Strange Tide Read Free

fingerprints after handling something one of you left by the back door in a Tesco bag. I know I told you to use bags but this one leaked after eating its way through the carpet tiles outside Mr Bryant’s office. I saw
Alien
, I know how these things turn out. Acids, combustibles and other toxic materials don’t go into the sinks or the bins. And certainly not down the toilet, as Colin discovered last week to his discomfort.
    You’ll notice we are now down to a staff of nine, but if everyone works a bit harder we can make up for the shortfall caused by Jack Renfield suddenly leaving us. I understand we were planning to hold a little party for him, but he’d already cleared out his desk and left before anyone had a chance to sign his card. Perhaps he had a train to catch. Or he simply didn’t like us. Maybe Janice would care to explain what happened, and why she returned his staff card by attaching it to my desk with a nail-gun.
    The two Daves are staying with us for another month because the first floor still has too much electricity. If you want to use the light switch in the upstairs toilet make sure you’re wearing rubber gloves.
    There’s some kind of a tomb in the basement. If anyone knows what an eight-foot box with symbols scratched all over it is doing down there, could they come and tell me? It’s probably just an old electrical substation, but until we know for sure I don’t want you calling up any of your weird contacts. We can do without druids dancing around it burning herbs and singing in funny voices.
    After the banking riots some of you had the nerve to put in expense claims for fire-damaged uniforms. This is a crime unit, not Top Shop. No one expects you to look good. Look at me: I’ve resigned myself to living in unironed shirts until I get married again.
    Dan Banbury tells me we’re to be issued with tablets. I told him I thought it was about time as I’d finished my ex-wife’s supply of anti-depressants, but it turns out he means electronic notebooks. Why you can’t use pads and pencils is beyond me. But then, most things are these days.
    I’ve decided we should take turns choosing films for the PCU’s Saturday Night Cinema Club. Meera’s choice,
The Assassination of Trotsky
, wasn’t exactly a thigh-slapper, so this week’s film will be one of my favourites.
Carry On Up the Khyber
will start at eight p.m.; bring your own snacks. No kebabs this time, Colin.
    The fumigators will be in during the week as we have an infestation of cockroaches that’s even worse than Crippen’s infamous flea outbreak. I’ve been assured it won’t smell any worse than Mr Bryant’s pipe. Speaking of whom, Mr Bryant isn’t feeling very perky at the moment. I’ve asked him to take some time off and he has agreed to take it easy until he gets – that is – if – er . . .
    (Pause.)
    I’m sure we all hope he makes a full recovery, although at the moment I don’t think he knows whether it’s Christmas Day or Marble Arch. Still, all good things come to an end. Let’s show him how well we can manage without him until I can find a replacement.
    â€˜I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that, Arthur,’ said May. ‘Don’t do anything to him that you’ll regret.’
    In the meantime, just get on with your work, and remember I’m the king around here from now on, so no funny business.

2

WATER & FIRE
    Several years before Boadicea sat on a wall in King’s Cross, and several oceans away, a more desperate situation was unfolding off the Libyan coast.
    Freezing water, icy sky; it was so dark that Ali could not tell one from the other. There was no breath of a breeze. The glassine depths mirrored the universe. He tilted his head to one side, and thought for a moment that the world had turned over. There was no sound but the faint creak of wood and here or there a cough, a rustle, as