she should address him formally, when
he clearly considers they have a familiar relationship. She looks
uncomfortable, caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now
she has to tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank,
duty, etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.
Skelgill
does his best to conceal a pained expression. He clearly wants to
intervene, but in the end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.
‘Looks
like you’re dressed to impress, Smart.’
DI
Smart does not squander this opportunity to preen. He thumbs his lapels
and then opens his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside
pocket.
‘Pretty
sharp, eh? Armani – pure merino. Picked it up in a new
boutique in Manchester. Just near my flat.’ He winks at DS
Jones. ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around – leaves
the West End standing, you know.’
DS
Jones nods obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose
expression is blackening by the second. At this moment, however, respite
appears in the shape of George the Desk Sergeant. He pops his distinctive
bald pate around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is
waiting at reception. DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap
of the hand.
‘I’m
giving evidence up in Glasgow. Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year,
trying to muscle in on my patch. I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’
‘Don’t
let us keep you.’
DI
Smart begins to walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their
table. He taps the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a
hand on DS Jones’s shoulder.
‘I’ve
had a word with the Chief. The drugs case could be back on. I’ve
requested you as my number two. That would be a step up for you. We
make a good team, Emma.’
DS
Jones watches him closely as he saunters across the canteen. Skelgill’s
eyes are fixed upon his sergeant, perhaps narrowed possessively.
‘If
Manchester’s so brilliant, why do all the tourists drive straight past and come
to the Lakes?’
DS
Jones levels a sympathetic gaze upon Skelgill.
‘Take
no notice, Guv.’ Then she giggles.
‘What
is it?’
‘He’s
got a dollop of tomato ketchup from your plate on the seat of his pants.’
*
Skelgill
is not in the best of humours – evidenced by the way he kicks open the
door of his office – as he arrives bearing a plastic cup of machine tea.
DS Leyton, seemingly loitering behind the said door, jumps to attention, rather
in the manner of a schoolboy caught inspecting the headmaster’s private display
of photographs. Indeed, he cradles a black plastic trophy crowned by a
rather garish silver-plated figurine of a cricketer.
‘Didn’t
realise you got man-of-the-match while I was away, Guv. You kept
that one quiet.’
Skelgill
steps over a pile of ring binders and gains the far side of his cluttered
desk. He looks for a space to deposit his drink, but in the end is forced
to continue to hold it as he takes a seat. As he sips he inhales to cool
the hot liquid.
‘You
know me, Leyton. Don’t like to blow my own trumpet.’
‘Course,
Guv.’
Now
there is a pregnant pause – before DS Leyton suddenly realises he should inquire
how Skelgill was awarded the accolade.
‘Did
you score a century, Guv?’
‘Leyton,
I’m a bowler.’
‘Right,
Guv – what then, a hat-trick?’
Skelgill
smiles contentedly. ‘I did, as a matter of fact. First one since
1948 in the Carlisle challenge, and that was by a Lancashire ex-pro. I took
seven for eighteen in under five overs.’
‘Well
played, Guv.’
DS
Leyton’s knowledge of cricket’s arcane terminology does not extend much beyond
the basic clichés, and now – perhaps to avoid blotting his thus-far clean
copybook – he changes the subject to the object of their meeting.
He leans over and pats
he clearly considers they have a familiar relationship. She looks
uncomfortable, caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now
she has to tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank,
duty, etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.
Skelgill
does his best to conceal a pained expression. He clearly wants to
intervene, but in the end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.
‘Looks
like you’re dressed to impress, Smart.’
DI
Smart does not squander this opportunity to preen. He thumbs his lapels
and then opens his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside
pocket.
‘Pretty
sharp, eh? Armani – pure merino. Picked it up in a new
boutique in Manchester. Just near my flat.’ He winks at DS
Jones. ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around – leaves
the West End standing, you know.’
DS
Jones nods obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose
expression is blackening by the second. At this moment, however, respite
appears in the shape of George the Desk Sergeant. He pops his distinctive
bald pate around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is
waiting at reception. DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap
of the hand.
‘I’m
giving evidence up in Glasgow. Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year,
trying to muscle in on my patch. I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’
‘Don’t
let us keep you.’
DI
Smart begins to walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their
table. He taps the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a
hand on DS Jones’s shoulder.
‘I’ve
had a word with the Chief. The drugs case could be back on. I’ve
requested you as my number two. That would be a step up for you. We
make a good team, Emma.’
DS
Jones watches him closely as he saunters across the canteen. Skelgill’s
eyes are fixed upon his sergeant, perhaps narrowed possessively.
‘If
Manchester’s so brilliant, why do all the tourists drive straight past and come
to the Lakes?’
DS
Jones levels a sympathetic gaze upon Skelgill.
‘Take
no notice, Guv.’ Then she giggles.
‘What
is it?’
‘He’s
got a dollop of tomato ketchup from your plate on the seat of his pants.’
*
Skelgill
is not in the best of humours – evidenced by the way he kicks open the
door of his office – as he arrives bearing a plastic cup of machine tea.
DS Leyton, seemingly loitering behind the said door, jumps to attention, rather
in the manner of a schoolboy caught inspecting the headmaster’s private display
of photographs. Indeed, he cradles a black plastic trophy crowned by a
rather garish silver-plated figurine of a cricketer.
‘Didn’t
realise you got man-of-the-match while I was away, Guv. You kept
that one quiet.’
Skelgill
steps over a pile of ring binders and gains the far side of his cluttered
desk. He looks for a space to deposit his drink, but in the end is forced
to continue to hold it as he takes a seat. As he sips he inhales to cool
the hot liquid.
‘You
know me, Leyton. Don’t like to blow my own trumpet.’
‘Course,
Guv.’
Now
there is a pregnant pause – before DS Leyton suddenly realises he should inquire
how Skelgill was awarded the accolade.
‘Did
you score a century, Guv?’
‘Leyton,
I’m a bowler.’
‘Right,
Guv – what then, a hat-trick?’
Skelgill
smiles contentedly. ‘I did, as a matter of fact. First one since
1948 in the Carlisle challenge, and that was by a Lancashire ex-pro. I took
seven for eighteen in under five overs.’
‘Well
played, Guv.’
DS
Leyton’s knowledge of cricket’s arcane terminology does not extend much beyond
the basic clichés, and now – perhaps to avoid blotting his thus-far clean
copybook – he changes the subject to the object of their meeting.
He leans over and pats
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