sure had been churning away since the 1930s, had been ripped out and replaced with fluorescent strip lights.
All the old comfortable wooden furniture was gone, replaced by plastic tables and chairs. Many of the coppers were new, young, fresh-faced goons pretending to work at the computers. Some might have been actually working but at what I couldn’t imagine. A couple looked up when I appeared at the top of the stairs but then cast their gaze, down again when they saw that I was not a person of import.
Jazzed-up muzak versions of the great American songbook were piping through a quadrophonic sound system. I suppose the purpose of this was to provide a calming atmosphere, but you could easily imagine a day when someone would crack at the fiftieth iteration of “Mack the Knife” and shoot the speakers off the wall.
I was desperate to see my old CID sparring partners but I knew that the first order of business was to report to Superintendent Carter. He had taken the offices by the window, turning the old evidence room into his new domain.
I knocked on a door that was frosted glass in a black mahogany frame.
“Duffy, is that you?” he said in an impressive psychic display.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t stand out there like a bloody eejit, come in!”
He was sitting behind a huge desk also fashioned from a mahogany-like material. He was wearing his superintendent’s uniform and he’d grown long sideburns that gave him a Gilbert and Sullivan air.
“Inspector Duffy reporting for duty, sir,” I said, saluting.
“You don’t salute if you’re in civvies, Duffy. Sit down.”
I sat opposite him. The desk was empty but for a single folder with my name on the top of it. Behind Carter there was a Union Flag and a photograph of the Queen on a horse. There was also a somewhat smaller family portrait of Superintendent Carter, Mrs. Carter, and two grisly youths.
“Let me read you something interesting, Duffy,” Carter said.
“It’s not my horoscope, is it, sir? I don’t believe in that stuff,” I said.
He put down the file and pointed a finger at me. “That’s the kind of attitude that got you sacked in the first place, Duffy. Now, shut up and listen.”
He cleared his throat and he began reading. It was the lowlights of my personnel file and I tuned out for most of it.
“. . . I thought we’d seen the last of you, Duffy. A bad apple everyone around here said. Good riddance, I thought. And I’m home last Sunday, at home, mind you, when I get a phone call telling me that I am to make space for one Detective Inspector Sean Duffy of the Special Branch. This can’t be the same Duffy I’ve been hearing about, says I to myself, but then I find to my amazement that it is. How is it that you were kicked out of the police for a whole host of crimes and misdemeanors, the latest of which was running some poor sod over, and yet here you are? Like magic! Special Branch! An inspector!”
“Well—”
“How did you do it, Duffy? Did you write to Jim’ll Fix It ? Is the chief constable your da? You’re not related by blood to any of the crowned heads of Europe?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“What are you doing, Duffy? And why is it that you’ve come back here ? To my parish?”
I looked him coldly between the eyes and was proud that I was now sufficiently mature to avoid the incivility of a smirk. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” I said without any inflection.
His face turned red. He put down the piece of paper. A blood vessel pulsed on the left-hand side of his neck.
“It’s like that, is it?”
“Yes, sir, it’s like that.”
“I don’t like it, Duffy. I don’t like it at all.”
“I’m sorry about that, sir, but that’s the way it is . . . I’ve been told that I’ve got an office around here somewhere?”
“Aye, back in CID next to the toilets,” he said with satisfaction.
“All right. Well, I will wish you a good day, sir . . .”
He jumped to his feet, came round the desk,
All the old comfortable wooden furniture was gone, replaced by plastic tables and chairs. Many of the coppers were new, young, fresh-faced goons pretending to work at the computers. Some might have been actually working but at what I couldn’t imagine. A couple looked up when I appeared at the top of the stairs but then cast their gaze, down again when they saw that I was not a person of import.
Jazzed-up muzak versions of the great American songbook were piping through a quadrophonic sound system. I suppose the purpose of this was to provide a calming atmosphere, but you could easily imagine a day when someone would crack at the fiftieth iteration of “Mack the Knife” and shoot the speakers off the wall.
I was desperate to see my old CID sparring partners but I knew that the first order of business was to report to Superintendent Carter. He had taken the offices by the window, turning the old evidence room into his new domain.
I knocked on a door that was frosted glass in a black mahogany frame.
“Duffy, is that you?” he said in an impressive psychic display.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t stand out there like a bloody eejit, come in!”
He was sitting behind a huge desk also fashioned from a mahogany-like material. He was wearing his superintendent’s uniform and he’d grown long sideburns that gave him a Gilbert and Sullivan air.
“Inspector Duffy reporting for duty, sir,” I said, saluting.
“You don’t salute if you’re in civvies, Duffy. Sit down.”
I sat opposite him. The desk was empty but for a single folder with my name on the top of it. Behind Carter there was a Union Flag and a photograph of the Queen on a horse. There was also a somewhat smaller family portrait of Superintendent Carter, Mrs. Carter, and two grisly youths.
“Let me read you something interesting, Duffy,” Carter said.
“It’s not my horoscope, is it, sir? I don’t believe in that stuff,” I said.
He put down the file and pointed a finger at me. “That’s the kind of attitude that got you sacked in the first place, Duffy. Now, shut up and listen.”
He cleared his throat and he began reading. It was the lowlights of my personnel file and I tuned out for most of it.
“. . . I thought we’d seen the last of you, Duffy. A bad apple everyone around here said. Good riddance, I thought. And I’m home last Sunday, at home, mind you, when I get a phone call telling me that I am to make space for one Detective Inspector Sean Duffy of the Special Branch. This can’t be the same Duffy I’ve been hearing about, says I to myself, but then I find to my amazement that it is. How is it that you were kicked out of the police for a whole host of crimes and misdemeanors, the latest of which was running some poor sod over, and yet here you are? Like magic! Special Branch! An inspector!”
“Well—”
“How did you do it, Duffy? Did you write to Jim’ll Fix It ? Is the chief constable your da? You’re not related by blood to any of the crowned heads of Europe?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“What are you doing, Duffy? And why is it that you’ve come back here ? To my parish?”
I looked him coldly between the eyes and was proud that I was now sufficiently mature to avoid the incivility of a smirk. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” I said without any inflection.
His face turned red. He put down the piece of paper. A blood vessel pulsed on the left-hand side of his neck.
“It’s like that, is it?”
“Yes, sir, it’s like that.”
“I don’t like it, Duffy. I don’t like it at all.”
“I’m sorry about that, sir, but that’s the way it is . . . I’ve been told that I’ve got an office around here somewhere?”
“Aye, back in CID next to the toilets,” he said with satisfaction.
“All right. Well, I will wish you a good day, sir . . .”
He jumped to his feet, came round the desk,
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