Trust No One Read Free Page B

an occupational psychologist.
    â€˜Well, it strikes me that it’s almost as if you’re leading a triple life. You spend a lot of the time building up the legend, making yourself credible in the right environments. Just getting on with the fictitious job. The real stuff – the intelligence gathering, the surveillance, all that – is only a small part of the picture, time-wise. So you end up doing a lot of stuff which is very mundane, but you can’t allow yourself to switch off, even for a moment.’ It wasn’t exactly – or even remotely – what Salter had actually said, but it was what she’d inferred from his beer-fuelled diatribe.
    Winsor was nodding. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘That’s what most applicants fail to appreciate.’ He leaned forwards, as though sharing a treasured secret. ‘That’s one reason it’s so difficult to find suitable candidates. It’s not a question of ability. It’s a question of temperament.’ He waved his hand towards the open-plan office outside their small meeting room. ‘Not surprising, really. It’s a rare mix that we’re looking for, and probably even rarer in a place like this. You lot want excitement, the adrenaline rush. That’s why you all hate the form-filling.’
    Winsor was wrong about that, she thought. It might be what attracted some of them in the first place, but the ones who stayed, the ones who progressed, were those who paid attention to the detail. That was what the job was about. Gathering data, analyzing the intelligence. The fucking balls-ache. Most likely, Winsor was the one hankering after excitement.
    â€˜So what do you think the job needs?’ she said.
    He riffled aimlessly through her file, as if that might provide the answer to her question. ‘As you say, a lot of it’s very mundane. We set it up, provide the background. But it’s up to the individual officer to make it work. And all the time you’re waiting for the opportunities, the chances to gather intelligence.’ He paused. ‘Most good officers can handle the pressure. It’s the boredom that does for them.’
    She wondered whether he was talking about Salter. ‘So what do you reckon?’ she said, deciding she might as well cut to the chase. ‘Have I got the temperament?’
    He didn’t answer immediately, but flicked again through the file, this time apparently searching for a particular document. She had no idea what was in the thick, buff-coloured folder. Her original application form. Annual performance appraisals. Results of her promotion boards. Perhaps other, more interesting material.
    â€˜I think you just might,’ he said finally.
    â€˜Have a look at this.’ He pushed the file across the desk towards her, holding it open. It was a printed form, incomprehensible to her, covered with Winsor’s own scrawlings.
    â€˜It’s the results of the personality questionnaire you completed,’ he explained. ‘Each of these lines shows a continuum between the extremes of various personality traits. So, for example, whether you’re inclined to follow prescribed rules or do your own thing.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t that depend on the rules?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. And the context. But we’ve all got our preferences and inclinations. At the extremes, you get people who feel hidebound by any rules or direction, however reasonable, or people who feel uncomfortable breaking or bending a rule even when they recognize that it’s necessary.’
    â€˜And where do I sit?’
    He pointed at a pencil mark on one of the scales. ‘In that respect – as in most aspects, actually – you’re pretty well-balanced. Close to the middle of the scale, with just a small bias towards rule-breaking.’ He smiled, suggesting that this was some kind of psychologist’s in-joke.
    â€˜And is that good?’
    He shrugged.