Free Cold Pursuit by Judith Cutler Page B

That’s what you’d do.’
    ‘Well, why not do just that? We’ll get brickbats whatever we do, especially from TVInvicta and the red tops. But the real sex attacker’s got to be the main brunt of the investigation, surely. Even if – especially if – it’s a different suspect.’
    ‘These biscuits are very good,’ Jill said, with a distinct sigh. ‘God knows when I last did anything in the kitchen. It was all right when the kids were small – I could get them to help. Now all I get is“whatever” and they’re not hungry. But they’re good kids really.’
    Who was she telling, Fran or herself?
    ‘Brian OK with them?’
    ‘He’s got a shed.’ The sentence seemed to say far more than the four words justified.
    Fran rested her bum on the desk. ‘And you’re trying to juggle everything.’
    ‘You did! You were always buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly. Ask any of the older ones.’
    ‘In that case I was a very bad boss.’ She shook her head at the recollection. ‘And I didn’t have a family.’
    ‘You had your parents.’
    ‘Who were safely down in Devon, manageable most of the time. Until they became very old,’ she conceded.
    ‘And all those responsibilities!’
    ‘At which point I nearly lost it. Everything. That’s what happens when you take on too much. Blokes like Henson have heart attacks. Women, I gather, tend to have breakdowns. Neither’s a good option. But while people know about heart attacks and treat them with some sort of macho respect—’
    ‘“There but for the grace of God”—’
    ‘Exactly! People don’t seem so sympathetic to nervous illness.’
    ‘Despite your efforts – all that debriefing, that business about avoiding post-traumatic stress.’
    Fran wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s almost become macho, hasn’t it? But no one appreciates thatsomeone subject to sheer every day intolerable grind can be just as ill as the next bloke.’ She made a point of slipping off the desk. ‘There! I’m off my high horse. So that’s what you’ll do, then – pull all the stops out on the sex crimes case? Cases?’
    ‘If it’s OK by you.’
    Fran spread her arms in exasperation. ‘Since when did you have to ask permission? You’re
in
charge.
All I’m in charge of is making sure you’ve got enough paperclips. You wouldn’t have asked Henson for his permission.’
    ‘Because he wouldn’t have put me in charge. He’d have had some young snappy-suited bloke, all degree and iPod.’
    Fran choked on her biscuit. ‘So he would. But I put you in charge because you’ve got the brains and the experience. Go on, Jill – you can do it.’
    The phone rang. It was the secretary Fran shared with other senior officers. An urgent outside call, she said.
    ‘I’m sorry, Jill – I’m going to have to take this.’ Nonetheless she switched to hold. ‘Remember what I said – and remember what you said. You can do it.’ Provided Fran could stop standing between her and the light.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Black lace, I think. A basque. And stockings. Definitely stockings, showing off your lovely thighs. Dilly, my beautiful Dilly. Your love is better than wine.
     
    ‘Ms Pound,’ Fran greeted her surprise visitor, wondering if the dirty mugs, both with lipstick round the rim, would improve her image or otherwise. At least they were tucked away by the coffee machine.
    ‘Chief Superintendent Harman.’
    ‘Such a mouthful! Call me Fran, please.’ They exchanged smiles as they shook hands. In daylight – it was with something of a shock that Fran realised she was once again spending so much of her time in artificial light – Pound looked slightly older and rather less poised than on television.
    ‘I really don’t think we’re ready to do a follow-up story on the sex cases,’ Fran began, gesturing the reporter to her better visitor’s chair. ‘It was verygood coverage on Friday and stirred up an excellent response. Thank you.’
    Pound’s smile was perfunctory. But she said nothing.