Free Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson Page B

stairs. “We’re only keeping them until we get-”
    “No!” yelled Ibrahim Nazur. “It’s not fair. One law for whites and another law for us.”
    That met a chorus of agreement and they surged forward again.
    Suddenly, the front doors opened and a loud voice bellowed, “What in God’s name is going on here?” It had enough authority to command silence. Then Susan saw over the crowd the shiny, bald head of Chief Constable Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, and for the first time ever, she was grateful for the sight.
    “Sergeant Rowe,” she heard Riddle say, “would you please order your officers to remove these people from the police station? Tell them if they’ll kindly wait outside we’ll have some news for them in just a few minutes.” Then Riddle made his way through the silent crowd, cutting a swath rather like Moses parting the Red Sea.
    Behind him, Sergeant Rowe muttered, “Yes, sir,” and ordered three constables to usher the group out onto the street. They went without putting up a fight.
    “That’s better,” said Riddle, approaching Susan. “It’s DC Gay, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Where’s DCI Banks?”
    “ Leeds, sir. Pursuing inquiries.”
    “‘Pursuing inquiries,’ is he? Shopping, more bloody like. That Classical Record Shop of his. Anyone else here?”
    “No, sir. Just me.”
    Riddle jerked his head. “Right, you. Upstairs.”
    Susan turned and started walking up the stairs, feeling, she imagined, somewhat like a prisoner being sent down by the judge.
    It could hardly be a worse time to piss off Jimmy Riddle.
    Susan had passed the first parts of her sergeant’s exam, the written, almost a year ago. But police promotion is a long-drawn-out process. The last stage consisted of an appearance before the promotion board – presided over by an assistant chief constable and a chief superintendent from Regional HQ.
    That was six months ago now, but Susan still broke into a cold sweat every time she remembered the day of her board.
    She had spent weeks reading up on policy, national guidelines and equal opportunities, but none of it prepared her for what lay behind the door. Of course, they kept her waiting in the corridor for about half an hour, just to make her extra nervous, then the chief superintendent came out, shook her hand and led her in. She could have sworn there was a smirk on his face.
    First they asked her a few personal questions to get some idea of her overall bearing, confidence and articulateness. She thought she managed to answer clearly, without mumbling or stuttering, except when they asked what her parents thought of her choice of career. She was sure that she flushed, but rather than flounder around trying to explain, she simply paused to collect herself and said, “They didn’t approve, sir.”
    Next came the scenarios. And her interviewers added complications, changed circumstances and generally did everything they could to confuse her or get her to change her mind.
    “One of the men on your shift is regularly late in the morning,” the ACC began, “putting extra pressure on his mates. What do you do?”
    “Have a private word with him, sir, ask him why he’s being late all the time.”
    The ACC nodded. “His mother’s dying and she needs expensive care. He can’t afford it on a copper’s salary, so he’s playing in a jazz band until the wee hours to make a bit extra.”
    “Then I’d tell him he needs permission to work outside the force and advise him to get help and support from our Welfare Department, sir.”
    “He thanks you for your concern, but he keeps on playing with the band and turning up late.”
    “Then I’d think some disciplinary action would be in order, sir.”
    The ACC raised his eyebrows. “Really? But his mother is dying of cancer. He
needs
the extra income. Surely this is a reasonable way of earning it? After all, it’s not as if he’s taking bribes or engaging in other criminal acts.”
    Susan stuck to her guns.