Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

‘And this is …?’ asked Fry.

Hitchens smiled a grim smile. ‘Our new boss.’

‘What?’

Their divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Jepson, was chairing the meeting of the CID team in his office. He gestured at Hitchens to hush him.

‘Ripley have finally made an appointment to the SMT,’ said Jepson. ‘E Division has a new detective superintendent.’

There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at the photo. The latest addition to the senior management team, another source of motivational emails.

‘DS Hazel Branagh,’ said Hitchens to break the tension. The tone of his voice was difficult to pin down, as if he’d made a particular effort to sound neutral.

‘She’s a ferociously efficient administrator,’ said Jepson. ‘And highly respected by her present team. All the people who work for her say the same thing. With Superintendent Branagh, they know exactly where they stand.’

‘Not within striking range, I imagine,’ whispered Murfin to Cooper.

Jepson frowned at the interruption, though he hadn’t heard what had been said. ‘You know, some managers aren’t able to keep their distance from the troops. They try to be too friendly with their junior officers. I know what a temptation it is to do that — you want to be all mates together, that sort of thing. Bonding, they call it these days. But it doesn’t work, you know — you just lose their respect, in the end.’

He was looking at Hitchens, and kept his gaze fixed in that direction until the DI felt obliged to respond.

‘Yes, sir. Absolutely.’

‘No matter how much you crave popularity, you’ve got to stand apart from the crowd to be a real leader. Now Hazel Branagh, on the other hand — she has tremendous respect from the officers in her team.’

Cooper looked at the photo again. Branagh’s badly applied make-up gave her the appearance of a recently deceased auntie who’d been prepared by the funeral director. In this case, the family had been so impressed that they’d propped Aunt Flo in a chair for one last photo before they buried her.

‘The word is that she won’t be with us very long anyway, sir,’ said Hitchens.

‘In tune with the canteen gossip, are we?’ asked Jepson.

‘Something like that.’ The DI didn’t bother to point out that they weren’t allowed to have a canteen any more, to discourage the formation of a canteen culture. ‘I’ve heard the possibility discussed, that’s all.’

‘Well, you’re right, Paul. Superintendent Branagh has already earned a reputation for herself all around the country. The next force that has an ACC’s job up for grabs, it’s certain somebody will come sniffing around here. You can bet on it.’

Diane Fry laid back her head and closed her eyes. Gradually, the stiffness began to ease, and the tension drained from her shoulders. For hours, she’d been staring at her computer screen, wading through figures and reports, checking online forms, reading endless emails from the SMT. It would take a while longer for the weariness to clear from her brain.

On this side of the building, they had to keep the lights on all day in December, much to the frustration of the admin officer, who’d found it impossible to deal with the lack of daylight by writing a memo.

For Fry, the quality of the light was further hampered by the strings of glittery tinsel and concertinas of red-and-green decorations spelling out ‘Merry Christmas’ above the desks, as if no one would know what time of year it was otherwise. She was surprised that Christmas decorations were allowed under Health and Safety regulations. This was one occasion when she would have welcomed a memo. She was tempted to write one herself, but knew she’d be nicknamed ‘Scrooge’ for the rest of her career.

There was a desultory display of Christmas cards on top of the filing cabinets. Most of the cards were from other agencies, one from their local MP. Cooper had received a few personal messages from members of the public — ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us’, that sort of thing. Tasteless cards with teddy bears and glittery nativities, signed with little hearts. He’d put them among the general collection, but that only made it worse.

Fry sneezed suddenly.

‘Bless you,’ said Cooper. She wondered why he, like everyone else, couldn’t keep the note of surprise from his voice when he said it.

‘Damn it,’ said Fry. ‘I’d better not be getting a cold.’

‘Do you get colds much at this time of year?’

‘I never used to, when I lived somewhere civilized.’

‘Oh, really? So they lace the water with Lemsip in Birmingham, do they?’

Fry gazed out of the window. Well, not out of it exactly. She couldn’t see the outside world at all, only the blur of water running down the glass. Not that it mattered much, since all she could see on a good day was the back of the East Stand at Edendale Football Club.

She always tried to get into the office earlier than anyone else in CID, which in the winter meant when it was still dark. It gave her time to do the jobs she needed solitude for. First thing this morning, she’d been on her computer practising assessment techniques, ready for her first set of PDRs — personal development reviews for her DCs — next spring. PDRs were dealt with by the Human Resources manager, who had been known to return them with advice on improving their quality.

‘It’s this bloody weather,’ she said. ‘There’s no way of avoiding it. I’ve been soaked three times this week. Is it any wonder I’m getting a cold? I’ll probably be off with flu by Monday.’

‘It’s a weakness in the immune system, if you ask me,’ said Cooper. ‘It comes with urban life. You don’t get exposed to nature enough when you’re growing up.’

Fry found a tissue and blew her nose, which was starting to run. Hay fever in summer, and a permanent cold in winter. Welcome to the rural idyll.

There was no clear evidence yet of murder, but it could turn up at any moment. With no obvious offender, it would be a grade B enquiry, an initial maximum of sixteen officers, the DI probably doing the day-today co-ordination, with Kessen as nominal SIO. Fry knew she was second-guessing, but she liked to see if her assessments were accurate, whether she had learned the same grasp of priorities that her senior officers operated on.

Of course, there were other factors to be taken into account. Resources, obviously. A major enquiry would generate a ton of paperwork — statements, messages, telexes, personal descriptive forms, questionnaires, officers’ reports, house-to-house forms, transcripts of interviews.

She sneezed again. ‘Damn.’

‘The trouble is, the winters are too mild,’ said Cooper. ‘Bugs don’t get killed off the way they used to. It’s the same with pests on the crops. At one time, no one had to spray insecticide until the spring. Now, it’s a problem all year round.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Global warming. I’m saying there are no frosts to kill anything off. We get a warm, wet summer and a mild, wet winter. It’s no good in the long term.’

‘I don’t believe in global warming.’

‘What?’

‘I think it’s all just a big scare, to distract us from more important things.’

‘What’s more important than the destruction of the planet?’ said Cooper.

‘You see? You’re exaggerating. People exaggerate about it all the time.’

‘Are we ready for the off, or what?’ said Murfin. ‘The fleshpots of Rakedale await, boys and girls.’

Fry stood up and brushed some silver glitter off the shoulders of her jacket.

‘Damn tinsel. I’m probably allergic to it.’

The mobile incident room was on site at Pity Wood. A thirty-foot trailer equipped with computers, drop-down screens and video and DVD equipment, and a ‘front office’ open to the public. It had on-board generators and floodlight masts. And, most importantly, it had heating, a fully equipped kitchen and toilet facilities. The cold rain falling steadily on the farm was enough to drive officers into the trailer on any pretext.