Free Burying the Past by Judith Cutler Page B

talking about prioritization of resources. It seemed he wanted to take a leaf out of the Met’s book: that if officers thought there was no chance of getting a result, they shouldn’t pursue investigations.
    Fortunately, it wasn’t Fran who interrupted, but someone he’d always suspected was a bit of a yes-man. ‘Might one ask, sir, what sort of crime we might not investigate? Are we to have official guidelines?’ There was so much irony in the man’s voice that Mark was surprised it didn’t drip all over the floor. Amazing how one’s opinion of another could be changed by two sentences.
    As he stared at the floor, he mentally reviewed all the cases he’d pursued just because he wanted justice to be done. Sometimes it was impossible to bring the miscreant to court – perhaps a witness was too old or frail. But at least the scrote that had committed the offence knew that the Law was after him, that the police had him in their sights. Not to investigate? The words of his resignation letter began to shape themselves in his head, arranging themselves into well-ordered clauses, not management-speak clunking phrases, either, the sort that must have George Orwell spinning in his grave – except Orwell would have hated that cliché too.
    Now Wren was talking about meetings to establish priorities. Mark had a terrible fear that long-unsolved crimes, Fran’s cold cases, would not be high on the list. Meanwhile, people as angry as him were firing off notional crimes – domestic violence and rape, for instance, both types of violence with poor conviction rates. Or drunken assaults. Or—
    Wren declared, in a tone not admitting any more argument, that talks would involve colleagues from the Crown Prosecution Service and other police services.
    By now people were definitely looking at Mark. Were they expecting some support – which he would have liked to give – or some bland welcome? The silence grew. There were mutters.
    Stepping into the breach time, then.
    â€˜Thank you, Mr Wren, for a most interesting synopsis –’ (he wouldn’t use the word summation wrongly, not for anyone’s money) – ‘of the policies our masters would like us to consider. I’m sure we all look forward to detailed discussions with you as you settle into post.’ Looking round, he gathered up familiar eyes and led the politest round of applause he’d ever heard. Too late it dawned on him that the people the eyes belonged to might be regarding him as a figurehead in their all too obvious rebellion.
    Fran might have been reading his mind. She contrived to hang back as his colleagues streamed – or possibly steamed – from the room. It was unlike her, as was the way she tucked her arm into his. ‘Didn’t Wat Tyler come from Kent?’ she murmured as they drifted slowly along the corridor.
    â€˜You expect me to march on London?’
    â€˜Maybe not. Poor Wat didn’t have a happy ending, did he? But at least you’ll be able to keep the brakes on this Happy Chappy’s little schemes.’
    â€˜Possibly. Fran, I’ve never been keen on trades unions and strikes, but my God, I can see why we need them. Sack all the highly-trained, efficient, experienced people we utterly depend on and bring in squads of unpaid do-gooders? I thought community support officers were policing on the cheap. But this!’
    She brought him to a stop. ‘It’s not exactly news, Mark.’
    â€˜I know. But to hear the man embracing it! Dear God! All my life I’ve fought crime, and now it seems I’ve got to fight management. I know it involves you too,’ he added belatedly. ‘At least you’ve got real cases to tackle. You can still make a difference, as we always wanted to do. But all I shall be fighting is this runt of a civil servant.’
    â€˜Sweetheart,’ she said quietly, ‘you don’t have to. There’s