Murder... Now and Then by Jill McGown

had another dozen or more nights like this to look forward to. ‘A street-cleaning task force’ was how his motley crew was described. Designed to scare away the punters and make the girls less willing to walk the streets. Fat chance. He looked at his list, and picked up the binoculars and tripod, getting ready to move the show on to its next venue.
    He met Judy and Horton at the bottom of the stairs, as the others made their way to the van. Horton was out of breath still, and bleeding from a scratch inflicted in the scuffle. Judy was inspecting the damage and passing him fit.
    â€˜You want to lose some of that,’ said Lloyd, prodding his midriff with the tripod. ‘Sedgwick Terrace next,’ he said.
    Horton swore mildly as he turned to go.
    â€˜Something bothering you, Horton?’ Lloyd asked testily.
    Horton turned back. ‘ What’s the point, Sarge?’ he asked. ‘ We do this all night and we know that all these girls’ll be back on the street tomorrow night. This street!’ He stamped the frosty ground in emphasis.
    Lloyd looked at him. ‘Then maybe we should come back here tomorrow night and do it all again,’ he said.
    Horton sighed, his breath streaming in the light from the street lamp. ‘We’re never going to clean up the streets,’ he pointed out. ‘You know it, I know it, and they know it. We can do this over the next eighteen months, or eighteen years, and it’ll make no difference! So what’s the point?’
    â€˜The people who live here don’t like it. And they have every right to expect us to stop it or at the very least curb it,’ said Lloyd, slipping the binoculars into their case, and handing them and the tripod to Horton. ‘Just get that stuff to the van, Horton,’ he said, ‘And stop moaning.’ He was angry at Horton for articulating his own feelings; it wasn’t very fair.
    Horton went off to the van, and Judy’s eyes rested on Lloyd’s for a second longer than was required in a colleague-to-colleague situation, as his DI would have it.
    â€˜Don’t just stand there!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
    Charles Rule didn’t really want the drink that was being thrust into his hands. His head already felt as though it belonged to someone else, and he knew that he had lost count of the drinks a long time ago. He was a doctor; he knew from research rather than experience what effect this was going to have on him in the morning. He wasn’t a drinker of any note.
    And he was marrying Gerry tomorrow. He closed his eyes, but the room seemed to sway alarmingly, and he opened them again, taking a swig from the glass.
    â€˜Go on,’ said Phil, also a doctor, also pissed out of his mind.
    Charles frowned. ‘Go on with what?’ he asked, burping.
    â€˜This Max bloke. Go on.’
    â€˜Oh, Max. Yes. Max – well, he was acshully … ack – he was my brother’s friend in the first place. He’s a coupla years older than … anyway. He and I got … you know …’
    â€˜Pissed,’ supplied Phil to gales of laughter.
    â€˜No … got …’
    â€˜The same girl pregnant.’
    â€˜We got … whassaword? You know. Anyway – we got talking – that’s it. And we … we … and we were both – we were both … er …’
    â€˜Queer.’
    â€˜Stoned out of your minds,’ said Phil.
    â€˜â€¦ quite keen on acting,’ finished Charles. ‘We joined an amateur thingy.’
    Phil looked at him unsteadily. ‘You?’ he said.
    Charles nodded. ‘I played Iago once,’ he said. ‘And … er … you know. Thingy.’
    â€˜Get on. Thingy? Did you really? I saw Olivier’s Thingy once …’
    â€˜Max was good – he could’ve been a professional. But he never … he was an accountant. Is. Is an accountant.’ He smiled.