Where the Devil Can’t Go. Anya Lipska
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‘All the other rooms like this?’ she asked, after they’d done a bit of catching up.
‘Yep. Third one this month,’ said Gary, shaking his head. ‘You missed the best bit, though.’
Apparently, when he’d arrived on scene, he’d found a bunch of locals having an impromptu party outside the burning house.
‘It was quite a sight – there was a boom box blaring, they were drinking beer, dancing around in the smoke, everyone getting off their face on the free ganja,’ said Gary, shaking his head, grinning. ‘It was like Notting Hill Carnival.’
Kershaw smiled but her eyes were uneasy. Gary was probably the least racist cop she’d ever met, but she hoped he watched himself in front of the Guvnors. That sort of chat could get you into big trouble these days.
‘Down to us to do the clear-up, I suppose?’ she asked.
‘Got it in one, Detective,’ he grinned.
Kershaw spent the next few hours cursing the Sarge for dumping this nightmare job in her lap. The cheeky slags who ran the factory had powered it for free, running a cable from the lamppost next to their garden wall, which meant she had to call out the Electricity Board. She took half a dozen statements from the neighbours – total waste of time, of course, but she’d still have to type them up – and the worst job was still to come. Kershaw, Gary, and a single probie would have to bag and label every single one of the 1000-plus plants and load them onto a lorry to go to the evidence store.
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