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The thought that at some stage we're going to come face to face with this guy. And if we don't, it's because we'll have failed to do our jobs.
    Almost out the door when Sgt Ramsey stops my steady progress towards the first vodka tonic of the day.
    'Got something for you, Thomas.'
    'What?' I don't look impressed.
    'Aggravated assault in Westburn. Your show.'
    Oh, for fuck's sake.
    Taylor shrugs. 'See you in a couple of hours, Sergeant. I'll still be there.'
    Aye, right.

8

    Doubtless the world is quite right in a million ways; but you have to be kicked about a little to convince you of the fact.
    Not number twenty-one from the book of Useful Police Philosophy. From the writings of Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, I'm not denigrating the guy, but really I don't give a shit. Books are not my thing, particularly ones which were written way back, when making love to someone meant that you sat on the end of the bed and told the woman how good she looked in pink. And I think I speak for most of my colleagues when I say that. If any of us ever has the time to read a book – and with all the detecting and drinking that has to be done, it isn't often – we like to settle down with a good crime thriller. Pick up some handy detective-type hints. 19 th Century literature just isn't on the list.
    However, there are dark forces which conspire to thrust it down our throats, whether we want to hear it or not. The dark force, in particular, is Superintendent Charlotte Miller, BA Hons in English Lit. Not that she stomps around with her honours degree stamped on her forehead; she is a little more subtle than that, although not much. Lets her erudition spill out all over the place.
    It's a management tactic that's supposed to make you respect her intelligence and insight, when in fact all it makes most folks want to do is place their hands around her throat and squeeze. The I'm a smart bastard and you're an ignorant little shit, so do what I say routine. The attitude that launched a thousand rebellions.
    Stevenson is her favourite. Always throwing in quotes, or giving us some other little homily from his life. Very inspiring. I don't have a literary favourite – I go through life with no one to quote but myself.
    The woman is forty-nine, and therefore younger than a lot of the chief inspectors at her fingertips. This is, as you will imagine, a source of friction. Most of these guys are in their early fifties, they're not going anywhere else, and they're from the 'women should be in the kitchen with the washing up' generation. Confronted with a woman who is a) smarter than them, b) in a position to tell them what to do, c) going places they can't even dream about, and d) much, much better looking, most of them spend their days in a foul mood, dumping on delinquent constables. And sergeants.
    Point d) may seem the most trivial and sexist of the lot, but you have to be realistic. If this woman looked like one of those 1970's Czechoslovak shot putters, modelled for Hound Monthly, chewed tobacco and bent iron bars with her teeth, I'm sure they could cope with it a lot better. But she's a dream. I'd have her before any of these strapping, ball-crushing constables that pass through here – even the good looking ones like Bathurst – but there's no way Miller is going to go anywhere near the likes of me. It's not because she's married, because faithful she ain't. It's a power thing. She goes for people in power, people that can do things for her. And note that – people. Not just men. This woman would have fought on both sides of the Spanish Civil war, if you know what I'm saying.
    Gorgeous and bisexual. Holy crap. Seriously, any time you meet a woman like that, it's like they've been invented. By me. The chances of me, Miller and another gorgeous bisexual woman all ending up in bed together might be nil, but at least they're not as nil as they would be if she wasn't bisexual in the first place.
    Things did change a little between us a few months ago.