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and she wasn’t even his wife then,’ Henry bleated. ‘They weren’t even going out with each other.’
    â€˜I know, I know … I just didn’t expect the kind of backlash that came with all this, OK?’
    â€˜All right,’ Henry said, taking in the reality of the situation and the invertebrate in front of him, ‘what do I want? Substantive DCI … somewhere other than FMIT, say Major Crime … otherwise I’ll be knocking on the doors of the federation’s solicitors with my tale of woe and I’ll drag this whole thing through an employment tribunal, the press and maybe the court. The local rag loves dishing the dirt on us.’
    â€˜Henry,’ the chief declared, ‘I always knew you were a cunt.’
    â€˜And I always knew you were one, too. Sir.’
    They came out of the office, all smiles and handshakes for the benefit of the chief’s entourage.
    â€˜How’s the trial progressing?’ FB asked. ‘I know it constantly makes the papers, but I only get a chance to glance.’
    â€˜They’ve had a break this week … the final summing-up begins next Monday. Hopefully verdicts by the end of the week. Looks good, though.’
    The trial at Preston Crown Court of Louis Vernon Trent had been going on for six weeks and Henry had been present every single day. Trent stood charged with the murder of several young children and a police officer, amongst many other serious matters. The trial had attracted massive media attention across the world. Henry had been involved in Trent’s arrest and had spent the bulk of his time leading up to the trial ensuring that the complex case was watertight – and the proof was now in the pudding. As difficult and challenging as it had been putting the case together, Henry was convinced Trent would be spending the rest of his misery-causing life behind bars, unless he escaped, something he had a knack for.
    â€˜Good stuff, but he really deserves to be hung,’ FB said, patting Henry on the shoulder and opening the door which led out into the corridor, ushering him out with an ‘I’ll let you know about things, but don’t harass me for a while, OK?’ Just before he closed the door, Henry caught sight of the new deputy chief constable, Angela Cranlow, emerging from her office. It was the first time he had ever seen her in the flesh and he was quite taken aback, but didn’t get much chance for a lengthy appraisal as FB’s hand in the middle of his back propelled him out like a drunk being ejected from a bar into an alley.
    He exhaled and rubbed his face, turned and walked towards the stairs as his mind tumbled over what had just taken place in FB’s office. He was only vaguely aware of the door reopening behind him and the quick approach of footsteps – then a hand on the shoulder.
    It was Chief Inspector Andy Laker – bag carrier extraordinaire.
    â€˜Henry,’ he growled low, ‘don’t you ever do anything like that to me again. I can see why you’re a pariah. You are a loose cannon and you need putting out to grass.’
    With disdain, Henry peeled Laker’s fingers off his shoulder and flicked them away. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, proud of his well thought out retort. ‘And another thing’ – Henry turned and stepped menacingly towards Laker, making the smaller man step nervously back – ‘don’t mix your metaphors. It doesn’t suit you.’
    With that, he spun away, leaving the staff officer speechless in the corridor, his mouth popping like a grounded fish.
    Henry could not quite face going back to the classroom and being bombarded with race and diversity, particularly as the theme of the day was gender issues, including transsexuals, transvestites … trans-everything, most of which just made him angry. The race stuff had been quite interesting, all about Islam and religion, but men becoming women, or