A Taste for Malice Read Free

a line of power-hungry convicts. All things considered a desk covered in holiday requests and sick notes was not such a poor alternative.
    Everyone leaves the room to start work and I am left with Peters. He is sitting on the table in the front of the room. I remain seated at the back.
    ‘Congratulations on the promotion,’ I say.
    ‘Right. Thanks.’ He wears an expression of surprise, like he had prejudged my response to his promotion and he had fallen way short.
    ‘You’ve worked hard for it,’ I shrug. ‘Brown-nose a few journalists, disrespect your fellow officers…’
    His expression returns to resignation. ‘Ray, I refuse to bandy words with you. Truth of the matter is I am held in high regard. Whereas your career,’ he pauses for dramatic effect, ‘is fucked.’ He leaves the room.
    ‘Fair enough,’ I say to the empty space before me. ‘Fair enough.’
    Cut the guy some slack, I tell myself. He’s only following his nature. Much in the same way a snake has to slide on its belly.
    Well done, McBain. That episode of the cutting of the slack lasted all of two seconds. I just can’t help it; the man is hardwired into my irritation circuit.
    A head appears in the doorway.
    ‘Boss,’ it’s Daryl Drain. ‘You awright?’
    ‘Why would I not be?’
    ‘Just fuckin’ asking.’ He shoots me the finger, grins and then disappears. It would take more than a terse answer from me to get through his thick hide.

    Before I head for my office I make myself a coffee. I don’t take it from the machine. I make it from scratch. With a kettle and everything. The time taken for this task doubles with this simple choice.
    I have kept my old office. No one managed to steal it from me during my absence. As soon as I enter the door I feel the dry, almost oxygen-free heat supplied by our airconditioning system.
    Once I drain my mug of coffee I place it on a once-white coaster stained with ring upon ring of coffee spillage. Is that how they age old police has-beens, I wonder? Count the coffee rings on their coaster?
    My email inbox is chocka. Good. That’ll take at least an hour to go through.
    Internal memo. Internal memo. Internal memo. All fascinating stuff. All completed in that sterile police prose where a Latinate word is seen to be evidence of intelligence. Use words of four syllables or more and you are a fucking genius.
    I’m on auto-pilot and barely picking up one word per paragraph when an image grows in my mind. It’s Leonard, the real so-called Stigmata Killer and he’s grinning. My forehead is slick with sweat. My forearms burn as a knife flashes.
    I push my seat back and look down at my wrists expecting to see a gush of blood. But of course they are concealed under my shirt sleeves, which are white and detergent clean.
    ‘You alright, Ray?’ a head appears in my doorway.
    ‘Of course I’m all-fucking-right,’ I answer, then realise it’s Alessandra Rossi. If one person doesn’t deserve attitude, it’s her.
    ‘Sorry, Ale,’ I wave her in to the room with one hand while the other wipes sweat from my forehead. ‘It’s …’ I feel myself about to launch into an hour long moan, ‘it’s nothing.’ Smile. ‘Just really warm in here.’
    She sits down in front of me, ‘Yeah, I understand. Could be better, eh?’ We both know she is talking about something else entirely. I notice she has a pad of paper in her hand. Her script fills the page.
    ‘Anything I can help you with?’ Then I speak louder for the benefit of anyone lurking outside the room. ‘Like holidays? Time off for medical procedures? Counselling after the death of your favourite cat?’
    ‘It’s pussy, I’m afraid,’ she grins. ‘Got something lodged in her throat.’
    ‘Anyone I know?’
    ‘Fuck off, McBain,’ she stifles a giggle. Then she sobers. ‘Haven’t had the chance to say yet, but it’s good to have you back, Ray.’
    ‘Thank you,’ the new me answers. The old me would have told her to piss off. ‘It’s good