The Other Woman Read Free Page B

almost enjoying himself, despite his dark mood.
    He glanced down at the file again. ‘… ‘‘anywhere that young people can be expected to gather, especially cafe’s’’,’ he quoted, holding his glasses a few inches from the page like a magnifying glass. ‘ It’s called an apostrophe, Finch,’ he said. ‘And when you add an ‘‘s’’ to a word to make it plural, that is all you are doing. Even if the word ends in a vowel, though that does seem to be the bastard rule that has evolved amongst those who were never taught English grammar and punctuation. It is quite, quite wrong – believe me, Finch. It is wrong, and no amount of popular usage will ever make it right, because it conveys an entirely different meaning from the one that you are attempting to convey.’
    â€˜Sorry, sir.’
    â€˜And it can in no way substitute for an acute,’ Lloyd continued. ‘But that’s another matter. For the moment, it’s the rudiments of English punctuation with which I would like you to get to grips. I want you to find out exactly what functions the apostrophe performs for us, and I want you to use it correctly in your paperwork or not at all. I’d rather the poor thing died out altogether than it languished in words where it has no business to be. Off you go,’ he concluded, without drawing a breath.
    Finch stood up, and walked to the door, doubtless raising his eyes to heaven for the benefit of the cleaner who was carrying a vacuum cleaner along the corridor to the interview rooms, if the sympathetic smile she gave as she looked up at him was anything to go by.
    And that was another thing, thought Lloyd sourly. They were all too bloody tall these days. He stared at the door as it closed, feeling disgruntled and just a touch guilty. Why had he picked on young Finch? They all did it. But Finch was on night-shift and therefore still there because he had to be, and not because he didn’t want to go home. That was what had really annoyed him.
    For the truth was that Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd’s life was not, for the moment, as he would choose it to be. He finished reading Finch’s report, put the top on his pen, closed the file, stretched, yawned, and looked with a lacklustre eye at the clock. He frowned as he heard the commotion outside his door, and went out into the corridor in time to see a bruised and bloody constable manhandle a man towards the cells. Perhaps his clock had stopped; he looked at his watch. No, it was just eight fifteen.
    â€˜What’s this?’ he asked the desk sergeant. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for the Friday night round-up?’
    Sergeant Woodford looked up from what he was writing. ‘Crowd trouble at the match,’ he said, his face totally expressionless. ‘ We’ve another one already down there.’
    â€˜You arrested the entire crowd?’ He liked getting Jack Woodford going. He was a staunch supporter.
    The sergeant would not take the bait. ‘ Near enough,’ he said. ‘But you know who that is , do you?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the disappearing miscreant.
    Lloyd didn’t, and didn’t particularly want to know. ‘I thought this was a friendly,’ he said, not above making very old jokes when the occasion presented itself. ‘Who’s winning?’ he asked.
    â€˜The match was abandoned on account of the fog.’
    Lloyd groaned. ‘ Oh, God, it’s not foggy, is it? Tell me it’s not.’
    â€˜A pea-souper. Haven’t seen one like it since the fifties.’
    â€˜Don’t tell me – Stansfield were on the brink of clawing back the three-goal deficit when the ref abandoned the match, and both supporters staged a pitch invasion.’
    â€˜No,’ he laughed. ‘ There were no goals – and there were two hundred-odd there, I’ll have you know. But it wasn’t the passion of the