The Trail Killer

Two

 With a muffled grunt, Shields stretched across to pull up the latch of the passenger door. "Excuse the mess. Had a little accident earlier."

Before being able to climb aboard, Bridcutt was obliged to scoop up the spilled objects from the foot mat, cram them back inside the glove compartment.

There was a perplexed frown as he examined the fallen cassette. "Abba. Really?"

"What's wrong with liking Abba?"

From the silent shake of his head, it seemed quite a lot.

The packet of Silk Cut was then held out accusingly towards her like a prosecution lawyer wielding a damning piece of evidence before the jury.

"Thought you'd given up."

"I have, sort of." She looked across as he finally lowered himself onto the passenger seat. "Oh, come on, a sneaky one every now and again doesn't really count, everyone knows that."

Following a grind of the gearstick, they set off into stuttering motion.

"Still don't see why we couldn't have taken my car, sarge."

"Just kind of fancied getting there in one piece I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

Quite apart from the constable's gung-ho disregard for speed limits and recommended tail-to-bumper distances, the truth was she just hadn't been able to face the thought of that godawful music he insisted on putting on the tape deck. What was the name of that band he worshipped? The Smiths or some such. Christ Almighty, it was enough to make you want to slash your wrists.

Ahead, the going was snail-paced. It being market day, the central crossroads was reduced to a treacherous, first-gear crawl amidst the tight huddle of stalls and bargain-hunters. Once they were finally through and Shields' squint of concentration had loosened, Bridcutt turned her a glance.

"You shouldn't let him get to you, you know. Gooch, I mean. Different generation to us."

Shields inwardly smiled, encouraged by the fact the young constable viewed her as part as the same generation as himself. Not some bat-crazy aunt-like figure, just some bat-crazy older cousin, that was all.

"Not just a different generation," she remarked, "but a whole different century. He's still living in the nineteenth."

"More like the dark ages."

"Positively prehistoric."

Bridcutt nodded. "Prehistoric, yes. And just like dinosaurs, Gooch and his ilk will soon be extinct, disappear completely from the nation's work places. A woman like yourself, sarge, you just need to stay patient, ride out these next few years. Things'll get better, you'll see."

She scrunched up her face in doubtful reflection. "Took one hell of a meteorite to get rid of the dinosaurs, right?" There was a glance up at the cloudless sky. "Don't see another one heading our way any time soon."

As they headed out of town, the newsreader on the radio filled listeners in on the growing tensions between Libya and the USA. An update which provoked a resigned shake of the head from the passenger seat.

"Former B-movie actor still suffering from an inferiority complex hellbent on sparking World War Three."

In response, Shields attempted a reassuring tone. "Oh, I'm sure it won't come to that." But the truth was, she wasn't sure at all.

It came as something of a relief when the bulletin ended and the inoffensive voice of Lionel Ritchie came dripping through the speaker grill.

Hello. Is it me you're---?