood to see Browning’s car was already there. The little creep always got in early for his shift.
There was an email from Waterhouse in her inbox. The PM report had come back, and even better, the lab must have had a quiet week because they’d already done the tox report on DB16. It confirmed the cause of death as overdose by PMA – the dodgy drug Waterhouse had mentioned. Yes! She printed out the report, and surfing a wave of adrenaline, made a beeline for Streaky’s desk.
Later on, she would reflect it might have been better to wait till Streaky had downed his first pint of brick-red tea before she started waving the report around.
He didn’t lift his gaze from the racing pages. ‘Sarge …’ she tried, hovering over him, ‘Sorry to …’
‘Fuck off, I’m busy,’ he replied, without looking up.
‘The PM report on the floater …’
He lowered the paper, and fixed her with a bloodshot stare.
‘Which part of the well-known Anglo-Saxon phrase, “fuck off” don’t you understand? Go and wax your bikini line or something.’
With that he swivelled his chair to turn his back on her and circled a horse in the 2.30 p.m. at Newmarket. Face radiating heat, she slipped the report into his in-tray, and returned to her desk by the window. Browning, whose desk faced hers, caught her eye, his face a study in faux-sympathy.
‘Hangover,’ he 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 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 taken out of the river near the Barrier.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘OD. Some dodgy pseudo-ecstasy called PMA – might be coming over from Europe.’
‘PMA?
