Robert Parker - Snow Storm

“Is there any truth in the rumour that the two killings are connected?” asked an ageless hack who looked a lot like the crazy frog.

“We’re keeping an open mind at this time,” Gray replied, looking to his superior for reassurance that this was what he was allowed to say. “Best to keep thinking outside the box.”

Pity the head hadn’t been found in a box, Burke thought. That would have scuppered him. He couldn’t resist a smile at this but was woken from his smug satisfaction by a glare from Steele. It would not have surprised him if it had burned.

“Is this connected to the large amount of cocaine that’s been hitting the streets?” asked a woman with a film crew in tow and an unmoving forehead.

“We are pursuing multiple lines of enquiry,” Gray parroted.

“Meaning, you don’t know where to start?” asked a nasal voice from a red faced white haired man in a corduroy jacket with an outstretched hand and a dictophone.

“Meaning,” Steele interjected forcefully, “we are pursuing multiple lines of enquiry.”

“Who is responsible for the spike in drug related crime in the city?” asked the woman with the botoxed brow.

“We’re ehm,” Gray began, looking at Steele like a dog might view its owner after ruining the carpet with one of its bodily functions “not here to discuss drug related crime. Best to stay on topic I think.” He took a deep breath, before evidently picking a spot on the wall behind the congregation of local media, focussing and beginning his sermon. “This isn’t necessarily about the well-publicised war on drugs. It isn’t about a crime wave or statistics or how well we’re doing and it isn’t about what a victim may or may not have done. In each case it’s about someone’s son, someone’s partner, possibly even someone’s father. It’s about stopping this happening again, not for the statistics or the clear up rates but for the safety of the public. If anyone knows anything or knows anyone who knows anything, no matter how inconsequential it might seem, we would ask that they please come forward and share this information with us as soon as possible. This could have been your partner, your father, your son and if we don’t sort this out and bring the perpetrator or perpetrators to justice it could be next time.”

Give me strength Burke thought as someone at the back of the room did a mocking hand clap.

Gray had his sound bite. Within a couple of hours it would be on the news in people’s living rooms as they chomped on their TV dinners. It may even put them off their TV dinners.

Address over, the boss rose from his seat, jerking his head forward in an affirmative manner and adjusting his jacket so it hung off him in a forwards direction before triumphantly leaving the room.

Burke caught Steele’s gaze as she made to exit and thought he saw her stifling an eye roll.

He followed the pair down the corridor as the media scrum headed out the door on the other side of the room. They regrouped in Steele’s office, neither man wanting to sit down as the Detective Superintendent stared out the window at the yellowing skyline, flanked by photos of her grandkids. Steele’s office at least had a degree of personality to it compared with Gray’s tribute to 90s utilitarianism.

“I feel that went well guys,” she finally said, attempting to adjust an unruly pot plant. “You were fairly conspicuous in your silence James, although I think we managed to fill that void

fairly well. I trust you were actually with us in there?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Burke replied.

“Good. It’s good practice for you, you know. Media experience is a thing you’ll need to progress in the modern force.” Steele raised the index and middle fingers on each hand forming quotation marks before adding, “Going forward” and Burke couldn’t help but like her a little more for it. “In the mean-time chaps, what exactly is the script? Are we really pursuing multiple lines of enquiry as you said? I really hope we know something about what’s going on here.”

“Well,” Gray, started awkwardly, “there is one theory doing the rounds.” He looked appealingly at Burke, who now realised the DCI did not know where he was going with this one and expected his subordinate to help him out and magic something out of the ether.

He dutifully obliged with all he had while inwardly cursing Campbell for expressing his opinions.

After a conversation which made him feel like he needed to take a shower, he headed to Moray Place.

He pressed the buzzer next to the brass name plates heralding the names of the many MBACPs present and was duly allowed over the threshold. He announced his presence to the receptionist who seemed fresh faced and chirpy in contrast to those in the waiting room. His dentist employed a more matronly type who looked at patients with the knowing sense of foreboding combined with a touch of sympathy only years of dealing with the afflicted could provide. Here they’d gone for the screaming of their own success by employing someone with the right shade of lip gloss approach, more traditionally deployed by advertising agencies.

He took a seat by the stack of magazines under an aesthetically questionable Jackson Pollock rip-off and checked his emails. Aside from the standard invitations to buy Viagra and Xanax and the many warnings from the many banks he had no dealings with regarding the security of his accounts there was nothing to report.

Reflex meant he would normally dig his hands deep into his pockets in a place like this but he forced himself not to and instead picked up a magazine about running and thumbed through. One day perhaps he would be able to run the length of himself. Until such time he could always read about it here, provided he could pick up the magazine.

The receptionist called his name and he made his way through, head hung low, to explain himself some more.

Dr Carr was probably around five years older than he was but had a face with an ageless quality.

“Morning,” Burke began, “or is it afternoon?” He checked his watch. Just before twelve. “On the cusp,” he concluded as he sat down awkwardly and she smiled patiently.

She always had this effect on him. In the two years or so he’d been coming here there was invariably this disjointed exchange with the cursory attempt at small talk on his side and what could have been called a gentle stone wall in response.

“So, how are you?” she enquired.

“Good. Good,” he fired back, emphasising the second good and looking at his Chelsea-booted toes before catching her gaze and the raised eyebrow that suggested doubt at this. Social convention meant he always felt the need to ask the same back but as with the magazine he forced himself to defy reflex.

She said nothing, knowing he would give in and fill the uncomfortable void with whatever poured out. He reasoned it must be like the psychiatrist’s ink blot. You saw what you wanted to see and blurted out whatever came to your head. In a similar way she was tapping into whatever filled his mind, willing him to trip up on his fear of the conversational lull, the resultant drivel filling in whatever blanks she still had in his psychological profile.

This was his hell. Two years and three psychotherapists on and still there was no end in sight. It was a racket. Who didn’t have a screw or two loose?

He wasn’t there through choice but under orders; not Gray’s this time but Rachel’s. She put up with a lot but demanded this in return; one hour a week in the company of a shrink and his ghosts.

It was a large office but even Burke would concede it got crowded in here of a Wednesday afternoon.

“They’re back,” he said, cursing his own lack of self control and watching as she acknowledged this information without giving anything away.