third-floor window.
At least if he kept his back to her, he wouldn’t notice how ridiculously frizzy the hand-dryer in the ladies’ toilets had made her hair.
Copies of all Tuesday’s papers were laid out neatly on the desk in front of her. They looked untouched, but the DCS would already have scrutinized every word related to the case.
‘What did you think of the press welcoming committee, Hawkins?’
‘I think the … speed with which information leaked on this one has taken everybody by surprise, sir.’
‘Perhaps.’ He paused. ‘I saw you arrive. Everyone entering the building has been getting that treatment, althoughI must say that nobody else has handled it as badly as you did.’
She glared at his back.
Their working relationship had started so auspiciously several years ago, when he’d been installed as chief superintendent, that it was difficult now to remember where it all had gone wrong. Within three months of reading Hawkins’ prolific arrest statistics, Lawrence Kirby-Jones’ signature had appeared on the certificate of recommendation that propelled her to detective sergeant status; the first in a series of advances he’d overseen. But the higher Hawkins had climbed – ever closer to the glass ceiling designed to keep her from taking his job, perhaps – the further his benevolent-uncle mask had slipped, and the more enthusiastically he had battered her with his rulebook of sanctimony.
Kirby-Jones turned suddenly, breaking her recall. She met his gaze with a penitent smile. At least there was no improvized voodoo doll of
her
at Becke House.
Albeit in Hawkins’ desk drawer.
The DCS practically goose-stepped to the chair opposite her, fastidiously twitching his suit trousers up before he sat.
‘It’s a pity that none of Mike’s media expertise ever rubbed off on you,’ he said.
Mention of the name surprised her.
Mike Maguire. He and Hawkins had worked together as detective inspectors on a number of successful cases under the DCS, but they hadn’t spoken since Mike had been moved to Manchester six months before, on secondment.
The move had also ended their affair.
As far as she knew, nobody in the Met had ever found out, but she still confessed everything to Paul – her now ex-fiancé – soon afterwards. They’d tried to patch things up, but their disparities had thrived, and he had moved out three months ago. For a while afterwards, he had maintained a strict regime of calls and text messages aimed at rubbing her nose in her infidelity.
‘So now even your—’ Kirby-Jones stopped mid-flow, his glare telling Hawkins she had missed a few sentences in between. ‘Did you leave the gas on, Chief Inspector?’
Nice work, Antonia.
‘No, sir. Sorry.’
‘I’ll start again. I’ve spoken to the commander. He’s disappointed this business about Anderton’s wife got out so fast, because the time scale means the press was probably tipped off by someone on the inside. Which means we’re now into damage-limitation. So, until further notice, even your immediate team is on a need-to-know basis. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Our friends outside are only the beginning.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘They may not have pictures or MO details yet, which counts out copycat killings for now at least, but it won’t take them long.’
He paused, and Hawkins began summoning the courage to ask whether Eddie Connor would be the only additional officer in a murder investigation team still one member short.
Too late.
‘Our ongoing media strategy,’ Kirby-Jones continued, ‘in case you were wondering’ – the subtext ‘and which youshould have asked about’ was obvious – ‘will now be channelled through a dedicated spokesperson within your team. And based on today’s performance, I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise that you’re off the hook for that job.’
A fresh bout of shouting signalled renewed excitement down in the street, and Kirby-Jones turned his head in
At least if he kept his back to her, he wouldn’t notice how ridiculously frizzy the hand-dryer in the ladies’ toilets had made her hair.
Copies of all Tuesday’s papers were laid out neatly on the desk in front of her. They looked untouched, but the DCS would already have scrutinized every word related to the case.
‘What did you think of the press welcoming committee, Hawkins?’
‘I think the … speed with which information leaked on this one has taken everybody by surprise, sir.’
‘Perhaps.’ He paused. ‘I saw you arrive. Everyone entering the building has been getting that treatment, althoughI must say that nobody else has handled it as badly as you did.’
She glared at his back.
Their working relationship had started so auspiciously several years ago, when he’d been installed as chief superintendent, that it was difficult now to remember where it all had gone wrong. Within three months of reading Hawkins’ prolific arrest statistics, Lawrence Kirby-Jones’ signature had appeared on the certificate of recommendation that propelled her to detective sergeant status; the first in a series of advances he’d overseen. But the higher Hawkins had climbed – ever closer to the glass ceiling designed to keep her from taking his job, perhaps – the further his benevolent-uncle mask had slipped, and the more enthusiastically he had battered her with his rulebook of sanctimony.
Kirby-Jones turned suddenly, breaking her recall. She met his gaze with a penitent smile. At least there was no improvized voodoo doll of
her
at Becke House.
Albeit in Hawkins’ desk drawer.
The DCS practically goose-stepped to the chair opposite her, fastidiously twitching his suit trousers up before he sat.
‘It’s a pity that none of Mike’s media expertise ever rubbed off on you,’ he said.
Mention of the name surprised her.
Mike Maguire. He and Hawkins had worked together as detective inspectors on a number of successful cases under the DCS, but they hadn’t spoken since Mike had been moved to Manchester six months before, on secondment.
The move had also ended their affair.
As far as she knew, nobody in the Met had ever found out, but she still confessed everything to Paul – her now ex-fiancé – soon afterwards. They’d tried to patch things up, but their disparities had thrived, and he had moved out three months ago. For a while afterwards, he had maintained a strict regime of calls and text messages aimed at rubbing her nose in her infidelity.
‘So now even your—’ Kirby-Jones stopped mid-flow, his glare telling Hawkins she had missed a few sentences in between. ‘Did you leave the gas on, Chief Inspector?’
Nice work, Antonia.
‘No, sir. Sorry.’
‘I’ll start again. I’ve spoken to the commander. He’s disappointed this business about Anderton’s wife got out so fast, because the time scale means the press was probably tipped off by someone on the inside. Which means we’re now into damage-limitation. So, until further notice, even your immediate team is on a need-to-know basis. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Our friends outside are only the beginning.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘They may not have pictures or MO details yet, which counts out copycat killings for now at least, but it won’t take them long.’
He paused, and Hawkins began summoning the courage to ask whether Eddie Connor would be the only additional officer in a murder investigation team still one member short.
Too late.
‘Our ongoing media strategy,’ Kirby-Jones continued, ‘in case you were wondering’ – the subtext ‘and which youshould have asked about’ was obvious – ‘will now be channelled through a dedicated spokesperson within your team. And based on today’s performance, I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise that you’re off the hook for that job.’
A fresh bout of shouting signalled renewed excitement down in the street, and Kirby-Jones turned his head in
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