hundred women before. ‘Believe me, I’m devastated that I can’t be there. VIPs only, of course, it’s to be expected. No room for the humble spear carriers.’
Sarky bugger. ‘Don’t pretend you’re heartbroken. Especially after what you and Les said when we found out we were on the shortlist.’
‘Churlish of us, ma’am, on reflection. It was no mean achievement; now I see it all.’ He allowed himself another peek down the top of her dress. ‘Obviously, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Les is a bad influence, but the truth is, I’ve recognised the error of my ways. I reckon I could have found this a very enjoyable evening.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She made a move to go, but it was difficult to stride past him in the corridor without brushing against him.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ma’am,’ he said, and with a last lingering leer, he stepped aside.
As she shoved open the double doors, it struck her that his banter no longer annoyed her as it once had. Crazy, really. Greg Wharf was a sexual harassment claim waitingto happen, the sort of officer she’d loathed from the earliest days of her career. But she’d also come to realise that beneath the bravado was a very good detective who didn’t mind putting in extra hours when they were short-handed. To her astonishment, she felt almost sorry she wouldn’t be able to chat to him at the dinner.
‘Congratulations, Detective Chief Inspector.’
Bryan Madsen had limped through the hubbub to join her the moment the final award was presented, the final words of gratitude gushed. The Malt Room buzzed with a hundred voices, the conversations lubricated by generous quantities of alcohol served throughout the five-course dinner. Bryan struck Hannah as strong and vigorous, even if his paunch and florid complexion suggested overindulgence in fine food and wine. Tall, with expensively cut steel-grey hair, he might have passed for a brigadier, or a leading man in a 1950s British black-and-white movie, sporting a stiff upper lip and a gammy leg caused by a shrapnel wound. You wouldn’t cast him as a bloke who had spent a lifetime trading static caravans. During the longueurs of the presentations, Hannah had kept awake by studying Lauren Self’s companions on the top table, and she’d recognised the Madsen brothers from newspaper photographs. They were accompanied by good-looking and expensively attired wives. Bryan often featured in the local press, though never in stories that held the slightest interest for Hannah. A businessman with a taste for politics? She’d stereotyped him in her mind as a boring old fart.
‘It’s an honour to have been in the mix.’
Scary, how the lie sprang to her lips, but she was bound to get away with it. How many captains of industry with a passion for politicking had a built-in irony detector?
‘Your cold case team ran the winners desperately close, I can assure you. Your people did a first-rate job with that dreadful business up at Ambleside last January.’ He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, and fiddled with the window to let in a breath of air. ‘Boiling in here, isn’t it? As for the judging process, I suppose what tipped the balance is that your profile in the community only rises every now and then, while the Clean Cumbria Campaign is never off the advertising billboards.’
‘They deserved it.’ She resisted the temptation to simper – better not go completely over the top. Though she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’
‘Absolutely right.’ He snapped his fingers and a young woman in a short glittery dress materialised by his side. Her sinuous and silent movements reminded Hannah of a magician’s assistant, her smile was cool and enigmatic. ‘Purdey, another glass of Bolly, if you don’t mind. This is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett – Purdey Madsen. Now I promise I’m not driving, Chief Inspector! But what will you have?’
‘Nothing for
Sarky bugger. ‘Don’t pretend you’re heartbroken. Especially after what you and Les said when we found out we were on the shortlist.’
‘Churlish of us, ma’am, on reflection. It was no mean achievement; now I see it all.’ He allowed himself another peek down the top of her dress. ‘Obviously, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Les is a bad influence, but the truth is, I’ve recognised the error of my ways. I reckon I could have found this a very enjoyable evening.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She made a move to go, but it was difficult to stride past him in the corridor without brushing against him.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ma’am,’ he said, and with a last lingering leer, he stepped aside.
As she shoved open the double doors, it struck her that his banter no longer annoyed her as it once had. Crazy, really. Greg Wharf was a sexual harassment claim waitingto happen, the sort of officer she’d loathed from the earliest days of her career. But she’d also come to realise that beneath the bravado was a very good detective who didn’t mind putting in extra hours when they were short-handed. To her astonishment, she felt almost sorry she wouldn’t be able to chat to him at the dinner.
‘Congratulations, Detective Chief Inspector.’
Bryan Madsen had limped through the hubbub to join her the moment the final award was presented, the final words of gratitude gushed. The Malt Room buzzed with a hundred voices, the conversations lubricated by generous quantities of alcohol served throughout the five-course dinner. Bryan struck Hannah as strong and vigorous, even if his paunch and florid complexion suggested overindulgence in fine food and wine. Tall, with expensively cut steel-grey hair, he might have passed for a brigadier, or a leading man in a 1950s British black-and-white movie, sporting a stiff upper lip and a gammy leg caused by a shrapnel wound. You wouldn’t cast him as a bloke who had spent a lifetime trading static caravans. During the longueurs of the presentations, Hannah had kept awake by studying Lauren Self’s companions on the top table, and she’d recognised the Madsen brothers from newspaper photographs. They were accompanied by good-looking and expensively attired wives. Bryan often featured in the local press, though never in stories that held the slightest interest for Hannah. A businessman with a taste for politics? She’d stereotyped him in her mind as a boring old fart.
‘It’s an honour to have been in the mix.’
Scary, how the lie sprang to her lips, but she was bound to get away with it. How many captains of industry with a passion for politicking had a built-in irony detector?
‘Your cold case team ran the winners desperately close, I can assure you. Your people did a first-rate job with that dreadful business up at Ambleside last January.’ He mopped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, and fiddled with the window to let in a breath of air. ‘Boiling in here, isn’t it? As for the judging process, I suppose what tipped the balance is that your profile in the community only rises every now and then, while the Clean Cumbria Campaign is never off the advertising billboards.’
‘They deserved it.’ She resisted the temptation to simper – better not go completely over the top. Though she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’
‘Absolutely right.’ He snapped his fingers and a young woman in a short glittery dress materialised by his side. Her sinuous and silent movements reminded Hannah of a magician’s assistant, her smile was cool and enigmatic. ‘Purdey, another glass of Bolly, if you don’t mind. This is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett – Purdey Madsen. Now I promise I’m not driving, Chief Inspector! But what will you have?’
‘Nothing for
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