Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

at my job, people know that. Now, we have to figure out a way to spin this that doesn’t drop anyone in the shit.’
    Carol grinned. ‘Just like old times.’
    Paula shook her head. ‘No way. Old times was me and Tony figuring out how to avoid you going ballistic at one or both of us for bending the rules.’
    Carol’s smile disappeared. ‘I suppose so. Well, one thing we all know for sure. That won’t be happening again.’

    In another part of the building Bradfield’s Chief Constable was wondering why he’d been so keen to take on this job. He believed he’d put together an efficient and effective team, but he’d just had to listen to the woman he thought his best DCI explain how she’d let a bee in her bonnet drive her over the edge of professionalism into a kind of stubborn madness. In the old days, he could have rammed a lid on her fuck-up with a fair degree of certainty that it would never leak out to the public. But these days, with a twenty-four-hour rolling news cycle and a ravenous social media, the chances of keeping things quiet were nil. You could only cling to the hope that something else would make a louder noise to distract the twitterati.
    James Blake exhaled heavily and pushed himself to his feet. He opened a cupboard and stared longingly at a bottle of cognac. What he wouldn’t give for a large drink right now. But he still had a truly horrible encounter to deal with, and he daren’t go into it smelling of drink. He closed the door and pulled himself up to his full height. He knew he could be imposing in a certain way, and God knew he needed that now. He slipped into his executive bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. There was something old-fashioned about his looks, he knew that. His wife said he had the air of a man who should be astride a horse leading a pack of hounds in pursuit of a fox. And although his background was relentlessly lower middle class, he played up to that image. He’d cultivated an accent several degrees above his natural station, he tended to wear country tweeds with double-vented jackets over Tattersall checked shirts, his pink cheeks were always freshly shaven, his hair treated with some expensive unguent from Floris. He’d moved to Bradfield from Devon, where he’d fitted in better, but had felt constrained by the lack of serious crime.
    Well, this was where serious crime got you. Standing in your office in the middle of the bloody night waiting to be eviscerated by a woman who could stand as the dictionary definition of ‘bitch’. James Blake tightened his stomach muscles and stalked back into his office. He crossed to the door, opened it and gestured to the waiting pair. ‘Do come in.’

    Paula walked Carol down to the Skenfrith Street car park and her Land Rover. She watched her tail lights disappear then lit a cigarette, shivering in the damp night air. She’d barely smoked half of it when her phone rang. When she saw it was Elinor, she was tempted to send it straight to voicemail. She imagined the arrest was on the news and she couldn’t talk about it yet with Elinor or Torin. But loyalty won over expediency and she took the call. ‘DS McIntyre,’ she said, using their standard code to make it clear they were in work mode.
    ‘This is only a quickie. I saw the news and I know you must be up to your eyes. But I thought you’d want to know.’
    ‘Know what?’
    ‘We’ve spoken to Torin’s dad again. Actually, Torin did most of the speaking. They’ve had a really good chat. He talked about how he feels about his mum. He really opened up. And then I was able to talk to Tom. The upshot is that Tom would be very grateful if we’d have Torin to stay until he’s finished his tour of duty in Afghanistan.’
    Paula could hear the genuine pleasure in Elinor’s voice. She wasn’t entirely sure how much of that delight she shared, but she was willing to go along for the ride. She’d never dreamed of a quiet life. Which was probably just as well. She stubbed out her smoke and walked into the warm fug of the station. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I think Bradfield’s the best place for him right now.’
    ‘I love you, DS McIntyre. I’ll see you later.’
    Paula grunted. ‘I doubt it, the way things are going.’ She walked back into the squad room. And the moment’s respite was over.
    Because then an eager detective constable with an unruly mane of ginger curls raised a hand, as if she was in a GCSE maths class. ‘Sergeant, you know