Human Remains

which bus stop dropped me off nearest to the police station. I opted for the war memorial stop today, but I’d forgotten about the blocked gully in Unity Street. There was no way past it, unless you crossed the road, of course, but that wasn’t easy. So I waited for a break in the traffic and took my chance, crossing that bit of pavement next to the vast puddle before another van came splashing through it and soaked me.
    I was never quite quick enough. Not built for running, me.
    I let myself in through the back gate, letting it swing with a heavy-duty clang behind me. The rain was easing off by now – typical. My access card bleeped through five different security points – count them: the back gate, the gate from the car park, the back door, the doorway to the Intelligence Unit and finally the door to the public protection office. I hung up my coat and my long scarf, both wet, felt the radiator – cold, of course; it was Monday after all – and filled the kettle with water from the two-litre bottle that we would carry back and forth from the kitchen, which was about half a mile away.
    The fridge, needless to say, had been raided. There had been at least a pint of milk left in there on Friday but the plastic bottle had been emptied and placed neatly back on the shelf, as though that made it acceptable. My half-eaten tuna sandwich from Friday was still there, though. The smell brought back sudden memories of the house I’d been in on Friday night and everything that had happened afterwards.
    Holding my breath, I took the sandwich out, carried it into the corridor, down to the patrol office, and dropped it into one of their bins. They would have been the ones who nicked the milk. They could have the sandwich as well.
    I made myself a tea, black, and logged on to my computer. Everything was on a go-slow. I could hear the tannoy from the hallway; in a few hours I’d be able to tune it out, concentrate on other things, but for the time being it was insistent.
    DC Hollis, if you’re on the station, please contact Custody. That’s DC Hollis, contact Custody thank you…
    Penny Butler, Penny Butler, please ring 9151. That’s Penny Butler, 9151. Thank you…
    Could the driver of a blue VW Golf parked in the rear car park please move it immediately.
    I gave up trying to drive in about a month after I started working at Briarstone. There were only three spaces allocated for the Intel Unit, and in fairness I didn’t need my car during the day as some of the others did. It cost twelve quid a week for the Park and Ride, but at least I didn’t have to fart around moving my car every five minutes because I was blocking someone in.
    I always got in at least an hour before everyone else. It gave me a chance to get settled, to do things quickly that needed to be done. A chance to brace myself for another week of it.
    There was no telling what order they’d roll in – it depended on traffic, the sort of weekend they’d all had, the weather and, in the case of the uniforms, whether they’d been called out for any reason. But one thing was sure: Kate would always be last, pushing it as far as she could, and when she arrived she would say hello to everyone in the office except for me.
    ‘Morning, Trigger. Kettle on, is it? Morning, Carol – good weekend? Morning, Jo, Sarah. Where did you get to on Friday? I lost you after the pub! Did you go to Jaxx? What was it like in there?’
    Eventually – a good twenty minutes after she’d taken her coat off and hung it on the back of the door – she’d turn the computer on and complain about how bloody slow the system was. And maybe twenty minutes after that, Jo or Amy or Sarah or someone from the office next door would call for her and they’d all go up to the canteen on the top floor for breakfast.
    Today, it was Carol.
    ‘You coming?’ she said.
    Kate was already on her feet, purse in hand. ‘Absolutely. I’m chuffing ravenous.’
    ‘Morning, Annabel,’ Carol said to me, sweetly. ‘Do you want anything bringing back?’
    Sometimes they asked me this. They never asked me if I’d like to go with them, of course, because they were afraid I’d say yes and then they’d have to make conversation with me.
    ‘No, thanks.’
    They’d already turned away from the door and the office was blissfully quiet again. If any of them had asked about my weekend, I would have told them. If they’d bothered, they could have heard all about how I found the body next door. I could