The Trail Killer

One

The following day, Wednesday 26th March

It was a somewhat flustered DS Shields who swerved her Morris Marina to a halt in the car park of Branstead police station that fine spring morning.

Late.

Again.

She didn't feel so guilt-ridden however as not to take a few moments to inspect herself in the rear-view mirror before stepping outside. Oh Lord, her hair! It resembled more a ball of candyfloss some greedy kid had taken a couple of big, clumsy bites from rather than anything vaguely cool or trendy. Oh, for the seventies again when volume hadn't been a consideration and gravity had just been allowed to do its thing.

A desperate root around the glove compartment heralded an avalanche of items onto the passenger-side foot mat: a half-empty packet of Silk Cut cigarettes, an Abba cassette, an unpaid parking ticket, the emergency plastic bag she carried for Jamie's car sickness. After finally locating her can of hairspray and mascara, she proceeded to scrunch up the dents in her perm as best she could and give her lashes a hasty blackening and curl. There was a final disapproving scowl at her reflection before twisting the rear-view back into position and shouldering open the door.

It had been quite a while since she'd taken so much care over her appearance, she realised. Several long years, in fact. As she scurried through the entrance door and clambered up the stairs towards the CID room, she wondered what the reason was for her newfound obsession with mirrors. Perhaps more pertinently, who was the reason?

Detective Constable Jonah Bridcutt? Could it really be him? Quite apart from the whole muddled mess of being her work colleague, he was also ten years her junior. Dear Lord, was this what they meant by a mid-life crisis?

With a twist of a door handle, suddenly there he was - a slouched, torpid figure over at his desk, his index fingers brushing at the keys of his Macintosh, that damn Newton's cradle thingy of his clanking its hanging metal spheres. The upwards glance as Shields plopped her shoulder bag onto the desk in front of him was a languid one, his pleasure at her arrival communicated via the subtlest shift in expression rather than the full-on effort of a smile. A recent transfer from Wynmouth, the guy was quite distressingly handsome.

"Morning, sarge." He nodded towards the wall clock behind her. "Your usual punctual self I see."

"Babysitter woke up with a stomach bug. Had to call my ex-mother-in-law."

This provoked a flicker of lips. "Which one? The complete bitch or the crazy as hell one?"

Though difficult to unglue her gaze from those dreamy grey eyes of his, a wary glance towards DCI Gooch's glass-walled corner office was unavoidable. The sod was there all right, his bundled corpulence sliced between the half-drawn blinds, phone receiver clamped to his ear.

Resigned to the verbal reprimand her tardiness would inevitably unleash, she collapsed herself down into her chair. "The crazy as hell one," she sighed. "Brought her yoga mat along with her, said she was going to teach Lee and Jamie some basic moves out in the back garden."

"Transcendentalism for pre-pubescents! Good luck with that one."

"I just hope she can lay off the spliffs for one day, that's all."

Gooch had meanwhile appeared at his office doorway, a Benson & Hedges clamped in one hand, the other gripped around the doorframe as if fearful he might collapse. A heart attack, yes. What with his double chin, wheezy breath and vivid pink flesh tone, he always gave the impression of being just one more irritated rant away from a cardiac arrest.

"What bloody time do you call this then, sergeant?"

"Easter holidays, sir. Childcare problems. Had to call---"