Except the Dying by Maureen Jennings Page B

ragged men who were sitting on the bench. They were all watching the two officers.
    “They’re here about the girl.” Suddenly, the sergeant raised his voice. “Hey you! Yes, you in the tartan cap. I told you no spitting on the floor. Do it again and you’ll be charged.”
    The man addressed scuffed his boot into the sawdust on the floor like a scolded schoolboy. The other two shifted their stare into the space ahead of them.
    “Let me get a cup of tea and look at the photograph and then I’ll talk to them,” said Murdoch. He pushed through the gate and walked back to the orderly room.
    The station was not large. On the first floor was the public hall, lit by narrow grimy windows. Most months of the year, the wall sconces had to be lighted and the room was stifling winter and summer. A large black stove dominated the centre, and around the walls ran a wooden bench, rubbed smooth by the rear ends of countless nervous occupants. Across one end of the room ran a high wooden counter, a barrier between police and public. Behind it sat the duty sergeant with his big cloth-bound daily register, and behind him was a desk with a telephone and the telegraph machine, manned this morning by a young constable named Graham. At the rear were two small holding cells for those brought in as drunk and disorderly. Some nights these also had to make do as a place for waifs and strays, as part of the duty of the police force was to give temporary shelter to the homeless. Last year number-fourstation had handled over a hundred and twenty souls, most of them single men who weren’t vagrants – not yet, anyway – but had no home to go to.
    The backroom where the policemen ate or on occasion questioned suspects was also dark, but there was a cheery fire going in the hearth and, as usual, a kettle of water boiling on the hob. Murdoch poured some hot water into a large teapot. The tea grouts were used over and over, fresh leaves being added to the pot as necessary. The tea thus produced varied from weak as pauper’s gruel to so strong it could take the enamel off teeth. This morning it was a tolerable strength.
    As Murdoch was pouring himself a mug, the ginger station cat rubbed against his legs, purring like a swarm of bees. He bent down and scratched her head.
    “No, I’m not going to give you anything to eat, you slacker. See those mice droppings on the table? How come? There shouldn’t be a one around here.”
    The cat smiled complacently and rubbed her gums harder against his leg.
    “I mean it, Puss. Go find your own breakfast.”
    He picked up his mug and walked on back to his office.
    Barely more than a cubicle, there was room for a desk, scarred and chipped, a chair with the upholstery poking out of the seat and a wooden filing cabinet with two broken drawers. Facing him were last year’s posters from the annual police athletic tournament. Murdoch hadwon the one-mile bicycle race against stiff opposition, and he enjoyed the memory every time he glanced at his poster. Behind the desk were hung two obligatory portraits. One was of Her Majesty Queen Victoria in ceremonial attire, the other of Chief Constable Grasett, whose patrician face lent authority to the proceedings and also covered a crack in the plaster.
    He sat down and, as he did every day, pulled open the top drawer and took out the silver-framed photograph of Elizabeth. He’d taken it himself with his new Premo camera just after they were engaged. Unfortunately, she’d moved and her face was out of focus, but it was the only picture he had. He gazed at it, said his prayer, planted a kiss on the glass and returned the picture to the drawer.
    Then with a sigh, he picked up the envelope and pulled out the photograph of the dead girl. Foster had propped open her eyes for better recognition and used tints to get a good approximation ofher natural colouring. There was a light dusting of freckles across the straight nose and the cheeks were pink. Foster was guessing there but