Every case generated a phenomenal amount of paperwork. As officer in charge, Janine not only had to keep tabs on all the different elements of the investigation and see their reports but also keep a meticulous log of her own and ensure that there were no omissions which could later jeopardise the chance of a result. She was multi-tasking, sifting through her in-tray and trying for some sort of prioritisation and also reading her emails when she was interrupted by Shap. ‘Boss, you got a minute, it’s about Ian…’
Still smarting from her encounter with Hackett, Janine felt her temper rise. ‘He should be here – not you,’ she said crisply, ‘tell him to see me himself.’
‘But, boss, it’s just… he’s straight as a die, everyone…’
‘Shap, I’m not interested in excuses.’
‘I just think, given the situation…’
‘The situation,’ she said hotly, ‘is that he’s a police officer-’
Shap interrupted. ‘And his brother died in a hit and run and they never got anyone for it.’
‘What?’ Janine stared at him. ‘Oh, God.’ She shook her head and groaned. ‘Where is he?’
‘Outside, we’re off to the Topcat now,’ Shap said.
‘He knows you’re here?’
Shap gave a shake of his head.
‘He should have told me,’ Janine said. ‘Why the hell didn’t he tell me? None of this might have happened.’
Shap kept quiet.
‘OK,’ she told him by way of dismissal. ‘Shap.’
He’d reached the door.
‘You knew all along?’
Shap nodded.
‘And did you talk to Ian about it, about maybe stepping down from the case?’
Shap fingered his neck, a sign of discomfort. ‘I tried, he wasn’t having it.’
‘How hard did you try?’
‘I mentioned it.’ There was a defensive edge in his reply.
Janine could imagine. A word or two would probably be as far as a heart to heart went with these blokes. Was the younger generation any different? As Shap left, she thought of her son Michael; he wasn’t at ease talking about anything that touched on emotional issues. He’d blush and mumble and generally squirm to be let off the hook. Some commentators now claimed the male brain was wired differently and others took that to mean there was no point in trying to change things. Janine didn’t agree; she understood some of the consequences of emotional illiteracy. The men she most often hunted down could no more express their feelings than they could read and write. Illiterate on all counts.
Janine observed the post-mortem on Jeremy Gleason. Susan told her that the state of Gleason’s head injury indicated a frontal shot from a relatively close distance. The angle of the entry wound suggested that the gun had been fired from above. The bullet had passed through Gleason’s head and had been recovered from the floor of the tunnel. It would be sent to specialist services for identification.
