This Thing of Darkness Read Free Page A

me.
    ‘Fiona, we want you to become a sergeant because you have obvious aptitudes and we want to promote the best. But also, we need you to mature. As a police officer and as a person. And the standards we expect from a sergeant will be higher than those we’ve tolerated up till now.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    A phone call interrupts us. Jackson takes it. Watkins and I stare at the carpet. Jackson says things, but I don’t listen, not really.
    When he hangs up, he stares at me. ‘Chicago. Ifor Dawes is getting overwhelmed by the volume of material coming in.’
    Chicago: the codename given to a current rape inquiry. A woman, Kirsty Emmett, was abducted in Gabalfa. Blindfolded. Knocked around, fairly badly. She was raped, then deposited by the river down by the Tremorfa steelworks.
    Ifor Dawes: a DC who’s become a specialist exhibits officer, responsible for managing the collection, processing and storage of physical evidence gathered in the course of an investigation. In some inquiries, the number of individual bits of evidence – fibres, hairs, bodily fluid samples, pieces of rubbish – can run into the thousands. If Ifor says he’s being overwhelmed, he’s probably not inventing it.
    That said, although I’ve done bits and pieces for both Ifor and his colleague, Laura Moffatt, I find the work so grimly tedious as to be life-threatening. And this particular rape inquiry is being headed by DI Owen Dunwoody who, in my unhumble opinion, is the stupidest officer of his rank in South Wales.
    Jackson says what he says looking straight at me. But it wasn’t a question, so I don’t give him an answer.
    Watkins, beside me, says, ‘Fiona, a good officer might feel this was an opportunity to help.’
    I say, ‘I’ve got a whole stack of cases you asked me to look into. And an ongoing involvement with Tinker.’
    Jackson says, ‘A stack of cold cases. And Tinker will scrape along without you.’
    I wave my hands again. What do they want from me? Either Jackson or Watkins, or the numpty Dunwoody, have the power to order me to help Ifor, if that’s what they want. I can’t see why I need to pretend to be keen to help out in my least-favourite role for my least-favourite DI.
    Jackson and Watkins exchange a look.
    A pause.
    Sunlight gilds the carpet. Creeps slowly towards the wall.
    Jackson: ‘You’ll help Ifor. You can report to him downstairs right now. Get further instructions from DI Dunwoody. When Owen decides he doesn’t need you any more, he’ll release you to your other duties. At that point, I’ll ask Owen and Ifor to let me know in writing how, in their view, you have performed.’
    Still not a question. I say nothing.
    ‘Is that understood?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ I don’t say anything more and nor does anyone else, so I stand up. ‘And I will pass the exam. I said I would.’
    ‘With a score of seventy per cent or more please, Fiona,’ says Jackson. ‘We don’t want good. We expect outstanding.’ His voice is grimmer than usual. Unyielding.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    I grapple with the door, trying to leave. Jackson says, ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
    I look back. My books are still on his desk. I say, ‘Oh,’ retrieve them, then get the door open again. Stand there with my foot preventing the self-closing mechanism from doing its stuff.
    ‘That burglary at Plas Du. The glass scatter. I had it analysed at SOCA. They were able to match the estimated surface area of the broken fragments against the size of the hole in the window.’
    Jackson says nothing: his way of asking me to continue.
    ‘Basically, the glass was all on the inside of the building and formed what their analyst called a “natural pattern”. That is: it had fallen there, not been arranged.’
    ‘So the blow was struck from outside?’
    ‘Exactly. Yes, sir.’
    Jackson stares at me. I stare at him. I don’t know what Rhiannon Watkins is doing, but when she does a full-on stare, she usually burns holes in things.
    It’s Jackson