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written down in front of him. God it was short. Of course it was. They had nothing to say to these people. What could he tell them? That they were thinking of arresting everyone in Glasgow who didn't own a car? Of course not. And so he had written down three sentences of total vacuity. A nothing statement, forced on him by a bloody-minded boss. He would liked to have seen him sit there and read out this garbage.
    He finished staring at it, looked up at the collected press. Aw shite, he thought, there are even more than usual. Maybe a few up from England. He made the decision quickly and without any prior consideration. To Hell with it, he thought, give them something a bit more solid than this piece of vacuous mince.
    He cleared his throat and, pretending to read from the paper in front of him, began in his low, serious press-voice.
    'Ladies and gentlemen. I shall be necessarily brief today, which I am sure you will understand when you hear what I have to say.' He paused briefly. Shit. What was he going to say exactly? Cleared his throat again, took a drink from the glass of water at his right hand, then jumped into the blazing inferno, eyes open. 'Late last night, officers from this station came into possession of a valuable piece of evidence, the exact nature of which I am not yet at liberty to divulge. It has given us a very definite direction of inquiry which we are now pursuing with all possible vigour.' Not bad, he thought. Optimistic, but vague. Don't blow it. 'Given the nature of this new information, we are hopeful of a major development in this investigation, some time in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.' Christ, what are you saying? You idiot. Shut up, and don't say any more. 'I am afraid that I am unable to disclose any more information at this time, but you can be assured that when these anticipated further developments have taken place, you will be notified in the usual manner.'
    He closed his mouth, blinked, looked up. A brief second and the room had erupted in a cacophony of noise. He sat looking like a stuffed fish, while Sgt Mahoney did her best to calm the crowd. Eventually, after some time and with much difficulty, the room had returned to rest, and the Sergeant pointed a yellowed finger to a man with his arm raised, near the front of the crowd.
    'Bill Glasson, Evening Post,' he said, a look of surprise upon his face. It was the first time he'd been called at a press conference in fourteen years, and he had no idea what question to ask. He knew they were not going to get anything more out of the guy, but they were obliged to shout at him. It was their job. When the tumult erupted he had been asking what the inspector had had for breakfast that morning, just so he could add to the clamour. A new question was needed, however.
    'So,' he said, thinking frantically, 'you say you have some idea who the killer is. Do you know exactly who the killer is?'
    Holdall shook his head. What a crap question, he thought. He could have sworn that before, this bloke had been asking him something about breakfast.
    'I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to discuss any information other than that which I have just given to you.'
    When it became obvious that he wasn't going to say any more on the matter, the clamour immediately started up again, and after a minute or two, was quietened down. Enough of this, thought Holdall. What's the point? If I go on with this, I'll just end up saying something even more stupid than I already have done.
    He muttered quietly to the sergeant that he would only take one more question, and when she announced this to the crowd, there was an even more extravagant commotion and frantic waving of hands. She selected the most innocent looking one, a young blonde haired woman sitting in the centre of the room.
    'Greta Burridge, the Mail.' Greta Burridge swallowed. Third day on the job. She had her question to ask, however. 'So, Chief Inspector Holdall, does this mean that the rumours that you