He grinned. ‘S’all those cop shows on TV. See, they are useful.’

How could she argue? ‘Right. Well, don’t forget to charm Sylvia Wilson with those manners of yours, will you?’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Marie was starving. The morning had flown by, and she hadn’t had lunch yet. She was just about to dash to the canteen when her phone rang.

‘Ralph. You okay?’

‘More than okay, Marie. We made a blindingly good collar last night. A couple of dodgy moments, but we got a good two-thirds of them, including the ringleaders, and all of the merchandise, so we’re well chuffed.’

Marie knew all about that magical buzz. She could feel it now — her phone was almost vibrating with it. ‘Well done! Bet you’re knackered.’

‘I’ll say. The minute the adrenalin starts to wear off it hits you like a steam train.’ He laughed. ‘It’s taken until now to process them all. So, I’m off home to hit the sack. I just wanted to tell you I’m safe, and happy as a pig in shit.’

She laughed. ‘You have a good wallow. Ring me later?’

‘Sure. Speak soon.’

She sat smiling idiotically at the empty screen. Finally, she grabbed a sandwich and hurried back to her desk to look at her list of things to be done. She saw that she had neglected to check out their new resident Mr Giles Bannon, who might or might not be a murderer. She had promised Jackman not to let this slip, but their intruder had got in the way.

If only she could just pay him a call, but that would be frowned upon. There was nothing in the memo sent from his home area constabulary but a notification that he had basically been hounded out of his neighbourhood and had decided to move to their patch.

There was so much she didn’t know about Bannon, like where he was living, what he looked like and how he was spending his time. His address had been given as Hobhole, an odd place consisting of a few scattered houses placed at seemingly random intervals along a stretch of a canal known as Hobs Drain. Arable farmland extended beyond and below it as far as the eye could see. The buildings stood like solitary little islands, edged with trees or conifers protecting them from the relentless North Sea gales.

She glanced at the clock. Almost three. Hobhole was about fifteen minutes away by bike. ‘Going out for half an hour or so,’ she called to Robbie. ‘When Gary comes back, tell him I’m just doing a recce of Giles Bannon’s new home.’

‘Will do, Sarge.’