by J.G. Ellis
Chapter Eleven
“I appreciate you’re tired, Barbara,” he said; “but I need to have this straight. I can’t have the press knowing more than me about this.” He being Superintendent Wilson, looking rather ragged. He was wearing an evening suit rather than his uniform – had been attending some civic function when the bad news – or developments in the investigation – had reached his ears and spoiled his evening’s enjoyment. We were in his office, where I had most definitely been summoned. DS Brightly had been left in charge of the scene. Not a crime scene, as he later testily pointed out; hardly even a potential one. I desperately wanted to go home. I wanted to see my partner and have a drink – not necessarily in that order.
“My report, sir,” I said. I handed him two hastily typed – or word-processed – pages, detailing my supper invitation from Lisa Markham and my subsequent visit to 50 Princes Street. He read through it, and then handed it back to me with a pained expression.
“I can’t go with this, Barbara,” he said. “You must see that.”
“Should I care, sir?” I replied. “Aren’t the politics your problem?”
He swivelled in his chair – turning his back on me – to face the window and the night. “Yes, you’re right. Go home, Barbara. Sleep.” He turned back to me as I was in the process of leaving. “Well done, incidentally.”