know them!” Payne smiled. “Your brothers are cunts, kid. But I imagine you know that better than me.”
“Juarez,” John repeated to his brother. “It’s in Mexico, its North America not South.”
“North America or South American—who gives a shit—they all look the same!” Billy laughed
“I’m so pleased to see my boys back together again,” Mary said, looking at her nephews smiling.
John smiled back. In his head, he was screaming at the old woman.
Chapter Six - DCI Hawkins
Detective Chief Inspector Hawkins always found the walk to his office invigorating. It took him right through the open-plan office, full of young career hungry detectives who all knew his name. They all greeted him with “Morning Sir” or “Good morning Guv,” all desperate to remain in his good graces. He of course knew very few of their names. He loved the power; he was king here and everyone else, merely his subjects.
The next part of his walk took him past the more modern-looking offices of his detective inspectors. They were equipped with superior IT equipment, deluxe coffee facilities, and the general type of luxury that most policemen would not ever be able to dream of. His D.I.s had of course earned this level of office. They worked in the UK’s premier team of policemen, Hawkins’ team. What Hawkins liked most about this part of his walk, was that these were the offices of his subordinates, and his was grander still.
The final sight he saw before reaching his office was perhaps his favourite, his PA’s desk and reception area. It wasn’t like he lusted after her or had some older man’s fascination with the young woman; it was nothing of the sort. It was merely that he had a PA. Her whole job was to make sure he always had a fresh coffee on his desk, that his diary was up to date, and—Hawkins particular favourite—that his calls were screened. She was his slave. It was that simple.
He approached the reception area, and the young attractive PA looked up. He had often wondered if she fantasied abut him; he was of course a powerful man and people are drawn to power like moths to a flame. She was bound to fantasise about him and he didn’t blame her. He was the King after all.
“Good morning sir.”
“Morning…” Hawkins stopped short; he briefly couldn’t remember her name, the name of the PA that had worked for him for three years now. And if he wasn’t the King of this building this would be awkward moment. But Kings don’t have to care about these little indiscretions. “Morning, morning.”
The PA didn’t react in any way which demonstrated she had either not noticed or understood her menial significance to him. Instead she smiled and resumed typing on her computer. He’d got away with it. But he didn’t care if she had noticed. Who gives a hell what she thinks. She probably loves a bastard, Hawkins thought smiling as he opened his office door.
Hawkins’ office was the very definition of unadulterated luxury. He had a flat-screen TV on the wall, its purpose being to display twenty four-hour news so the DCI knew everything that was going on in the world. But it was actually mainly used for sport. An expensive looking antique leather sofa was sat against the wall, with a beautifully crafted oak desk situated on the opposite side of the office, underneath a gold plated framed painting of the building some hundred years ago. The room was littered with a variety of photos of Hawkins’ family and of momentous milestones in his career. The final piece of furnishing was Hawkins’ favourite. It was a grand brown leather seat, the sort of chair that, in his mind, Churchill would have been sat on in Downing Street. This was Hawkins’ throne room.
Hawkins had been working in the Serious Organised Crime Agency for five years. In real terms, he was as senior an officer as members of the public would be likely to see at the agency. More senior officers spent their days on the golf course or
“Juarez,” John repeated to his brother. “It’s in Mexico, its North America not South.”
“North America or South American—who gives a shit—they all look the same!” Billy laughed
“I’m so pleased to see my boys back together again,” Mary said, looking at her nephews smiling.
John smiled back. In his head, he was screaming at the old woman.
Chapter Six - DCI Hawkins
Detective Chief Inspector Hawkins always found the walk to his office invigorating. It took him right through the open-plan office, full of young career hungry detectives who all knew his name. They all greeted him with “Morning Sir” or “Good morning Guv,” all desperate to remain in his good graces. He of course knew very few of their names. He loved the power; he was king here and everyone else, merely his subjects.
The next part of his walk took him past the more modern-looking offices of his detective inspectors. They were equipped with superior IT equipment, deluxe coffee facilities, and the general type of luxury that most policemen would not ever be able to dream of. His D.I.s had of course earned this level of office. They worked in the UK’s premier team of policemen, Hawkins’ team. What Hawkins liked most about this part of his walk, was that these were the offices of his subordinates, and his was grander still.
The final sight he saw before reaching his office was perhaps his favourite, his PA’s desk and reception area. It wasn’t like he lusted after her or had some older man’s fascination with the young woman; it was nothing of the sort. It was merely that he had a PA. Her whole job was to make sure he always had a fresh coffee on his desk, that his diary was up to date, and—Hawkins particular favourite—that his calls were screened. She was his slave. It was that simple.
He approached the reception area, and the young attractive PA looked up. He had often wondered if she fantasied abut him; he was of course a powerful man and people are drawn to power like moths to a flame. She was bound to fantasise about him and he didn’t blame her. He was the King after all.
“Good morning sir.”
“Morning…” Hawkins stopped short; he briefly couldn’t remember her name, the name of the PA that had worked for him for three years now. And if he wasn’t the King of this building this would be awkward moment. But Kings don’t have to care about these little indiscretions. “Morning, morning.”
The PA didn’t react in any way which demonstrated she had either not noticed or understood her menial significance to him. Instead she smiled and resumed typing on her computer. He’d got away with it. But he didn’t care if she had noticed. Who gives a hell what she thinks. She probably loves a bastard, Hawkins thought smiling as he opened his office door.
Hawkins’ office was the very definition of unadulterated luxury. He had a flat-screen TV on the wall, its purpose being to display twenty four-hour news so the DCI knew everything that was going on in the world. But it was actually mainly used for sport. An expensive looking antique leather sofa was sat against the wall, with a beautifully crafted oak desk situated on the opposite side of the office, underneath a gold plated framed painting of the building some hundred years ago. The room was littered with a variety of photos of Hawkins’ family and of momentous milestones in his career. The final piece of furnishing was Hawkins’ favourite. It was a grand brown leather seat, the sort of chair that, in his mind, Churchill would have been sat on in Downing Street. This was Hawkins’ throne room.
Hawkins had been working in the Serious Organised Crime Agency for five years. In real terms, he was as senior an officer as members of the public would be likely to see at the agency. More senior officers spent their days on the golf course or
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