Free Death Line by Maureen Carter

wheel waiting for a green on the main drag through Moseley. Like the rest of the world and its aunt. She was a tad later than planned and was
hitting rush hour metaphorically head-on. Despite or because of the booze, sleep had been log-like. That’s if logs are prone to weird dreams and immune to wake-up calls. She could sue both
alarm clocks under the Trades Description Act. Neither had lived up to its name; her awakening had been down to Frankie belting out the lyrics to Summer Time before slamming the front door
and clacking down the pavement on her Eiffels.
    The tune was damn catchy; Bev was humming it even now. Had been while grabbing a shower, slipping on a sky blue shift dress, slapping on some lippie and snatching breakfast, the virtual variety,
again. Scooping up the post on the way out, she’d briefly questioned why Oz Khan had bothered putting pen to paper when she couldn’t even be arsed to read his e-mails. Far as she was
concerned, soon as her former lover started shacking up with someone else, he’d written himself out of her love life. Now detective sergeant with the Met, her onetime DC could go screw. Which
he undoubtedly did. Bothered? Fuming. She blamed it on the traffic. Wished she could get rid of the damn lyrics in her head, all that ‘don’t you cry’ bollocks.
    Mind, the song title was in tune with the day. A quick scan of the streets showed shorts, skimpiness and shades all round; sky so flawlessly blue it looked fake. Bev was an expert on blue, wore
nothing but for work. As this morning proved, it saved dithering.
    And the traffic was moving; ’bout time too. Inching down the window, she wrinkled her nose at waves of eau de exhaust. Thank God she’d resisted the temptation to go topless, soft
top, that is. Yeah, those dreams had been dead kinky. Haines, buff naked but for a mortar board, had been switching a cane across the gaffer’s buttocks. Cut to Byford in Hawaiian shirt and
hammock, necking pina coladas, DI Powell handing over peeled grapes. She sniffed. Couldn’t imagine where that came from.
    Sod. Go-mode didn’t last long. Handbrake was taking a fair few hits this morning. She glanced at her watch. The brief would be kicking off in twenty minutes, at this rate she’d be
luck... What the ’kin’ hell? Nah. Must’ve imagined it. What with the night visions and all. Out of the corner of her eye, for one split second she could’ve sworn
she’d caught a glimpse of Roland Haines on the telly. Not one telly, a whole bank of the buggers in the showroom next to the bookies. No way. She turned, peered over her shoulder. Yes way.
Haines in all his opposite of glory. What were the odds on that?
    A slaphead in the white van behind papped his horn. She gave him the bird in the mirror, touched the gas. Thank God they were moving. She’d hate to miss anything, and there were bound to
be fireworks.
    And the livin’ is easy? She raised an eyebrow. Course it is.
    There’d been no stomping in slamming doors, striding up front. Early arrivals to the brief didn’t even notice the gaffer’s low-profile presence glowering at
the back. Bev, ferrying a mug of builder’s tea, cut him a glance as she passed, knew exactly where he was coming from. The positioning and pose were deliberate tactics: Lancelot wanted an
unwitting squad filing in like naughty kids under the headmaster’s disapproving glare. Paul Curran had definitely clocked him. As Bev squeezed into the pew next to Mac, she spotted the press
officer’s Adam’s apple do a double-take.
    The g-as-in-gaffer word spread, banter gave way to wary silence. Maximum impact.
    Strolling to pole position, Knight slipped a casual hand in pocket, swept a slow gaze over the audience and kicked-off high decibel. “Total fucking disgrace.”
    Bev stifled a yawn. It was all a bit stagey for her. If the guv was up there, they’d be straining to hear. Message would get through loud and clear, though. Byford was no ham. She glanced