all this psychological shit.
Of course, she wouldn’t do that.
She would remain calm, in control. Part of the reason she’d run to work that morning was to shake some of the physical aggression out of her system – well, that and to forget that awful dream. Her routine was one of opposites, a kind of dual life. After Operation Penthouse went sideways, and that Friday night, she had spent the remainder of her weekend recharging, eating decent food, exercising and sleeping. Go to the edge, fall over, pick yourself back up. It kept her sane, made sure she didn’t burn out under the pressure. Plenty had, and it wasn’t just the police work. A world on the brink, accelerating climate change – it was a constant shadow hanging over everyone, like a global sword of Damocles. No. She needed to be smart, she needed to maintain balance, remain in control. So when she banged her fist on the table – the shock physically lifting Phillip Harvey from his seat – it wasn’t real anger. It was all for show.
She shouted, baring her teeth. ‘You traveled to Pretoria and you met a man!’
Harvey hungrily scanned the pictures on the table, rocking back and forth, eyes bulging, mumbling to himself.
Jen waited. Slowly, he placed a trembling finger onto one of the faces Jen had shown him earlier.
‘That’s him,’ he whispered, his heavy frame collapsing with relief.
‘That’s the man you met, the handler who organised the operation in South Africa? You’re sure?’
‘It’s him. I’m sure.’ He began to cry again, big gulps of air followed by long, shaking sobs.
The interrogation had been scheduled for two hours. Jen had gotten a positive identification in less than one. She pressed a small device on the table. It flashed red once.
‘Interview terminated by Sergeant Jennifer Logan. Wednesday 12 December 2091 at 12.53pm.’
‘What will happen to me?’ Harvey asked, his voice almost childlike.
Jen stood. ‘You’ll probably get ten years in the block.’
‘The block?’
‘Hibernation with ageing.’
He pursed his lips and nodded, a sorrowful gesture, an acceptance of his fate.
Jen left the room without looking back. The trick now was to forget him, to disconnect. Chief Superintendent Paul Richards joined her in the corridor, a tall wiry man whose appearance was made paler by cropped jet-black hair. It sat atop his long face like a nail-brush. He was always immaculate, uniform pressed, the lines on his trousers like blades. Jen couldn’t remember a time she’d seen him in civvies. They walked together, his mood buoyant. After the grilling he’d given the team that morning, Jen wasn’t really in the mood for the nice version now.
‘Good work, Logan.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We got him.’
Jen fought the urge to question his use of the word we . In her opinion, he had been over-promoted, a yes-man given too much power. Her view didn’t count for much though. Richards was a political animal, something she would never be.
‘They’re going to make an example of the wife,’ he continued happily.
Any high-profile case that could scare the shit out of people was good for the cause, which in turn was good for Richards. He seemed to be glowing with pride. Jen presumed his insight into the potential sentencing made him feel somehow closer to the power.
‘I wanted to be sure you understood.’ Richards eyeballed her. ‘She might get the death penalty.’
Logan hid her surprise, forcing a calm nod. She hadn’t expected the sentencing to be so aggressive.
He continued in his best condescending tone. ‘I know how that conscience of yours can let you down sometimes.’
‘It’s her own fault.’ Jen said, managing to suppress the anger boiling up at his last comment. She took a breath and continued, ‘The law is clear. Sir.’
‘Yes it is. Swap job and now murder. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.’
Jen observed him coldly. He seemed entertained, as if this were a sideshow. They faced each other in
Of course, she wouldn’t do that.
She would remain calm, in control. Part of the reason she’d run to work that morning was to shake some of the physical aggression out of her system – well, that and to forget that awful dream. Her routine was one of opposites, a kind of dual life. After Operation Penthouse went sideways, and that Friday night, she had spent the remainder of her weekend recharging, eating decent food, exercising and sleeping. Go to the edge, fall over, pick yourself back up. It kept her sane, made sure she didn’t burn out under the pressure. Plenty had, and it wasn’t just the police work. A world on the brink, accelerating climate change – it was a constant shadow hanging over everyone, like a global sword of Damocles. No. She needed to be smart, she needed to maintain balance, remain in control. So when she banged her fist on the table – the shock physically lifting Phillip Harvey from his seat – it wasn’t real anger. It was all for show.
She shouted, baring her teeth. ‘You traveled to Pretoria and you met a man!’
Harvey hungrily scanned the pictures on the table, rocking back and forth, eyes bulging, mumbling to himself.
Jen waited. Slowly, he placed a trembling finger onto one of the faces Jen had shown him earlier.
‘That’s him,’ he whispered, his heavy frame collapsing with relief.
‘That’s the man you met, the handler who organised the operation in South Africa? You’re sure?’
‘It’s him. I’m sure.’ He began to cry again, big gulps of air followed by long, shaking sobs.
The interrogation had been scheduled for two hours. Jen had gotten a positive identification in less than one. She pressed a small device on the table. It flashed red once.
‘Interview terminated by Sergeant Jennifer Logan. Wednesday 12 December 2091 at 12.53pm.’
‘What will happen to me?’ Harvey asked, his voice almost childlike.
Jen stood. ‘You’ll probably get ten years in the block.’
‘The block?’
‘Hibernation with ageing.’
He pursed his lips and nodded, a sorrowful gesture, an acceptance of his fate.
Jen left the room without looking back. The trick now was to forget him, to disconnect. Chief Superintendent Paul Richards joined her in the corridor, a tall wiry man whose appearance was made paler by cropped jet-black hair. It sat atop his long face like a nail-brush. He was always immaculate, uniform pressed, the lines on his trousers like blades. Jen couldn’t remember a time she’d seen him in civvies. They walked together, his mood buoyant. After the grilling he’d given the team that morning, Jen wasn’t really in the mood for the nice version now.
‘Good work, Logan.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We got him.’
Jen fought the urge to question his use of the word we . In her opinion, he had been over-promoted, a yes-man given too much power. Her view didn’t count for much though. Richards was a political animal, something she would never be.
‘They’re going to make an example of the wife,’ he continued happily.
Any high-profile case that could scare the shit out of people was good for the cause, which in turn was good for Richards. He seemed to be glowing with pride. Jen presumed his insight into the potential sentencing made him feel somehow closer to the power.
‘I wanted to be sure you understood.’ Richards eyeballed her. ‘She might get the death penalty.’
Logan hid her surprise, forcing a calm nod. She hadn’t expected the sentencing to be so aggressive.
He continued in his best condescending tone. ‘I know how that conscience of yours can let you down sometimes.’
‘It’s her own fault.’ Jen said, managing to suppress the anger boiling up at his last comment. She took a breath and continued, ‘The law is clear. Sir.’
‘Yes it is. Swap job and now murder. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.’
Jen observed him coldly. He seemed entertained, as if this were a sideshow. They faced each other in
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