Tony Hill u Carol Jordan 08 - Cross and Burn

the house on the opposite corner, taking very careful note of Marie’s destination and wondering how many more times she’d be walking through her own front door.

16

    O f course there wasn’t a legal parking space in the Minster Canal Basin. Cursing, Paula slotted the car into a disabled slot and propped a sign saying ‘police’ on the dashboard. It went against the grain, but then so did getting soaked to the skin on semi-official business. She consoled herself with the thought that not many disabled people would fancy negotiating the cobbles of the canal basin in monsoon conditions.
    As she headed for Tony’s floating home, she wondered fleetingly whether she should have phoned ahead. He didn’t exactly have a vibrant social life, but it wasn’t unusual for him to take long walks through the city. They were, he’d told her, a cross between sociological observation and thinking time. ‘Watch and learn, that’s what psychologists need to do,’ he’d said in an uncharacteristically frank exchange about the way he approached his work. ‘And then you have to apply what you’ve learned to what you observe.’
    ‘You’re better at it than most,’ Paula had commented.
    ‘It’s not rocket science. It’s mostly common sense mixed up with a bit of compassion and empathy. You could do it, you know.’
    She’d laughed. But he’d continued, absolutely serious. ‘You’re already doing it. I’ve watched you interviewing witnesses and suspects. You might not know the theory, but your practice stands comparison with most of the clinical psychologists I’ve seen in action. Maybe you should think about applying to the national faculty and training to be a police profiler.’
    ‘No way,’ she’d said. ‘I get my buzz from being on the front line. I don’t want to be a backroom person like you.’
    He’d shrugged. ‘Your choice. But when you do get to the point where you’ve had enough of the grind of procedure and the pettiness of the top brass, it’s an option.’
    What Tony had suffered in the course of his work cast a bitter light on the conversation now. Paula had seen the destruction at first hand, and she was grateful that she had routine and procedure to cling on to among the wreckage. She wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing by coming here, but her instincts, both professional and personal, had led her inevitably to his door. Or hatchway, she supposed you’d have to call it. At least it wasn’t a late call. Shortly before seven, Fielding had sent the team home. ‘There’s no budget for overtime and until we’ve got something back from the lab and the CCTV, you’re all just spinning your wheels.’ Paula had been stunned. Overtime had never been an issue on her old squad. They got on and did what had to be done when they were in the thick of it. The theory was that they’d take it easier in the quiet spells. Only there never had been any quiet spells.
    She stood on the quayside, momentarily flummoxed by the etiquette. When she’d been here before, they’d arrived together and she’d simply followed Tony aboard. But it felt somehow intrusive to climb aboard and knock on the hatch. Logically, it was no different to walking up someone’s path to knock on the door. Yet it felt wrong.
    ‘Get a grip, woman,’ she muttered, stepping aboard the steel-hulled narrowboat, not quite prepared for the definite movement of the deck beneath her feet. She almost stumbled, caught herself and rapped on the hatch. The top section swung open almost at once and Tony’s startled face appeared below.
    ‘Paula. I thought you were a drunk.’
    Her smile was grim. ‘Not quite. Not yet. You get a lot of drunks dropping by?’
    He busied himself with opening up to let her in. ‘Sometimes. Usually later than this. They think it’s amusing to jump on and off boats. It can be disconcerting.’ He spread the doors wide and beckoned her in with a grin. ‘And I wasn’t expecting you.’ His face clouded in a frown. ‘Was I?’
    Paula squeezed past him down the galley and into the saloon. The TV screen was frozen in a scene apparently set in a deep mine. A games console lay discarded on the table. ‘No. It was a spur of the moment decision.’ She took off her damp coat and hung it on a hook on the bulkhead then sat down on the buttoned leather banquette that surrounded three sides of the table.
    ‘Well, it’s always good to see you.’ He sat down opposite her, then stood up almost