that.
‘Better keep knocking on doors, Gavin.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Murfin looked at the main street that ran through the village.
‘I’m not walking up that hill, though. Someone will have to drive me to the top, and I’ll work my way down.’
It was true that Murfin had never been cut out for country treks. No matter how many memos were sent out by management about the fitness of officers, he had been unable to lose any weight. From time to time he’d compromised by taking his belt in a notch, which had only succeeded in producing an unsightly roll of spare flesh that hung over his waistband.
His wife Jean had been putting him on diets for years, but they never worked. Now he was so near to completing his thirty years’ service and earning a full pension that he didn’t really care any more, didn’t feel the necessity to meet the fitness requirements or respond to emails on the subject. It was odd, then, that the prospect of approaching retirement hadn’t made him more cheerful. Instead, he was becoming more and more lugubrious, like an overweight Eeyore or Marvin the Paranoid Android.
A woman came past walking a terrier. Surely the same woman Cooper had seen gardening only a short time earlier.
‘How’re you doing, duck?’ said Murfin with forced brightness.
The woman glared at him coldly.
‘What are you selling?’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, we don’t want any.’
Murfin sniggered as if she’d told a dirty joke and sidled up to her to show his warrant card.
‘Police,’ he said. ‘Oh, I know – I can’t believe it either. They take anybody these days. Can you spare a minute, duck?’
‘Okay,’ said Cooper. ‘While Gavin is out ingratiating himself with the locals, let’s get some real work done.’
‘Ten to one he’ll end up being offered a cup of tea,’ said Hurst, watching Murfin with a hint of admiration.
‘Fresh coffee,’ said Cooper. ‘But if I know Gavin, it’ll be the biscuits he’s interested in.’
A car pulled alongside, a metallic blue Jaguar XF with the number plate RSE1. The passenger window hummed down, and man leaned towards it from the driving seat. Iron-grey hair swept back, a sardonic eyebrow, a loud and commanding tone of voice.
‘Police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper.
‘You know what’s going on around here, I suppose?’
‘Yes. We’re aware of it.’
‘So what are you doing about it? Anything? Or nothing?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but put his car back in gear and accelerated off down the hill.
‘Great.’
‘Nice to know we have the support of the public,’ said Hurst as she watched him drive away.
‘When people get upset and frightened, they need someone to blame.’
‘Surely they should be blaming the thugs responsible for the crimes?’
‘But no one knows who they are, do they? So we’re the nearest target. That’s the way it works, Becky.’
‘That’s so unfair.’
‘It happens.’ Cooper glanced at her. ‘You’re going to have to get used to our relationship with the law-abiding public.’
While Fry waited in the garden of the Seven Mile Inn, she checked her phone and saw she’d missed a call from Angie. There was a voicemail message.
Hi, sis. We haven’t talked. We need to talk, you know? Call me.
She saw Mick or Rick coming back towards her with their drinks.
He smiled as he handed her a glass. ‘A boyfriend?’
‘No, my sister.’
‘Right.’
His smile became a smirk, as if he’d just been given some kind of signal. Fry gritted her teeth. Just because the call wasn’t from her boyfriend didn’t mean she hadn’t got one. But that was the way some men’s minds worked. They read an invitation in the slightest thing. She supposed it must be some instinct from their primitive past, sniffing the air to detect the presence of a rival, then mating with anything that stood still long enough.
He sat opposite her, gazing into her eyes, his mind evidently searching for the right conversational
‘Better keep knocking on doors, Gavin.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Murfin looked at the main street that ran through the village.
‘I’m not walking up that hill, though. Someone will have to drive me to the top, and I’ll work my way down.’
It was true that Murfin had never been cut out for country treks. No matter how many memos were sent out by management about the fitness of officers, he had been unable to lose any weight. From time to time he’d compromised by taking his belt in a notch, which had only succeeded in producing an unsightly roll of spare flesh that hung over his waistband.
His wife Jean had been putting him on diets for years, but they never worked. Now he was so near to completing his thirty years’ service and earning a full pension that he didn’t really care any more, didn’t feel the necessity to meet the fitness requirements or respond to emails on the subject. It was odd, then, that the prospect of approaching retirement hadn’t made him more cheerful. Instead, he was becoming more and more lugubrious, like an overweight Eeyore or Marvin the Paranoid Android.
A woman came past walking a terrier. Surely the same woman Cooper had seen gardening only a short time earlier.
‘How’re you doing, duck?’ said Murfin with forced brightness.
The woman glared at him coldly.
‘What are you selling?’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, we don’t want any.’
Murfin sniggered as if she’d told a dirty joke and sidled up to her to show his warrant card.
‘Police,’ he said. ‘Oh, I know – I can’t believe it either. They take anybody these days. Can you spare a minute, duck?’
‘Okay,’ said Cooper. ‘While Gavin is out ingratiating himself with the locals, let’s get some real work done.’
‘Ten to one he’ll end up being offered a cup of tea,’ said Hurst, watching Murfin with a hint of admiration.
‘Fresh coffee,’ said Cooper. ‘But if I know Gavin, it’ll be the biscuits he’s interested in.’
A car pulled alongside, a metallic blue Jaguar XF with the number plate RSE1. The passenger window hummed down, and man leaned towards it from the driving seat. Iron-grey hair swept back, a sardonic eyebrow, a loud and commanding tone of voice.
‘Police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper.
‘You know what’s going on around here, I suppose?’
‘Yes. We’re aware of it.’
‘So what are you doing about it? Anything? Or nothing?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but put his car back in gear and accelerated off down the hill.
‘Great.’
‘Nice to know we have the support of the public,’ said Hurst as she watched him drive away.
‘When people get upset and frightened, they need someone to blame.’
‘Surely they should be blaming the thugs responsible for the crimes?’
‘But no one knows who they are, do they? So we’re the nearest target. That’s the way it works, Becky.’
‘That’s so unfair.’
‘It happens.’ Cooper glanced at her. ‘You’re going to have to get used to our relationship with the law-abiding public.’
While Fry waited in the garden of the Seven Mile Inn, she checked her phone and saw she’d missed a call from Angie. There was a voicemail message.
Hi, sis. We haven’t talked. We need to talk, you know? Call me.
She saw Mick or Rick coming back towards her with their drinks.
He smiled as he handed her a glass. ‘A boyfriend?’
‘No, my sister.’
‘Right.’
His smile became a smirk, as if he’d just been given some kind of signal. Fry gritted her teeth. Just because the call wasn’t from her boyfriend didn’t mean she hadn’t got one. But that was the way some men’s minds worked. They read an invitation in the slightest thing. She supposed it must be some instinct from their primitive past, sniffing the air to detect the presence of a rival, then mating with anything that stood still long enough.
He sat opposite her, gazing into her eyes, his mind evidently searching for the right conversational
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