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Wheeler addressed the room. “Ladies and genitals,” she began, hoping to take the edge off with a taste of her subtle humour.
    The din continued unabated.
    â€œLadies and GENTLEMEN!” Wheeler raised her voice but still no one took a blind bit of notice. She sent a scowl across the room to where that wanker D I Stevens was smirking against a wall. His moustache drooped suddenly, like a caterpillar that had just been shot. He approached.
    â€œGet these bastards’ attention for me,” Wheeler barked. Stevens scratched his chin and glanced around.
    â€œI could set the sprinklers off,” he offered.
    â€œWell, aren’t you the fucking genius!”
    Pattimore approached. He held out his hand as though inviting the chief inspector to dance. With the detective constable’s aid, Wheeler stepped onto a chair and thence onto a table top. Light from a ceiling projector picked her out like a diva about to sing.
    â€œThat’s fucking better.” She awarded Pattimore a rare smile. He was a good kid - despite his anger management issues. But since they didn’t impact the quality of his work, it was none of her fucking business.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” Wheeler’s third attempt succeeded. The din quickly diminished into a low murmur of those who were slow to catch on. An arched eyebrow and a pout soon shut those fuckers up. Wheeler smiled - like a shark welcoming dinner guests.
    She told them why they were there, which gave rise to outbursts of shock and disbelief. She asked for their patience and forbearance until more suitable and secure accommodation could be arranged. For the time being, they would have to sit tight in Serious, the safest building in the county.
    â€œThis is an outrage,” one man stood up. “An infringement of our civil liberties.”
    â€œHello, chick,” Wheeler smiled. “And who might you be?”
    The standing man turned purple. “I am Lionel Woolton, leader of the fucking council.”
    â€œI don’t care if you’m Paul Weller, leader of the Style Council. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”
    From across the room came the short, sharp sound of a slap: Superintendent Ball’s palm striking his own face.
    â€œWe all have important work to do,” Woolton continued. “It is vital we be allowed to do our jobs.”
    Around him, several councillors pulled faces. They didn’t look bothered either way.
    â€œAnd it’s vital I do my fucking job,” countered Wheeler. “If I’m to stop you getting your throats ripped open.”
    Superintendent Ball intervened. “I am sure,” he spoke in buttered tones, addressing his words directly to Lionel Woolton, “when the Chief Inspector has finished briefing you, our office suites will be at your disposal, for telephone calls and emails and the like.”
    Woolton scowled but accepted the compromise.
    â€œBut no bugger must say where they am,” Wheeler warned. “We don’t want that bastard knowing you’m all cooped up in here.”
    â€œQuite so,” Ball agreed. “I am sure everyone appreciates the need for secrecy.”
    The councillors and dignitaries nodded. They looked shit-scared, thought Wheeler. Good. The leader himself looked particularly shocked - unless that was the runaway zorilla on his head.
    The Mayor raised a tentative hand. “Will there be coffee?” he asked.
    â€œOf course!” Ball smiled, magnanimously.
    â€œAnd pizza?”
    â€œDon’t fucking push it,” said Wheeler.
    The sudden arrival of a woman in faux fur startled everyone. She was speaking into a mobile phone, cradled in the crook of her neck and swiping a manicured talon across the screen of a tablet.
    â€œNever mind, Saba,” she snapped. “I’ve found him now.”
    She went directly to Lionel Woolton and air-kissed the vicinity of his cheek.
    â€œWho the fuck is this?” said