The Crime Tsar by Nichola McAuliffe

She said this with a disarming smile.
    Again he wondered how versatile that mouth would prove.
    Jenni saw quite shockingly clearly the desire on his face and not for the first time was surprised at the power of sex.
    For Jenni full penetrative sex and all the peripheral fumbling around it were, at best, aerobic exercise, at worst an uncomfortable,unhygienic scrum. But it had proved a useful tool now she had learned how to use it sparingly… She hoped she could get what she wanted from this man without having his fingers on her and in her. She shuddered delicately.
    â€˜Cold?’ he asked solicitously.
    â€˜Just someone walking over my grave. Now … let’s see, what were we talking about? Oh yes … you. How nice.’
    By seven o’clock bulletins from the Flamborough Estate were arriving at Tom Shackleton’s office every fifteen minutes. One of his best superintendents, Don Cork, was coordinating officer in command, codename Gold. Running the show on the front line was Ron Randall, codename Silver. Not a GCSE between them but sixty years’ experience of everything from male organs trapped in reluctant retrievers to civil unrest on a grand scale. The reports indicated that petrol bombs and weapons of all sorts, possibly firearms, were being brought into the area. Several cars had been set alight and shops looted.
    The big white vans full of edgy young police officers spoiling for a fight were parked around the estate and on the front line, the main access to the estate. It was marked with police tape. Blue-and-white, fluttering in the light breeze. On one side of this fragile barrier the eerily silent blocks of flats, at every window a pair of eyes watching the two lines of uniformed officers who stood, unmoving, on the other side.
    The front rank were without weapons or defence, the rear in riot gear, black greaves on dark overalls, helmets with prospect visors, long-handled batons and round Roman shields.
    On Shackleton’s instructions the police had not responded to any calls since four o’clock. Hysterical residents were dialling 999, screaming they’d been abandoned, threatening to sue, knowing their rights. The telephone operators didn’t point out that, in law, neither police nor fire service had any obligation to respond to emergency calls from the public.
    The media were gathering, ensuring by their presence a display of testosterone-fuelled aggression from both sides.
    On the east of the estate, Carter’s territory, there was another line of police, more vans, more tape.
    Tom stood looking out of the window – the sky was alight with thered streaks of a shepherd’s delight. He knew the real trouble wouldn’t start until dark – and until all the television crews had arrived. The audience in place and the theatre ready.
    Janet knocked discreetly and came in.
    â€˜BBC and ITV, Sky and local and national newspapers have arrived on the estate, sir. Mr Vernon thinks they were called by the youths themselves.’
    No doubt about it.
    â€˜Thank you, Janet. Oh, and I want to go down there. At nine o’clock. Not in my car.’
    The sleek black Jaguar sweeping on to the estate would be bound to cause trouble. And be bad for the image of the Caring Chief Constable.
    â€˜Send round a patrol car. But I want Gordon to drive.’
    Janet nodded and left. Of course he wanted Gordon. Weasly, unimaginative Gordon. He had only one quality to recommend him to Shackleton. He was armed.
    Shackleton went to the phone and dialled Geoffrey Carter’s direct line.
    He answered quickly.
    â€˜Carter.’
    â€˜Geoffrey, I’m on my way to the Flamborough – want to join me?’
    â€˜What’s your plan?’
    â€˜Oh … I think you and I can talk our way out of this one … don’t you?’
    Carter laughed. ‘I think we could talk our way into and out of a Trappist nunnery.’
    Shackleton smiled. ‘I’ll meet you