Underworld by Reginald Hill

scattered his plans, and worst of all, it had clouded his judgement. It had seemed a cleverly contemptuous act to chuck in his own resignation so quickly afterwards. He would have been wiser far, he now realized, to hang on and look around for a Chief's job in another part of the country. The local man, because he was known and taken for granted, was always at a disadvantage in such matters - except in the case of car salesmen, it seemed. No, he should have withdrawn, regrouped . . .
    A clock chimed. Ding dong ding dong. Ding dong ding dong. Dong ding ding dong. Ding dong ding dong .
    The sound filled him with sudden fury. He counted himself back to control with the hours . . . seven, eight, nine.
    'I find those chimes a little irritating,' he said mildly.
    'Do you dear? I'm sure they can be turned off. Most things can.'
    Was this irony? he asked himself in amazement. A glance across the table reassured him and he let his mind count another link back in the chain of causality.
    The support of his colleagues, their simple loyalty, that too had been missing. That cunning old bastard Winter, the outgoing Chief, had never liked him. God knows what he'd said to the Committee. And as above, so below. That gross grotesque, Dalziel . . .
    He shuddered at the memory.
    At least he was now free of them, free to make his own decisions. Free to set the record straight.
    There was his book, a serious review of the problems and future of modern policing, based on his own experience and observation, and leavened with accounts of some of the more famous cases he'd been involved with. It was a long way from being finished, of course, but he'd shown an outline and some draft sections to Ike Ogilby.
    What was it Ike had said as he returned them?
    'Very interesting, Nev. Should rouse a lot of interest in the so-called quality papers and heavy chat shows. But a lot of it would be above our readers' heads. It's not as if you're claiming you get your ideas from God or anything really wild like that, is it?'
    'I didn't show you the drafts with a view to Challenger publication, Ike,' he'd replied, genuinely surprised.
    'Of course not. But I was thinking, Nev, in the remote circumstance things don't go right for you politically, this time. I mean - you could do worse than keep yourself in the public eye with a series of pieces in the Challenger 'But you said that your readers...'
    'No, I wasn't meaning the main meat of your book, Nev. You wouldn't want to show your hand too early there, would you? I'm afraid the country's too full of unscrupulous senior cops who aren't above nicking a good idea. No, I was thinking of the more popular market. Memoirs of famous cases. Telling it like it was. We wouldn't need to take up all that much of your creative time either. I took the liberty of showing your draft to Monty Boyle, our chief crime man. He was most impressed. Monty could work with you. He'd do the leg work and stitch it all together. You'd have copy approval, of course, but this way it wouldn't interfere with your serious writing.'
    'Interesting idea,' he'd replied. 'But hardly the thing for a parliamentary candidate.'
    'Perish the thought,' said Ogilby. 'But have lunch with Monty anyway. Never any harm in having lunch, is there?'
    So he'd had lunch, and found the journalist a civilized and entertaining companion. The man had asked if he'd mind if he ran his cassette recorder as they talked. 'It's best to keep a record, especially when it's informal. Things get missed. Or misunderstood. This keeps us both straight.'
    'No, I don't mind,' said Watmough. 'Though it seems a waste of your batteries as I really don't envisage writing anything other than campaign speeches in the near future.’
    'No, of course not. But as a crime reporter, I'm always keen to pick the brain of an expert.'
    They had spent a fascinating hour talking about famous cases, then, as they parted, the journalist had said, 'By the way, I know it's unlikely to happen, but if Ike ever does