see fit. Now, is that understood?’
MacLeod’s face was red, verging on purple. ‘Inspector Daley, I really must protest. Here in Argyll we have a different way of going about things. I am . . .’ Again his words were cut short.
‘You are subject to the Force Standing Orders of Strathclyde Police, the force of which you are part. I don’t give a shit what passed for organisation here in the old county days. If you have any problems with that I suggest you contact Superintendent Donald, who is ultimately in charge of thisoperation, and to whom I’ll be reporting regularly. I’ve got him on speed dial . . . here.’ He handed his mobile to MacLeod, who looked as though he was close to tears as he straightened himself up in his chair before eschewing the offer of the mobile phone.
‘Very well, Inspector Daley. I will accede to your requests. I have of course my own hotline to a superior.’ He smiled wanly, looked down at his desk, and opened a file.
Daley stood up, then leaned forward, resting his large frame on rigid arms. His hands were now fists, knuckles white against the dark wood of MacLeod’s desk. ‘Fuck me about at your peril, you little prick.’ He turned and walked to the door which he opened as if to leave; there he stopped and turned to face his slack-jawed colleague. ‘Oh, and I’ll be wanting to meet with the local CID officers and two of your best uniformed constables – I’ll leave the choice to you – in half an hour. Please see to it. Now, where the fuck’s my office?’
Daley sat in the glass box that served as the inner sanctum for the senior officers within the larger CID room. He detested open-plan offices. The lack of privacy, the faux camaraderie, that feeling of enforced togetherness: all of which, in his opinion, only served to heighten resentment and ill feeling amongst ambitious officers, and promote a steep upward curve in the sedentary behaviour of more ‘easygoing’ colleagues. There was an absolute requirement for a good set of blinds, too. He noted that such had been thoughtfully provided in his box and he pulled and twisted the various cords in turn, ensuring he had at least a modicum of privacy.
He was unhappy that MacLeod had aggravated him so readily, but he felt that their heated first meeting hadclarified how he wished to proceed. To that end, he had been shocked to see just how little effort had gone into the operation from the Kinloch CID’s point of view. The large clear-boards, on which SOCO images of the victim, locus and eventually suspects were put, were in place but untouched. A computer database had been set up, but had pitifully little input for a case that was already twenty-four hours old. The four young DCs – three men and one woman – had conducted some door-to-door work, spoken to fishermen and other seafarers, and stopped cars at or near the spot where the body had been recovered: in short, they’d done the basics. The local investigation lacked any organisation or impetus: that was what he was here to provide.
Through the narrow blinds he could see them now: four DCs and two uniformed officers. They looked so young. This was, he supposed, the curse of the older officer. He recalled vividly that his initial experience of CID work was one of drudgery: ploughing through endless files, records, bank statements, phone bills, CCTV footage – anything that could provide that crucial piece of evidence to crack an investigation. His opinions or theories had most definitely not been required.
He opened his glass door, and the conversation between the local officers stopped. ‘As I’m sure you all know by now, I’m Inspector Jim Daley, and before anyone says it, yes, I do go to the gym daily.’ That got a laugh. ‘I’ll get to know you as we go along. Unfortunately, for reasons of logistics and manpower, we’re chasing our tail slightly with this one, however, we seem to be some way along the road.’ He walked over to a desk from which he
MacLeod’s face was red, verging on purple. ‘Inspector Daley, I really must protest. Here in Argyll we have a different way of going about things. I am . . .’ Again his words were cut short.
‘You are subject to the Force Standing Orders of Strathclyde Police, the force of which you are part. I don’t give a shit what passed for organisation here in the old county days. If you have any problems with that I suggest you contact Superintendent Donald, who is ultimately in charge of thisoperation, and to whom I’ll be reporting regularly. I’ve got him on speed dial . . . here.’ He handed his mobile to MacLeod, who looked as though he was close to tears as he straightened himself up in his chair before eschewing the offer of the mobile phone.
‘Very well, Inspector Daley. I will accede to your requests. I have of course my own hotline to a superior.’ He smiled wanly, looked down at his desk, and opened a file.
Daley stood up, then leaned forward, resting his large frame on rigid arms. His hands were now fists, knuckles white against the dark wood of MacLeod’s desk. ‘Fuck me about at your peril, you little prick.’ He turned and walked to the door which he opened as if to leave; there he stopped and turned to face his slack-jawed colleague. ‘Oh, and I’ll be wanting to meet with the local CID officers and two of your best uniformed constables – I’ll leave the choice to you – in half an hour. Please see to it. Now, where the fuck’s my office?’
Daley sat in the glass box that served as the inner sanctum for the senior officers within the larger CID room. He detested open-plan offices. The lack of privacy, the faux camaraderie, that feeling of enforced togetherness: all of which, in his opinion, only served to heighten resentment and ill feeling amongst ambitious officers, and promote a steep upward curve in the sedentary behaviour of more ‘easygoing’ colleagues. There was an absolute requirement for a good set of blinds, too. He noted that such had been thoughtfully provided in his box and he pulled and twisted the various cords in turn, ensuring he had at least a modicum of privacy.
He was unhappy that MacLeod had aggravated him so readily, but he felt that their heated first meeting hadclarified how he wished to proceed. To that end, he had been shocked to see just how little effort had gone into the operation from the Kinloch CID’s point of view. The large clear-boards, on which SOCO images of the victim, locus and eventually suspects were put, were in place but untouched. A computer database had been set up, but had pitifully little input for a case that was already twenty-four hours old. The four young DCs – three men and one woman – had conducted some door-to-door work, spoken to fishermen and other seafarers, and stopped cars at or near the spot where the body had been recovered: in short, they’d done the basics. The local investigation lacked any organisation or impetus: that was what he was here to provide.
Through the narrow blinds he could see them now: four DCs and two uniformed officers. They looked so young. This was, he supposed, the curse of the older officer. He recalled vividly that his initial experience of CID work was one of drudgery: ploughing through endless files, records, bank statements, phone bills, CCTV footage – anything that could provide that crucial piece of evidence to crack an investigation. His opinions or theories had most definitely not been required.
He opened his glass door, and the conversation between the local officers stopped. ‘As I’m sure you all know by now, I’m Inspector Jim Daley, and before anyone says it, yes, I do go to the gym daily.’ That got a laugh. ‘I’ll get to know you as we go along. Unfortunately, for reasons of logistics and manpower, we’re chasing our tail slightly with this one, however, we seem to be some way along the road.’ He walked over to a desk from which he
Similar Books
