Mercury. That dose of celebrity mollified the old man. Nobody in the family had ever been photographed for the newspaper. His dad was very proud.
By his second anniversary Pearce was transferred into CID, and wa s p romoted to sergeant three years later, with an exam score among the top two hundred in all of England. He made inspector six years after that. Everyone said he was a "flier."
Then the flight got diverted. Promotions beyond the rank of inspector are based not on written examinations but on scores given by panels of senior officers, as well as on written recommendations from immediate superiors. Derek Pearce's annual reports were very good, but troublesome words popped up occasionally, words like "arrogant" and "intolerant."
Pearce summed up his management role by saying, "For me life should be nicking villains and being a cop. If theirs wasn't, they were working for the wrong DI."
Nobody doubted his ability to do police work, and Pearce looked after his people by defending them against all outsiders. He was generous in a pub and was good to them when they needed an afternoon off, but he could be ruthless with any subordinate who treated police work "as a job rather than a way of life." If they worked hard and made only honest mistakes he'd administer a verbal "bollicking" that usually went no further. But his bollicking was about as subtle as a wrecking ball.
Stimulus wasn't often needed during the Lynda Mann inquiry. Members of the murder squad maintained they never lost confidence that they'd detect their killer, convinced he had to be a villager. And though it was nearly impossible to match Pearce's intensity for crime detection, he often tried to ignite his subordinates with his unabated energy. Even after long, fruitless, frustrating days Pearce always looked forward to tomorrow.
"What about this idea?" Pearce would say, eyes dilating as he seemed to rise up from his chair, hovering, levitating.
He'd often toss them an idea the others hadn't tried. But if he didn't like his subordinates' ideas, Pearce was canny enough not to discourage them, "unless they were too one-off," as he put it. Pearce believed his job was to keep his detectives enthusiastic, hopeful, excited.
"Where is he? We know he's right here, don't we? What would you like to do? What do you think? Never mind what the gaffer thinks, I'm asking you. Our man's close by us, isn't he? I can feel him. Where is he? Where is he, then?"
They knew he was manipulating them, but strangely enough, it kept them enthused despite themselves.
"Nobody said you had to love him," one of his men said later. "You just felt like throttling him sometimes when he started shouting at you, but he could organize. He could always see the big picture immediately. H e h ad a computer for a memory and could sort things out, even if he did talk to you like a bleedin foxhound."
"Where is he?" Pearce would say. "He's right here, isn't he? Come on, let's find him! And, my lads, let's not forget our happy little home."
He could be right there in the hospital itself, Pearce often reminded them. Where they might have more gibbering loonies than a Labour party picnic. More perverts than the House of Lords.
The irrepressible Derek Pearce seldom talked about his ex-wife even with close friends, even if he'd been mixing his drinks. She'd also been a police officer, a few years younger than he, very attractive and with a personality every bit as strong as his. It was a disastrous mix. Everyone who knew him said the torch Pearce carried could've ignited glaciers.
After she walked out on him she'd needed a down payment for a cottage. Pearce wrote her a check for f1,100, and when the purchase somehow fell through, he wrote another one for PS1,100 to go with the first. The solicitor handling Pearce's divorce rang him at that point and said, "I'd like a letter from you stating that you go against all of my advice. I need it for my professional reputation."
When she left him she
By his second anniversary Pearce was transferred into CID, and wa s p romoted to sergeant three years later, with an exam score among the top two hundred in all of England. He made inspector six years after that. Everyone said he was a "flier."
Then the flight got diverted. Promotions beyond the rank of inspector are based not on written examinations but on scores given by panels of senior officers, as well as on written recommendations from immediate superiors. Derek Pearce's annual reports were very good, but troublesome words popped up occasionally, words like "arrogant" and "intolerant."
Pearce summed up his management role by saying, "For me life should be nicking villains and being a cop. If theirs wasn't, they were working for the wrong DI."
Nobody doubted his ability to do police work, and Pearce looked after his people by defending them against all outsiders. He was generous in a pub and was good to them when they needed an afternoon off, but he could be ruthless with any subordinate who treated police work "as a job rather than a way of life." If they worked hard and made only honest mistakes he'd administer a verbal "bollicking" that usually went no further. But his bollicking was about as subtle as a wrecking ball.
Stimulus wasn't often needed during the Lynda Mann inquiry. Members of the murder squad maintained they never lost confidence that they'd detect their killer, convinced he had to be a villager. And though it was nearly impossible to match Pearce's intensity for crime detection, he often tried to ignite his subordinates with his unabated energy. Even after long, fruitless, frustrating days Pearce always looked forward to tomorrow.
"What about this idea?" Pearce would say, eyes dilating as he seemed to rise up from his chair, hovering, levitating.
He'd often toss them an idea the others hadn't tried. But if he didn't like his subordinates' ideas, Pearce was canny enough not to discourage them, "unless they were too one-off," as he put it. Pearce believed his job was to keep his detectives enthusiastic, hopeful, excited.
"Where is he? We know he's right here, don't we? What would you like to do? What do you think? Never mind what the gaffer thinks, I'm asking you. Our man's close by us, isn't he? I can feel him. Where is he? Where is he, then?"
They knew he was manipulating them, but strangely enough, it kept them enthused despite themselves.
"Nobody said you had to love him," one of his men said later. "You just felt like throttling him sometimes when he started shouting at you, but he could organize. He could always see the big picture immediately. H e h ad a computer for a memory and could sort things out, even if he did talk to you like a bleedin foxhound."
"Where is he?" Pearce would say. "He's right here, isn't he? Come on, let's find him! And, my lads, let's not forget our happy little home."
He could be right there in the hospital itself, Pearce often reminded them. Where they might have more gibbering loonies than a Labour party picnic. More perverts than the House of Lords.
The irrepressible Derek Pearce seldom talked about his ex-wife even with close friends, even if he'd been mixing his drinks. She'd also been a police officer, a few years younger than he, very attractive and with a personality every bit as strong as his. It was a disastrous mix. Everyone who knew him said the torch Pearce carried could've ignited glaciers.
After she walked out on him she'd needed a down payment for a cottage. Pearce wrote her a check for f1,100, and when the purchase somehow fell through, he wrote another one for PS1,100 to go with the first. The solicitor handling Pearce's divorce rang him at that point and said, "I'd like a letter from you stating that you go against all of my advice. I need it for my professional reputation."
When she left him she
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