recently begun to consider applying for the regular police service. She can see herself as a community police officer, can see the attraction of getting villains off the street and helping nice people lead nicer lives.
She was still feeling that way until the early hours of this morning, when she forced the door of the property on Ryehill Grove and found the body of Raymond O’Neill.
‘You’ve done great,’ says Helen warmly, using the tone and body language that her former boss Trish Pharaoh seems to manage so effortlessly. Helen feels a bit of a fraud. She’s not great at flattery. Gets a bit embarrassed by the whole affair.
‘I wasn’t sick,’ says Vicki, with some pride. ‘Well, I was a bit, but not at the scene. There’s no contamination, I was careful.’
Helen smiles. Pulls out her notebook. ‘You did great,’ she says again, and makes a mental note to come up with a better platitude if she is ever called upon to do this again.
‘He called me a cunt, once,’ says Vicki, looking down at the grey-blue carpet and flicking at something with her clumpy black boot. ‘O’Neill, I mean.’
Helen decides not to make a note. She nods. ‘From what I’ve heard, he used that word the way most people use punctuation.’
‘He was horrible,’ says Vicki. ‘I don’t mean he was horrible enough to deserve that, but . . .’
‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t,’ says Helen, candidly. ‘That’s not for us to worry about. Now, I really need a bit of focus from you, okay, Vicki? You’ve done great. I mean, brilliant. It must have been awful, seeing that. But you’ll feel better when you’ve got your statement down on paper. There’s no rush for that. All I need from you is the bare bones, okay? I’m not the expert on this estate. You are. I don’t know very much about Raymond O’Neill. You know more than I do. So, fill in the blanks.’
Helen takes another mint from the packet. Gets another whiff of her lunch and her six-month-old baby. She has to fight back the smile that threatens to erupt on her face whenever she thinks of the child. Tells herself not to be soppy when she’s supposed to be working. Of course, she isn’t actually supposed to be working. Not according to the rota. Helen has been back from maternity leave for just under a month and found herself temporarily seconded to the Drugs Squad under the command of the unit’s new boss, Shaz Archer. Helen has always detested the snotty cow but is now almost obsessive in her loathing. She hates the fact that Archer is now a DCI. As if she didn’t already have everything! Archer should be here now, getting her hands grubby on the Preston Road estate. But Archer has an important polo match today. She’s somewhere down in the stockbroker belt, riding her pony and swinging her mallet and drinking Pimm’s with blonde, toothy girls and tall men with ancestral quiffs and floppy lips. Helen isn’t part of that crowd. Isn’t part of any crowd, really. What she is, is a bloody skivvy. She should be watching the Grand Prix with her dad and little Penelope, wrist-deep in a bag of chocolates, wearing jogging pants and slipper-socks and dozing, gently, in a room that smells of gravy. Instead she’s here, doing Archer’s job, talking about a scumbag whose murder sounds as though it should be celebrated with fireworks and an open-top bus parade.
‘Is DCI Archer going to be coming down personally?’ asks Vicki, and there is something a little like awe in her voice. Archer is fast becoming a pin-up girl for a certain type of impressionable youngster. She’s stunningly good-looking and tough as discount steak, with an arrest record that a lot of coppers would kill for. The Hull Daily Mail recently ran a four-page spread on this glamorous face of local policing, painting a picture of a dedicated and determined young woman whose story should be made into a TV crime drama. They made out that she was a feminist’s dream and a slap in the face to
She was still feeling that way until the early hours of this morning, when she forced the door of the property on Ryehill Grove and found the body of Raymond O’Neill.
‘You’ve done great,’ says Helen warmly, using the tone and body language that her former boss Trish Pharaoh seems to manage so effortlessly. Helen feels a bit of a fraud. She’s not great at flattery. Gets a bit embarrassed by the whole affair.
‘I wasn’t sick,’ says Vicki, with some pride. ‘Well, I was a bit, but not at the scene. There’s no contamination, I was careful.’
Helen smiles. Pulls out her notebook. ‘You did great,’ she says again, and makes a mental note to come up with a better platitude if she is ever called upon to do this again.
‘He called me a cunt, once,’ says Vicki, looking down at the grey-blue carpet and flicking at something with her clumpy black boot. ‘O’Neill, I mean.’
Helen decides not to make a note. She nods. ‘From what I’ve heard, he used that word the way most people use punctuation.’
‘He was horrible,’ says Vicki. ‘I don’t mean he was horrible enough to deserve that, but . . .’
‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t,’ says Helen, candidly. ‘That’s not for us to worry about. Now, I really need a bit of focus from you, okay, Vicki? You’ve done great. I mean, brilliant. It must have been awful, seeing that. But you’ll feel better when you’ve got your statement down on paper. There’s no rush for that. All I need from you is the bare bones, okay? I’m not the expert on this estate. You are. I don’t know very much about Raymond O’Neill. You know more than I do. So, fill in the blanks.’
Helen takes another mint from the packet. Gets another whiff of her lunch and her six-month-old baby. She has to fight back the smile that threatens to erupt on her face whenever she thinks of the child. Tells herself not to be soppy when she’s supposed to be working. Of course, she isn’t actually supposed to be working. Not according to the rota. Helen has been back from maternity leave for just under a month and found herself temporarily seconded to the Drugs Squad under the command of the unit’s new boss, Shaz Archer. Helen has always detested the snotty cow but is now almost obsessive in her loathing. She hates the fact that Archer is now a DCI. As if she didn’t already have everything! Archer should be here now, getting her hands grubby on the Preston Road estate. But Archer has an important polo match today. She’s somewhere down in the stockbroker belt, riding her pony and swinging her mallet and drinking Pimm’s with blonde, toothy girls and tall men with ancestral quiffs and floppy lips. Helen isn’t part of that crowd. Isn’t part of any crowd, really. What she is, is a bloody skivvy. She should be watching the Grand Prix with her dad and little Penelope, wrist-deep in a bag of chocolates, wearing jogging pants and slipper-socks and dozing, gently, in a room that smells of gravy. Instead she’s here, doing Archer’s job, talking about a scumbag whose murder sounds as though it should be celebrated with fireworks and an open-top bus parade.
‘Is DCI Archer going to be coming down personally?’ asks Vicki, and there is something a little like awe in her voice. Archer is fast becoming a pin-up girl for a certain type of impressionable youngster. She’s stunningly good-looking and tough as discount steak, with an arrest record that a lot of coppers would kill for. The Hull Daily Mail recently ran a four-page spread on this glamorous face of local policing, painting a picture of a dedicated and determined young woman whose story should be made into a TV crime drama. They made out that she was a feminist’s dream and a slap in the face to
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