The DCI threw up her hands, bawled, ‘No exceptions, ma’am!’
‘Right, ma’am.’ Rachel should have automatically added a term of respect, either boss or ma’am or chief inspector. Failing to do so gave an impression of insubordination. You never knew with bosses what they’d favour: some wanted rank and only rank, others were on first-name terms with everyone. Rachel had decided when she got to fling her weight around she’d want to be called boss. Not ma’am like some minor royalty, an old trout in a tiara.
Gill Murray flailed her hands again, turned round on the spot, first one way then the other, as if she was doing some weird robotic dance, then stalked off back across the grass.
Rachel had imagined she’d be taller, tall and slim like Rachel herself. But Murray was more petite. Looked good for her age; must have fifteen years on Rachel. Perhaps she’d had some ‘work’ done.
Inside her jacket, Rachel could feel a prickle of sweat under her arms. Stuff her, she told herself, if I’d let her through without ID, I’d have been in for a bollocking by the crime-scene manager. ‘Procedure is there for a reason,’ the instructor had drilled into them at training, ‘because it works. Brains far mightier than yours have spent years identifying how we detect and prosecute crimes. You prat about, missing a step, trying to take a shortcut and nine times out of ten you’re handing our offender a get-off-scot-free card. Do it. Do it how it should be done. Do it right.’
The DCI arrived back, her mouth screwed up tight, thrust a lanyard with her warrant card at Rachel. Painted nails, Rachel noticed, scarlet talons. There was something birdlike about the woman. Hawkish, attractive, cheekbones like scalpels, but hawkish all the same.
‘DCI Gill Murray,’ the woman said, her eyes flashing. Or reptilian, Rachel thought: lizard, velociraptor.
‘Thank you,’ Rachel said. She pulled off one of her thermal gloves and made a note in the log.
‘And your name, Constable?’ Gill Murray said brusquely, pulling on her disposable gloves with a snap-snap.
Rachel took a breath. Oh God I am such a dick. She’s gonna what… report me for doing my job? ‘DC Rachel Bailey.’
‘Working out of…?’ Nose wrinkled, as if Rachel was something she’d found on her shoe.
‘Sex Crimes, boss.’
‘Line manager?’
‘John Sutton.’ Sutton the Glutton.
‘Right,’ the DCI said, a sharp jerk of her head and she stepped through to the crime scene.
Rachel put her glove back on, her fingertips stung with cold. She wanted a fag now; a fag, a pee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich. And a hole in the ground to hide in while Gilly-knickers dreamt up her punishment.
