The traffic is always terrible on Brampton Road, a permanent feature of their forays out on jobs, but this queue has been made worse by the diversions set up around Edith Hind’s house on George Street, combined with considerable rubbernecking from the fine folk of Huntingdon. Davy taps on the steering wheel with his gloved hand, a marker to Manon that he is unperturbed.
‘This’ll take hours,’ says Manon, slumping down into the passenger seat and wedging her feet onto the dashboard, her knees up. She has her phone in her lap, texting Bryony.
Can’t do lunch. High-risk misper just blew up in my face. M
‘Sarge,’ says Davy.
‘Hmmm?’ she says, and she looks up to see Davy casting anxious glances at her feet and at the spotless fascia of his glove box.
‘You couldn’t—’
Her phone bleeps.
No worries. Am loving my court papers. Nothing cd tear me away. Not even pepper-flavoured water. B
‘Sorry, what?’ she says to Davy.
‘Your feet,’ he says, with another furtive glance at the offending boots, as if they might detonate.
‘It’s not even your car,’ she says, her fingers working on her phone. But she takes her feet down.
Tomoz maybe. M
Is Harriet losing the plot?
Yep. Crapping herself. Victim’s family mates with Galloway.
Holy Shit.
Yup.
At least your career isn’t in cul-de-sac. May chew arm off if have to do more filing.
Go away, please, am in middle of Very Important Investigation.
All right, Mrs Big Tits. Laters. PS. It’s always the uncle. Or the stepfather. Or the boyfriend. Or possibly a complete stranger.
‘How was the date, by the way?’ Davy asks.
They are moving now –
at last
– having turned off onto the A14 towards the Fenland village of March.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Can’t have been that bad.’
‘Can’t it?’
‘Well then, there’ll be others – other responses to your ad.’
‘It’s not an ad, Davy. I’m not selling roller blinds. It’s a profile.’
And what a work of fiction that ‘about me’ section is.
Genuine, easy-going. I love life and laughter, a bottle of wine with friends, cinema and walks in the countryside. Passionate about what I do. Looking for someone to share all this amazing world has to offer.
Age:
35
Looking for:
fun/a long-term relationship/let’s see what happens
Likes:
sunshine, the smell of fresh coffee, walks on the beach
Dislikes:
unexpected items in bagging area
Manon cut-and-pasted most of it from someone else’s profile – a woman called Liz Temple from Berkhamsted, who claimed life was not about ‘sheltering from the thunderstorms’ but ‘learning to dance in the rain’. Except the bagging area joke – that was Manon’s and she was pretty pleased with it, feeling it made amusing reference to emotional baggage, of which there was a surfeit on the Internet.
Were she to tell the truth, her profile would go something like:
Misanthrope, staring down the barrel of childlessness. Yawning ability to find fault. Can give off WoD (Whiff of Desperation). A vast, bottomless galaxy of loneliness. Educated: to an intimidating degree. Willing to hide this. Prone to tears. Can be needy. Often found Googling ‘having a baby at 40’.
Age:
39
Looking for:
book-reading philanthropist with psychotherapy training who can put up shelves. Can wear glasses (relaxed about this).
Dislikes:
most of the fucktards I meet on the Internet.
‘Mustn’t give up, Sarge,’ says Davy.
‘Like I’d take relationship advice from you. Still treating you mean, is she?’
‘She keeps me on my toes.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Davy is twenty-six but seems still a boy; has been in the force since eighteen, and something about him is irresistible to Manon. He has this naive intensity – like an only child, neither at home with the adults nor one of the children – and those enormous ears always on the alert. His affable demeanour and positive outlook have
‘This’ll take hours,’ says Manon, slumping down into the passenger seat and wedging her feet onto the dashboard, her knees up. She has her phone in her lap, texting Bryony.
Can’t do lunch. High-risk misper just blew up in my face. M
‘Sarge,’ says Davy.
‘Hmmm?’ she says, and she looks up to see Davy casting anxious glances at her feet and at the spotless fascia of his glove box.
‘You couldn’t—’
Her phone bleeps.
No worries. Am loving my court papers. Nothing cd tear me away. Not even pepper-flavoured water. B
‘Sorry, what?’ she says to Davy.
‘Your feet,’ he says, with another furtive glance at the offending boots, as if they might detonate.
‘It’s not even your car,’ she says, her fingers working on her phone. But she takes her feet down.
Tomoz maybe. M
Is Harriet losing the plot?
Yep. Crapping herself. Victim’s family mates with Galloway.
Holy Shit.
Yup.
At least your career isn’t in cul-de-sac. May chew arm off if have to do more filing.
Go away, please, am in middle of Very Important Investigation.
All right, Mrs Big Tits. Laters. PS. It’s always the uncle. Or the stepfather. Or the boyfriend. Or possibly a complete stranger.
‘How was the date, by the way?’ Davy asks.
They are moving now –
at last
– having turned off onto the A14 towards the Fenland village of March.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Can’t have been that bad.’
‘Can’t it?’
‘Well then, there’ll be others – other responses to your ad.’
‘It’s not an ad, Davy. I’m not selling roller blinds. It’s a profile.’
And what a work of fiction that ‘about me’ section is.
Genuine, easy-going. I love life and laughter, a bottle of wine with friends, cinema and walks in the countryside. Passionate about what I do. Looking for someone to share all this amazing world has to offer.
Age:
35
Looking for:
fun/a long-term relationship/let’s see what happens
Likes:
sunshine, the smell of fresh coffee, walks on the beach
Dislikes:
unexpected items in bagging area
Manon cut-and-pasted most of it from someone else’s profile – a woman called Liz Temple from Berkhamsted, who claimed life was not about ‘sheltering from the thunderstorms’ but ‘learning to dance in the rain’. Except the bagging area joke – that was Manon’s and she was pretty pleased with it, feeling it made amusing reference to emotional baggage, of which there was a surfeit on the Internet.
Were she to tell the truth, her profile would go something like:
Misanthrope, staring down the barrel of childlessness. Yawning ability to find fault. Can give off WoD (Whiff of Desperation). A vast, bottomless galaxy of loneliness. Educated: to an intimidating degree. Willing to hide this. Prone to tears. Can be needy. Often found Googling ‘having a baby at 40’.
Age:
39
Looking for:
book-reading philanthropist with psychotherapy training who can put up shelves. Can wear glasses (relaxed about this).
Dislikes:
most of the fucktards I meet on the Internet.
‘Mustn’t give up, Sarge,’ says Davy.
‘Like I’d take relationship advice from you. Still treating you mean, is she?’
‘She keeps me on my toes.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Davy is twenty-six but seems still a boy; has been in the force since eighteen, and something about him is irresistible to Manon. He has this naive intensity – like an only child, neither at home with the adults nor one of the children – and those enormous ears always on the alert. His affable demeanour and positive outlook have
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