Free Approaching Zero by R.T Broughton Page B

time to tackle her hair, which would need to be washed, dried, straightened and styled, so she threw on a blue stretchy band that she had picked up years ago at a flea market somewhere. It wrapped around twice and covered her hair, but was pretty enough to look like a style choice. She completed her outfit with tights and low heels then threw a few handfuls of cornflakes into her mouth, some irrelevant papers into her bag, and, eventually, the whole shebang into the car. She arrived at the station with just minutes to spare.
    Kathy had had no reason to visit the police station before. Her dealings with the disturbed criminal mind had all taken place post-conviction, taking her to mental institutions and prisons. She had had no cause to deal with the police on a personal level until she met Spinoza, and so as she parked in the car park there was definite apprehension in the pit of her stomach, not necessarily because of the task at hand, but because of the unfamiliar surroundings. She hadn’t actually had to turn up anywhere for some time, let alone professionally, and she was definitely out of practice.
    “Right, here we go,” she told herself and straightened out her skirt and shirt in the windows of the cars she passed en route to the front door. But superseding this apprehension was a foaming excitement at the prospect of making headway with Spinoza’s case—her case. Running into paedophiles was one way of solving the problem (and clearly not an effective way), but now for the first time she had an opportunity to actually get involved… and she couldn’t wait.
    The police station was a drab building, constructed with red bricks and a distinct lack of imagination and zeal. The inside was no better, with a waiting room resembling that of a doctor’s surgery—if you were waiting to see Doctor Crippen. Every expense was spared on the bright orange plastic chairs and copies of Take a Break from the nineties. A token junkie had secreted himself into the corner of the room and was either sleeping, unconscious or dead, and a worried-looking, old woman was seated in a chair as far away from him as possible and flinched at every little sound, however innocuous, including Kathy’s arrival. Judging by the strong spell of disinfectant, Kathy imagined a team of industrial cleaners waiting in the wings in nuclear suits ready to swoop in and disinfect anything that either of them touched the moment they were gone.
    Kathy approached the old gentleman behind what she imagined was a reinforced glass window and was surprised by the lack of stripes on his shoulders. He had the distinct look of a military man—immaculately turned out, ironed and polished, not a hair out of place, erect posture—but the way he greeted Kathy told her that he hadn’t achieved half of the things he had hoped, including rank, and was now being put out to pasture in hell’s waiting room.
    “Name?” he said, barely looking up. He hated Kathy already. He hated everyone.
    “Erm, Kathy Smith,” Kathy answered politely. “I’m here to provide a psychological consult.” She made a show of looking at her watch and said, “I’m actually running a little late,” but it did nothing to hurry him along. Here was a man who now did everything in his own time. If he hadn’t done enough by now for the powers that be to elevate him above the rank of a constable, he wasn’t going to start trying to impress now. He looked up at her briefly and then creakily turned toward the computer on the desk beside him. If it hadn’t been for the glass, Kathy would have been able to smell the whisky that had been his assistant since he started his shift a few hours ago.
    “We’re not expecting any kind of consult today,” he said with alarming finality and looked past Kathy as if there were suddenly a long queue behind her and she should move along and stop wasting his time.
    “Do you think you could check again, sir? I was asked to attend by DCI Spinoza.” The