Free Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes by Frank Tayell

not mine,” she said.
    “Well, whose is it?” Maggie asked.
    “I don’t know his name. Let me change, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
     
    “That’s about it,” Ruth said, a brief wash, a change of clothes, and half an hour of conversation later. “Serious Crimes doesn’t seem to have any real responsibilities, and I’m stuck there for the next three months. Probably longer.”
    “Well, you have to be somewhere, and that’s the best I can do,” Maggie said, hanging the uniform jacket up to dry. “A murder on your first day, that’s something. Though I don’t know whether it’s worth celebrating or not.”
    “Except all I did was carry a trolley and then sit by the body until the coroner turned up.”
    The kettle began to whistle. “And what were you expecting?” Maggie asked, as she poured a splash of hot water into the teapot. “Chasing smugglers across the roof tops? Foiling conspiracies committed by criminal masterminds? You’ve read too much Conan Doyle and not enough history. Or would you rather have spent the day being shot at?”
    Ruth threw a glance at the locked pine box in the corner of the room. Her revolver was now inside. Ruth had the key, but Maggie had made it clear she wasn’t happy about the gun being inside the house.
    “I suppose not,” Ruth said. “It’s…” She trailed off.
    “I know, dear,” Maggie said, throwing out the water from the pot. “You wanted to be somewhere else, but how would it be different from here? If you were in Shetland or some market town in Kent, you’d have spent the day doing paperwork or patrolling an empty street. They may have been streets you’d never seen before, but you’d have soon realised that concrete sidewalks look the same the world over.” She opened the tin of powdered tea, added two heaped spoonfuls to the pot, and poured in the boiling water.
    “Maybe,” Ruth said. She was starting to think that Maggie was right, not just about her day, but about her joining the police, and that was a depressing thought in itself. She reached for the pot.
    “No, dear. You have to let it brew.”
    Ruth shook her head. The label on the tin might read ‘Satz! Assam’ but it was a caffeinated substitute that no one who remembered the original thought tasted like real tea. Like the sweetener, pharmaceuticals, ersatz coffee, and so much else, it came from the chemical works on the River Avon. Ruth had never had real tea and didn’t understand Maggie’s need for the ritual. She even insisted on buying the ‘black’, unsweetened variety despite the tins with powdered milk and sweetener being the same price. Milk was available on points, but sugar was rationed, though today the bowl was nearly a quarter full.
    “It sounds like it’s a unit of troublemakers,” Maggie said. “Put there to keep them out of harm’s way.”
    “Yes, and the sergeant said I should ask myself why I’ve been posted there.”
    “A very good question,” Maggie said, adding a splash of milk to the cups. “Have you come up with an answer?”
    “No,” Ruth admitted. “Unless they guessed that I lied about my age.”
    “If they cared about that, they’d have thrown you out,” Maggie said. “No, the only reason I can think of is that you’ve been sent there to spy on them. Certainly, I imagine that’s what your sergeant and that detective constable must think.”
    “But I’m not a spy,” Ruth said.
    “Not yet. But give it a few days and I expect someone will call you into their office and ask you to keep them informed. In exchange you’ll probably be guaranteed graduating to constable in three months and passing your probation in a year.”
    “That doesn’t seem too bad,” Ruth said.
    “It’s a double-edged sword,” Maggie said, finally pouring the tea. “If you inform on them, your colleagues won’t trust you, and you need their trust. You were at a murder scene today, who’s to say when your life might be in their hands? But if you