Free Unlikely Graves (Detective Inspector Paul Amos Mystery series) by Rodney Hobson

to be alone with Fletcher awaiting the lagging Amos for more than a couple of seconds.
    This was a clear indication, if one were needed, that Fletcher was not in a good mood.
    ‘He’s here, sir,’ David called out as he entered the door. ‘Right behind me.’
    ‘Yes, all right, David,’ Fletcher answered tetchily. ‘Have you got the press release ready to go out on the tobacco clampdown? All approved by the regional chief constables?’
    Fletcher turned immediately to Amos without waiting for David’s reply. This was worse than expected. When in a bad mood, Fletcher would keep the summoned officer standing like a spare part while he dealt with his latest pet campaign. Dispensing with this preliminary demonstration of his superior status indicated a particularly bad mood.
    Whatever shortcoming he had been summoned for, it had to be serious if it took priority over the about-to-be-unleashed campaign to stop retailers selling cigarettes to underage smokers.
    ‘What the hell’s going on, Amos?’
    Amos was not sure what the rather vague question referred to so he assumed an air of innocence.
    ‘You mean the tobacco campaign, sir? I’m not sure I understand.’
    ‘Don’t play the bloody clever dick with me, Amos. Of course I don’t mean the tobacco campaign. That’s all under control because David and I are sorting it despite all the interruptions you are causing.’
    David relaxed and allowed himself a small smirk, quickly hiding his expression by turning and shuffling the press release.
    ‘Don’t fidget, David,’ Fletcher barked. ‘I mean whatshisname, the chap you got murdered. What is his bloody name? And that kid in the rubbish tip.’
    This was really bad, quite apart from the fact that the Chief Constable seemed to be blaming the inspector for Randall’s death. Fletcher, like Amos, was from the old school of life whose pupils did not clutter their sentences with meaningless expletives. It was, in Fletcher’s view, Amos’s one saving grace apart from the lesser consideration that the inspector was pretty good at solving difficult crimes.
    Fletcher did not like even the most hard bitten of his officers using so much as the mildest of swear words on duty. It gave the public a bad impression and was not conducive to clear thinking.
    Answer carefully, Amos told himself. Fletcher was rarely interested in knowing the names of crime victims.
    ‘Randall, sir. Harry Randall.’ Amos replied coldly. ‘He’s the one in the house. We’ve not yet identified the other body. It’s early days and there’s not much to go on.’
    ‘Yes, Randall. And the other,’ Fletcher said vehemently. ‘Are you trying to go round upsetting all the council departments in the county? First you get the refuse service on my back, now it’s the education department.’
    ‘Have you any idea how long it will take to trawl through all the school registers for the past 30 years?  Just when I need them onside for my tobacco campaign.’
    ‘We need to get the message across,’ he went on, leaning over and banging the desk to emphasise his point, ‘that schoolchildren will not be served cigarettes or tobacco in any corner of Lincolnshire. Stop them going into the tobacconists in the first place and we stop the problem in its tracks.’
    Fletcher drew himself upright and sniffed. Amos, having already blundered at the start of this diatribe, judged it politic to remain silent.
    ‘Do you even know if whatshecalled … yes Randall, if his son went to school in this county?’
    ‘We’re not absolutely certain,’ Amos admitted cautiously, taking care to disguise the fact that he was not even certain that Randall actually had a son in the first place. ‘But it is highly likely.’
    ‘In any case,’ he added hastily before Fletcher could harangue him further, ‘it is vital that we find out what happened to him.’
    If he did have a son, that is, Amos omitted to say out loud.
    ‘It is a very distinct possibility that he is the