The Trail Killer

Thirteen

Both his hands laden with the detainees' breakfast trays he'd brought over from the canteen, PC Wakelin was forced to push open the door of the custody office with his boot.

"Couldn't give me a hand, could you, sarge?"

Sweeping closed the tabloid he was reading, Sergeant Gibbs gave a nod. "Story's front page, no less." Even upside down, Wakelin had little difficulty deciphering the headline.

 Indian Monster.

"Thought you were only interested in page 3, sarge."

Unloading one of the trays from his subordinate, Gibbs frowned at the culinary offering there under his nose. Burnt toast and a lump of grey mush which bore a vague resemblance to scrambled eggs.

"Let's just say there's a couple of things I like to check out on that particular page each morning."

With an exchange of smirks, they set off down the corridor.

"They tell me old Bert was at it again last night," muttered Wakelin.

"Banged and screamed till well past one. His age, heaven knows where he gets the energy from."

As they approached the cells, Gibbs hushed his voice a little.

"Heard Dunwick station had to get a patrol car to sit in front of Gupta's house all night. Broken window, apparently. Graffiti on the front wall."

"As I was coming into the station just earlier," responded Wakelin, "I saw that one of the curry houses along Cranwell Road had taken a hit. They said on the news there'd been similar incidents up and down the country last night."

Gibbs gave a shrug. "Serves 'em right, you ask me. Should never have come over here in the first place." He nodded to his left. "You serve the Paki bastard, I'll see to our friend Bert."

Wakelin thrust down the flap, plonked the tray onto the ledge.

"Wakey, wakey Gupta!"

It was only then that he took a glance inside the cell.

Only then that he noticed the toppled chair by the far wall, Gupta's feet dangling a yard above the floor.

*

That first moment of consciousness after waking. Trying to bring it all back, reel it in. Who she was, where she was, what point the mile-o-metre of her life was at. Then it came: the profound disappointment of realising she was Diane Shields.

The phone down in the hallway was ringing, she also realised. Creaking open an eyelid, she glanced at the bedside clock: not even half past seven. Didn't whoever it was on the other end of the line know that in Diane Shields Land before half past seven didn't exist? She just wasn't an early morning person. Not particularly a mid- or late-morning person either, but definitely not an up-with-the-rooster sort.

Sighing, she flapped back the bedsheets, hauled herself upright. As her bare feet padded down the stairs, she had the sinking feeling it would be Jessica on the other end of the line to communicate some last-minute complication which meant she wouldn't be able to make it over that day.

It was a surprise therefore to hear the chain-smoker's wheeze of Inspector Gooch.

"Any chance you could start a little earlier today, sergeant?"

"Well I... I could call my babysitter, I suppose. Had a new one start yesterday. She seems to be pretty flex---"

"It's a job for a female, see," Gooch interrupted. "Just there aren't any WPCs on duty over at Dunwick at the moment, and we really should inform them in person before we release it to the press."