For the first time in their conversation, Anjali was embarrassed. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. In her way, she did love Toby, but she could not possibly love him in his way, and she would rather her ears be made of stone before listening to him continue any further along this path …
And yet she could barely wait for his next words.
‘You were wearing …’ Must he delay the suspense interminably? ‘… a white shirt, black skirt, a check tie and jacket with silver buttons,’ he intoned lovingly.
She punched him in the arm. It had taken her that long to catch on that Toby was describing her uniform.
After investing her time and expertise in ‘building a foundation’ for the financial advisory role with Freddy Calder, Viv was unwilling to give up her chance of gaining his confidence, and eventually the management of his savings. As they scouted the pedestrian shopping area she tried to offer him a strong dose of fiscal common sense.
‘People like you always think money is a complicated matter. It isn’t. It’s all a question of market forces, and getting your money to work for you.’
There. Maybe she could knock some of that common sense into his head after all.
‘Oh, bless you, Obewan Kenobi!’
So much for the notion he was buying any of her carefully prepared argument.
The clown’s voice soured. ‘This sucker’s always had to work for his.’
Viv was determined to be undaunted.
‘Very funny. Listen. You buy shares in a company being took-over. Then when it gets took-over, the company doing the take-over has to pay you more for the shares. Because the shares are worth more now it’s being took-over.’
Even the simplest, most basic human sounds apparently sometimes failed to penetrate Freddy’s thick skull.
‘It’s all very simple, you know, Freddy.’
‘Simple, my big toe.’
This monkey was exasperating. ‘What don’t you understand?’
Freddy had to think for a few moments before he could figure out his answer.
‘Where I get the money to buy the shares in the first place.’
Viv Smith sighed, and paused to contemplate the company she was keeping of late.
‘Freddy, talking to you is the quickest way of getting a headache I know.’
In the corridor of Division ‘S’ outside his office, the sign on his door said CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT FRANK ELLSMORE, and when he walked out of his office through that door into the open territory beyond he wanted people to see that he had a clear-cut destination in view, plus the ever-resolute determination to get there. That was the mark of leadership, and he reasoned, rationally enough, that here was indeed what the troops needed to see in his demeanour: his attempt to embody the authority of the uniform, as well as to fill it. He wanted them to see a man of action.
Unfortunately, sometimes ordinary reality presented unexpected obstacles in his path: in this instance in the person of WPC Morrow, the new one. Just as Ellsmore was hitting full stride, he almost collided with WPC Morrow carrying a pile of folders, but just in the nick of time she managed to spin and evade him, yet still balance the folders in her arms so that only a few actually spilled to the floor.
‘Sorry, sir.’
One of Ellsmore’s oldest failings, and one of the rusty skills needing some polishing, was his conduct when caught in embarrassing situations, even of the most trivial nature.
‘My fault … er …’
‘Morrow, sir. WPC Morrow.’
Of course, Morrow. Neat. Agile. Attentive. What other mental resources might she be capable of contributing?
‘You’ve only just started here, right?’
‘Right, sir.’
Well, he had offered her the opportunity to introduce herself and make an impression, but she hadn’t taken the step forward. Talent should always be ready to rise to the top in an instant, he wanted to remind her. Instead he reminded himself that she had performed a nimble feat.
‘Well, if you’re as quick as you are on your feet, Constable, we won’t have much to worry about, eh?’
‘No, sir.’
WPC Morrow didn’t say anything more, and Ellsmore had nothing more to say. Standing here waiting for her laconic answers was getting him nowhere and only prolonging the agony of his embarrassment. So he did his best to nod a farewell, and left her for the lift.
WPC Morrow sighed and watched Chief Superintendent Ellsmore steam away with his sights firmly set on course. She was becoming accustomed to observing the Super sailing through life like a galleon in a high wind.
In the Specials’ parade room, Section Officer Bob Loach was vainly trying to make some semblance of order in his paperwork. His audible groans and grunts of brute persuasion seemed of no use in consolidating scraps of assorted documents.
Abruptly there was a sharp rap on the door, which opened immediately. To Loach’s surprise, standing there like a royal oak was Chief Superintendent Ellsmore.
‘Chief Superintendent?’
As Ellsmore entered, Loach hurriedly straightened and shuffled the paperwork to the side of his desk.
‘Should’ve known you’d be here …’ The Chief Superintendent didn’t sound overjoyed at this discovery. ‘Wanted a quick word, Loach.’
Loach was powerless to prohibit the Chief Superintendent from poking through the paperwork at random, like casually rummaging through someone else’s toolbox, looking for nothing. It was an ominous diversion.
‘Good God, it seems damn stupid you Specials giving up your free time to fight crime, just to end up processing bumff,’ Ellsmore lectured, rippling a few pages of paper with evident contempt. ‘Fruits of bureaucracy, that’s what it is, Loach.’
Why was he stalling? All that this delay accomplished was to make him more nervous. Maybe that was the idea.
‘We try and cope, Chief Superintendent.’
‘Yes.’ Ellsmore did not pursue that dead end. ‘I haven’t seen much of your SDO lately, but I hear he’s been having some trouble at home.’
Telling himself there was no reason to panic, Loach was patiently taking in the information the Chief Superintendent was feeding him, but he still didn’t quite understand what Ellsmore wanted him to swallow.
‘Anyway, I … wanted to have a word with you about one of your lads, Loach.’
‘Trouble, sir?’ Here it comes, he thought.
‘Oh, no, no, no.’ Three times: he doth protest too much. ‘Just a storm in an egg cup.’
Brace yourself, this is it.
‘But you know, I hate there to be any friction between Specials and Police. There are enough jokes as it is.’
What is it, what happened? Who? Why?
‘It’s Freddy Calder.’
Loach’s blood rose as his spirits descended to the satanic depths of the underworld. Freddy Calder was an Achilles’ heel if ever there was one.
‘How long’s he been selling lingerie?’