Free Wages of Sin by J. M. Gregson

Tucker was so vague that he rarely knew the names of his staff, and even more rarely the name of someone as humble as a DC. ‘I agree, sir. I’m trying to persuade him to withdraw his request for a transfer.’
    â€˜He’s requested a transfer? Well, talk him out of it, Peach. We need men of his quality. I expect you’ve been on his back too much. Can’t get away with that, you know, in the modern police service.’
    Peach refrained from pointing out that he hadn’t been around during the last year to be on anyone’s back. He had already had a long chat with Brendan Murphy about his transfer request. This had revealed that the man was frustrated by Tucker’s bumbling inefficiency and the resultant decline in the morale of the Brunton CID unit over the last twelve months. As an ambitious young DC, he did not want to be working in an indifferent section; he had readily withdrawn his transfer request when he found that Peach was back with the unit. Percy said, ‘I expect he’ll stay, sir, now that he knows he has your approval.’
    Tucker looked hard at the inscrutable round face on the other side of his desk. ‘Well, I shan’t delay you any longer, Peach. Get on with it, please. Try to get back to your old standards of briskness and efficiency. The world doesn’t stand still, you know.’
    â€˜I see, sir. Well, it’s good to have your overview of the case. It’s been just as useful as it always was. Some things at least don’t change.’
    Tucker regarded him uneasily. But Peach’s eyes were trained on the wall just above his head and his features fixed in a rigid mask. Suddenly it seemed to Tucker much less than a year since he had had a conversation like this. He tried to sound confident, even patronizing, as he said, ‘Well. It’s one of the reasons they promoted me, I suppose. Some of us have the capacity to see the wider picture, to fit the scene in our own small patch into the wider panorama of crime outside.’
    Peach stood up and nodded his agreement. ‘And some of us are condemned to work for ever at the crime face, providing the statistics which will fit agreeably into that wider picture. All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, sir.’
    It was always good to leave the old wanker on a quotation: that guaranteed his puzzlement. But Percy Peach was not as unaware of the wider world of crime beyond Brunton as Tucker thought he was. As he went back down the stairs to the real world, he was troubled by the idea which had beset him before he climbed the beanstalk to the land of the evil giant.
    Was it possible that this killing was not an isolated crime, but one of a series in a larger pattern? That would mean that the murderer of Sarah Dunne would kill again, if they did not find him.

Seven
    I t was a bright modern house with lots of windows overlooking neat gardens. Some might have called it dull and box-like, but it was the kind of dwelling for which many people save hard for most of their working lives. It was also an incongruous setting for the news they had to break.
    It was quickly apparent that the Dunnes had no inkling of what had happened to their daughter. Brendan Murphy took the initiative: it was the first death the young female constable in uniform beside him had had to break and she was plainly ill at ease.
    Mrs Dunne, still unsuspecting, still anxious to break the conversational ice, said, ‘That’s a real Irish name, isn’t it, Murphy? Perhaps you’re a Catholic, like ourselves.’
    â€˜I am indeed, though I’ve lived all my life in Lancashire. Mrs Dunne, I’m afraid I may have bad news for you.’
    Dismay clouded the bright, open countenance beneath the neat brown hair. ‘It’s Sarah, isn’t it? Has she had some sort of accident?’
    â€˜It’s worse than that, Mrs Dunne. We’re not absolutely certain it’s Sarah yet, but the girl