Free Sorrow Bound by David Mark Page B

initiative and does so himself. Oh Christ, how she hopes …
    ‘Now then, children!’
    The door to the office is already open but Trish Pharaoh still manages to make enough noise as she barges into the room to get everybody’s attention. Like worried meerkats, heads pop up above monitors and phones are silenced. Ben Nielsen leans over and switches off the fan and a hush falls on the room. Helen sees them as canaries, their cage suddenly shrouded and silent. Pharaoh is rarely here. She has an office of her own, up another flight of stairs, where she does complicated and exasperating things with spreadsheets and budgets. She is one of CID’s most senior figures, having got to a position where she can do little actual police work by being very good at police work.
    Tremberg waits for McAvoy to come in as well, and is surprised by his absence. Pharaoh catches her looking at the door, and gives an indulgent smile. ‘He’s busy,’ she mouths. ‘We’ll be okay without him.’
    Helen nods. Joins the rest of the officers in watching Pharaoh stride to the far end of the room, where she starts rubbing Colin Ray’s scribblings off the whiteboard. She doesn’t even stop to read them.
    ‘Right, you lot. I’m talking to the whole room here because I can’t remember which of you lot are still mine and which are Colin’s. So, if this is nowt to do with you, just be quiet. In a minute, some very efficient people are going to turn this part of the room into a murder suite. I’ve spoken to the brass and we’ve agreed that Philippa Longman’s death should be looked at by this unit. Regular CID are about as happy about that as you’d expect, but it will be me that gets the earache and none of you, so don’t worry about it. More importantly, don’t go approaching any of this thinking that it’s got anything to do with bloody organised crime. It hasn’t. The gang we’re all looking for wouldn’t give a shit about some local community activist kicking up a stink about drugs. But by the time that information reaches the Assistant Chief Constable, we’ll have found who did it and there will be champagne and cigars all round. Savvy?’
    There are smiles and snorts of laughter at that. Tremberg finds herself turning around, half-hoping that Colin Ray and Shaz Archer return from whatever errand they’re running and walk into the middle of the briefing.
    ‘Colin and I will be having a chat about which officers stay on current cases and which assist me in the murder enquiry. For now, I’ve got uniforms doing door-to-door in the immediate vicinity.It’s bloody hot at the moment so people will be sleeping with the windows open and may well have heard something. You can’t do that much damage to a person without it waking somebody. I’ve insisted the forensics be fast-tracked and the PME will be done this evening. McAvoy and me have already interviewed a suspect – the former partner of Longman’s daughter. Document wallets will be going around when my secretary or whatever they’re supposed to be called these days finishes trying to turn my handwriting into English.’
    There are a few mutters at McAvoy’s name. Some people are holding a grudge longer than others.
    ‘We’ve got one lead that needs your immediate attention. Sophie, Andy, I’m thinking of you two.’
    Helen lets the disappointment show on her face, but Pharaoh does not acknowledge it.
    ‘We’ve got a footprint. Almost a perfect one. Size eight, big grips, heavy indent at the toe.’
    ‘Work boots?’ asks Helen, hoping to make herself noticed.
    ‘Give that lass a gold star,’ says Pharaoh. ‘Yes, work boots. We’ve got plaster casts on their way over, so you need to be hitting the warehouses, the builders’ merchants, trying to find a match, and see how widespread those kind of shoes are.’
    ‘It could be anybody’s boots, Guv,’ comes a dissenting voice. Helen traces it to Stan Lyons. He was a detective sergeant before his retirement, and now