Free Snow Storm by Robert Parker

like they’d taken over a contact centre.
Hardly glamorous, which was a bit of a surprise considering the way
these arseholes liked to strut about the place.
    That Wilson
one looked like someone had put vinegar in her coffee. Black, the
small one with the big attitude needed a charisma transplant and
Edwards, well, he was just sleaze incarnate. These two put Campbell
to shame, although if ever anyone was deserving of a boot in the
balls that one was. Ever since she’d given him the brush off at the
Christmas night out it was like he was on a mission to expand the
bounds of pedantry. Cock. She wondered if you could sue someone for
sexual harassment on the grounds of looks and thought alone and
then dismissed this idea as possibly a bit too 1984.
    Edwards just
seemed to take himself a level too seriously though. The way he ran
his fingers through that clearly high-lit hair of his. He really
did give her the dry boke.
    She wasn’t
sure how Burke remained so calm about the preening egos on display.
Maybe he didn’t have much fight in him. Maybe he was just more of a
middle manager than anything. He did look pretty pasty, spent too
much time indoors you might say. Still, she’d have thought he’d
have a little get up and go about him; all those stimulants he
seemed to be on.
    At first
glance she’d put his age around 27-28. She’d been a bit dismissive
of him when he introduced himself; thinking he was an overfamiliar
colleague having a go at giving her the chat as soon as she walked
through the door. The job could be a bit like that and she was
fairly used to it anyway, mainly finding it annoying. It hadn’t
helped that he’d introduced himself simply as Burke. It was two
days before she figured out he was actually the boss, and only then
because Campbell had gleefully filled her in while trying to
introduce her to the more social side of the station as he put it.
“Funny kettle of fish” was all he’d really been able to confide,
before adding that “there were some rumours floating about” and
changing the subject back to an offer of an after-hours drink in
The Cask and Barrel. Again, she’d declined.
    He drummed
his hands on the wheel as they made their way down a slip road on
to a mind numbingly gridlocked M8.
    “ Timing’s
never been my strong point,” he told her, messing around with a
radio that had now lost the station, struggling as it did with the
difference between east and west coast. He gave up and chose the CD
already in the machine instead, which sounded like Green Day on a
rough day, before they’d sold out. “I don’t suppose you like stiff
little fingers do you?”
    “ Sir?” was
all she said in response.
    “ The band.”
he replied, looking slightly alarmed.
    “ Oh.” she
said, knowing full well. “No.”
    He switched
it off, looking slightly dejected. Maybe it was a dose of Seasonal
Affective Disorder that made him this way. She was sure he hadn’t
had those bags under his eyes six months ago.
    “ I suppose we
should talk about the case then.”
    “ Yes
sir.”
    “ Well?”
    “ Sir?”
    “ Every second
word doesn’t have to be sir.” He said. “This isn’t Full Metal
Jacket. What are your thoughts on the case so far? I’m genuinely
interested. After all, detection is what I do, supposedly, when I’m
not being condescended to of course. So feel free to enlighten me;
do you for instance subscribe to the Campbell hypothesis, stating
that all this is the result of a drug war raging between two rival
scumbag factions? Oh screw it. I need to smoke this thing.” He
began rummaging in the glove box while at the same time trying to
keep the steering wheel steady. They didn’t teach that on the
advanced driving course. He pulled out an e-cigarette and put it to
his lips, inhaling and then breathing what looked like a huge sigh
of relief, blowing water vapour against an already condensation
covered window. “This isn’t an infringement of your human rights by
the way. It’s