Fever of the Bone Read Free

ambitious copper who thought it would be a good career move to run the country’s fourth-largest police force. Carol imagined the word ‘challenge’ had featured more than once in James Blake’s interview for Chief Constable. Her eyes scanned the room. ‘Where?’
    Paula looked over her shoulder. ‘He was giving out to the ACC Crime a minute ago, but he’s moved on. Sorry, chief.’
    ‘Never mind. Thanks for the tip-off.’ Carol raised her glass in a salute and carried on towards Tony. By the time she’d worked her way through the crowd, her glass was empty again. ‘I need another drink,’ she said, leaning against the wall beside him.
    ‘That’s your fourth glass,’ he pointed out, not unkindly.
    ‘Who’s counting?’
    ‘I am, obviously.’
    ‘You’re my friend, not my shrink.’ Carol’s voice was icy.
    ‘That’s why I’m suggesting you might be drinking too much. If I was your shrink, I wouldn’t be nearly so judgemental. I’d be leaving it up to you.’
    ‘Look, I’m fine, Tony. There was a time after . . . I admit there was a time when I was drinking too much. But I’m back in control again. OK?’
    Tony held up his hands, palm out, placatory. ‘Your choice.’
    Carol sighed deeply and put her empty glass on the table next to his. He was maddening when he was this reasonable. It wasn’t as if she was the only one who disliked having the fucked-up aspects of her life dragged out into the light of day.
See how he likes it
. She smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we go outside for a breath of fresh air, then?’
    His smile was puzzled. ‘OK, if you want.’
    ‘I’ve found out some stuff about your father. Let’s go somewhere we can talk properly.’ She watched his smile shift to a rueful grimace. The identity of Tony’s father had only come to light after his death, thanks to his decision to leave his estate to the son he’d never known. Carol knew very well that Tony was at best ambivalent about Edmund Arthur Blythe. He was as keen to talk about his recently discovered father as she was to discuss her putative dependence on alcohol.
    ‘Touché. Let me get you another drink.’ As he picked up the glasses, his path was blocked by a man who emerged from the press of bodies and stood four square before them.
    Carol gave him her routine assessing stare. Years ago, she’d developed the habit of forming mental descriptions of people who crossed her path, assembling a picture in words as if it was destined for a ‘wanted’ poster or a police artist. This man was short for a police officer, burly without being fat. He was neatly barbered, the white line of a side parting dividing the light brown hair. His skin was the ruddy pink and white of a foxhunter from the shires, hazel eyes nested in fine lines that indicated late forties or early fifties. A small bulb of a nose, full lips, and a chin like a ping-pong ball; he had an air of authority that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in an ancient Tory grandee.
    She was also well aware that she was coming under the same acute scrutiny. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jordan,’ he said. A rich baritone with a faint race memory of West Country speech. ‘I’m James Blake. Your new Chief Constable.’ He thrust a hand out for Carol to shake. It was warm, broad and dry as paper.
    Just like his smile
. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Carol said. Blake’s eyes never left her face, and she had to break away from his gaze to introduce Tony. ‘This is Dr Tony Hill. He works with us from time to time.’
    Blake glanced at Tony and inclined his chin in passing acknowledgement. ‘I wanted to take this opportunity to break the ice. I’m very impressed with what I’ve heard of your work. I’m going to be making changes round here, and your bailiwick is one of my priorities. I’d like to see you tomorrow morning at ten thirty in my office.’
    ‘Of course,’ Carol said. ‘I look forward to it.’
    ‘Good. That’s settled, then. Till tomorrow, Chief