Free Sacrifice by Paul Finch Page B

bugger’s nose and ear off in a fight in the pub,’ Heck said. ‘The other one had kicked the shit out of the landlord when he objected. Anyway, she takes out Jaws, and then wallops the other one as well. Puts him down with one punch.’
    There was more laughter.
    ‘That wasn’t me either,’ Shawna said tartly. ‘It was Ian Kershaw. “Dreadnought”, we used to call him. He didn’t want the lock-up because it was ten minutes to finishing time and it was his sister’s wedding the next day. I took the prisoners for him.’
    ‘What did the two scrotes say?’ Gary Quinnell asked.
    ‘Nothing,’ Heck replied. ‘They were out cold. They didn’t know
who’d
hit them.’
    There were further roars of laughter.
    The Chop House
was located under the arches on the edge of Borough Market, and was redolent with Victoriana: leaded windows, etched mirrors, elegant hardwood décor, and an open fire. Its various rooms were packed with off-duty police and police civilian staff, the booze was flowing and there was an atmosphere of bonhomie.
    Shawna shook her head as though tolerating the boyishness around her, and handed Heck her empty glass. ‘For that, it’s
your
round.’
    Heck nodded and threaded his way through to the bar, taking a rash of orders en route. Bob Hunter was leaning there, a treble scotch in his hand. He looked rumpled and sour-faced; his tie hung in a limp knot.
    ‘Everyone’s having a good time, I see,’ he said as Heck put the order in.
    ‘Gotta give Des a send-off, haven’t we?’ Heck replied.
    ‘No sign of the Lioness yet?’
    Heck looked around. ‘Thought she’d be in by now.’
    It was possible that Gemma was in one of the other rooms – she always had a lot of flesh to press at police functions – but the bulk of SCU were squashed into this one, so he’d have expected her to come in here first, probably to buy Des Palliser a drink.
    ‘Second round of interviews this afternoon for the Media Liaison job, wasn’t it?’ Hunter said.
    ‘Oh yeah, that.’
    ‘Yeah …
that
. What a fucking joke, eh? This is the way they repay us for taking nutjobs off the street.’
    Heck shrugged. ‘Won’t interfere with our work, will it?’
    ‘Says who?
I’ve
been demoted to fucking duty-officer!’
    ‘It’s only temporary.’
    ‘How temporary is temporary, Heck?’ Hunter barely acknowledged the double scotch that Heck placed in front of him. ‘Fucking Lioness wants me out, I can tell.’
    ‘She doesn’t,’ Heck said.
    ‘Why, has she told you that?’
    ‘No, but …’
    ‘Exactly … no.’ Hunter swallowed whisky. ‘Suddenly the way I work doesn’t suit her anymore. I wonder why that is? I’d say it was because some over-decorated twat on the top floor had her by the gonads … but as a bird she hasn’t got any, has she?’
    ‘Bob … it was a fuck-up. We should never have spoken to the press.’
    ‘Alright, I accept that.’ Hunter looked surprisingly contrite. ‘But it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Christ’s sake, Heck … we’d just topped and tailed the fucking M1 Maniacs. Some kind of result, that. No wonder we were all a bit excited. I’ll tell you, I’m fed up with this fucking job.’
    Heck had heard such a sentiment before, of course; he’d expressed it himself.
    ‘You may as well know, I’m putting my papers in for a transfer,’ Hunter added.
    ‘Where to?’
    ‘I don’t know. Anywhere out of NCG.’ Hunter wrinkled his nose, as though the whole thing literally stank. ‘Could’ve been the best gig in town, this, but now it’s going like everything else. It’s all politics these days. I mean, you of all people ought to be pissed off by that.’
    Heck was; he’d had his share of reprimands over the years, and when in his cups he too was inclined to make such comments, though in reality he kept soldiering on.
    ‘Just don’t do anything hasty, Bob,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how long this duty-officer thing’ll last. At least you’re working