Palmer-Jones 05 - Sea Fever by Ann Cleeves

police station about the death at sea. He was approaching retirement and had begun to take things easy. He was always passing routine work on to her.
    “I’m just a policeman after all,” he would say maliciously but without bitterness. “Not a graduate with a law degree. No accelerated promotion for me.”
    She felt sometimes that the law degree, which in the beginning had seemed so valuable, was a disadvantage. So was her accent—BBC English, with a trace of Sloane Ranger learned at public school—and the fact that her husband was a defence solicitor. Her friends from school and university thought she was mad to have joined the force. The liberals among them saw the police as state-sponsored thugs, and the snobs considered policemen to be working class morons with dirty fingernails. Only Richard, doubtful at first, had stuck by her. Now she never told chance aquaintances what work she did.
    It would have been impossible for her to explain to them that from the moment of joining the police she had felt completely at home. She was comfortable with the philosophy of service and discipline, and without the structure she would have felt insecure.
    Disapproving college friends who watched her progress from a distance blamed it all on her background. Her father had been an army officer, and before being sent away to school, she had followed him on different postings around the world. She’s scared of the real world, they said. She can’t cope without authority. They did not know that Claire’s mother had been killed by an IRA car bomb in the small town in Germany where her father was based, and that from that day Claire had seized on order, routine, and organisation as her only means of survival.
    The administrators within her station thought Claire Bingham was a brilliant officer. She was logical and tidy. She left nothing to chance. Her immediate superiors were more cautious, but they were afraid of being considered prejudiced because she was a woman. They had been told that she had a first-class mind, that she represented the future, and that caused resentment. She was too rigid, they said among themselves. She played it too much by the book. You had to be willing to take risks. She was too defensive.
    In these conversations one wise chief inspector said to give her time. She was still young, still inexperienced. She lacked confidence. She might make a good detective yet.
    Claire Bingham had no idea why the Jessie Ellen had been to sea. She had been told that it was a charter boat, and she expected the passengers to be young men out for a day’s fishing, members perhaps of some club. The disparate group which emerged from the saloon as the boat moved slowly towards the quayside shocked her. She watched a thin boy make the boat fast, then waited for them to come ashore. The first person onto the quay was Rose Pengelly. She looked exhausted, and her face was grimy and tearstained. She clutched Matilda in her arms. Claire was horrified by the irresponsibility of taking a baby to sea. What sort of woman, she thought, would expose her child to such danger?
    Then she saw the Pyms, a middle-aged couple who were respectably dressed and obviously distressed by the accident, and a tall, upright gentleman with a wife who seemed to have chosen her clothes in a jumble sale. Only then came three single men who might have been fishermen, except for the cameras and telescopes which were draped around their bodies. It was quite different from what she had imagined, and she was thrown by it. For a moment she did not quite know where to begin. It was a new experience for her. The passengers stood on the pier in a miserable group, looking for guidance.
    She pulled herself together and approached them. Sergeant Berry took the doctor onto the boat to look at the body.
    “I’m Inspector Bingham,” she said formally. “ South-West Cornwall C.I.D.; I’ll need to take statements from you all later.”
    The spare elderly man detached