9.

The office, Monday morning. The normality seems strange. I feel like I’ve been away a million years. Most people have hardly noticed I’ve been gone.

Bev Rowlands, says, ‘Fi! How was your course?’

‘It was fine. Quite fun, actually.’

‘God, I’d never do anything like that,’ says Bev, then starts telling me about an outdoor training course she did once where she had to climb up some rope netting strung between two pine trees.

I don’t quite understand the point of the story, but say ‘gosh’ anyway.

As we’re chatting, DCI Jackson walks past and says, ‘Well done, Fiona,’ but doesn’t stop.

The morning briefing is full of busy nothings. Huw Bowen’s manslaughter case, the one I initially wanted, has turned dull. No new murders. No proper assaults, no good ones. A presentation from some traffic officers about various pre-Christmas campaigns they’re running. A talk about cost-cutting and the correct use of community support officers.

When I use the Ladies, I notice that the mirror has streak marks and the soap dispenser nozzles are gummed up. I use paper towels to remove the streak marks and do a basic job on the soap nozzles too.

I’m tasked to process paperwork on a couple of cases that are coming to court. Someone assigns me to help on a team that is developing advice on how to avoid thefts from vehicles. The first of our meetings takes an hour and forty minutes and the gist of our advice will be, ‘Lock your car and hide your valuables.’ Or, to simplify further, ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot.’

I suggest that as a slogan and everyone looks at me.

I read all the statements accumulated by the Fraud Squad inquiry. They’ve done just as Buzz said. Interviewed everyone local. Checked for unexpected inflows of money. Checked anyone with access to the store’s management suite on the day when the offending payroll entries were made. Verified with Swindon that those entries were in fact made locally. And that’s it. The inquiry hasn’t been closed, exactly, but it’s been effectively killed all the same. The T.M. Baron money went from the UK to Spain to Belize and we haven’t yet been able track it beyond that point.

One morning, on the way into work, I buy one of those big chocolate cookies, still warm from the oven and chewy in the middle. Make a big cup of black coffee, no sugar. Take these gifts to DCI Jackson’s office. Tell him what I want. Say, ‘Pretty please.’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’

He’s not bothered by my request as such, but he’s wary of offending his counterparts in Fraud.

‘There is a dead body here,’ I say. ‘This is our case too.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I don’t need much time. If I can’t sort things quickly, I’ll leave it.’

He asks what I specifically want to do. I tell him.

‘OK. I’ll speak to Fraud. But here’s the deal. I’ll get Owen to give you proper instructions. You complete those instructions as written. You complete them within a day. And normal rules apply, Fiona, OK?’

Normal rules: that’s Jackson-speak for me not doing anything to piss him off.

‘Yes, sir.’

I stand and offer my very best salute. Saluting senior officers is pretty much unheard of these days. Police officers are required to salute at Remembrance Day services and in the presence of a hearse or the sovereign, but those things don’t come along every day and it’s possible that my mark of respect is lacking a certain technical precision.

‘Fiona, we’re done. You look like a gay man waving.’

I leave the room. As well as the coffee and cookie, I brought a file full of the Morgan paperwork, in case Jackson wanted to inspect it. He didn’t, but the door has a heavy self-closing mechanism and I find it hard to open with my one free hand. In the end, I have to put the folder down, use both hands on the door, then pick up the folder when I have it open.

Jackson stares at me. His eyes are impassive, but his lips move. The only words that come out are, ‘One day. Normal rules.’