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anything, Norman muttered gruffly, ‘What fucking time do you call this? We don’t keep CID hours down here, y’know; we arrive early so everything can be passed over properly and give the one who’s finishing – me, on this occasion – the chance of an early dart.’
    Norman turned a page of the report, still not having looked up, though, plainly, he was not really reading it.
    Henry sensed there was more to come. He leaned against the door jamb, his lips twisted cynically, and waited for the bollocking to continue. He was not wrong.
    â€˜That happens day in, day out, without fail, whether you want to be here or not. Unwritten rule. Get my drift?’ Norman sniffed superciliously and raised his eyes, inviting Henry to challenge him.
    The ex-DI shrugged. ‘Sure.’
    Norman was long in the tooth, bitter, twisted, an acknowledged dinosaur. He had never been able to pass a promotion board to chief inspector, having had six unsuccessful attempts in consecutive years which nearly destroyed him and his marriage. But he was an extremely efficient reactive inspector, dealing well with the nuts and bolts of day-to-day policing. He ran a tight custody office and knew his job in terms of the ‘here and now’ intimately. These days, though, that was not enough when so much was expected of someone who earned over thirty-five grand a year. The force wanted strategic thinkers and leaders who could do so much more than be ‘gung-ho’ with the troops. Norman, who did lead from the front, was extremely popular with the officers under him, but that was not what was wanted by the service. So he had been sidelined.
    â€˜Good.’ Burt Norman gave a curt nod, closed the file with deliberation and tossed it into a tray. ‘Anyway, having said all that, good to have you with us, Henry. Just a pity you’re here because you’ve been shafted by the powers that be . . . bunch o’ twats . . . I know what it’s like. Still, never mind, it’s a good job and at the end of a shift you go home knowing –’ and here Norman counted using his fingers – ‘one: you’ve earned your crust and two: you can put the job out of your mind until you’re next on duty. In other words, you can forget this shit-hole . . . now then, what do I need to hand over to you?’
    There was not much. Four prisoners were currently in custody, but Norman had taken care of their reviews, which Henry was thankful for. It gave him some time to play with at the start of the shift to get his feet under the table. As Norman pulled on his leather biking jacket to leave, he said, ‘Obviously there is the conference going on, as you know – but steer clear of it. Not your job to get involved in any aspect of it.’
    Henry nodded. It was his responsibility to police the streets of Blackpool. There were enough cops drafted into the town from all over the county specifically for the conference.
    Norman scooped up his helmet and gave a quick wave.
    â€˜Bye,’ said Henry, slowly taking off his coat, hanging it behind the door and looking dejectedly round the office. He sighed deeply.
    â€˜Oh – I knew there was something.’ Norman stuck his head back round the door. ‘Forgot to mention it. There’s an ID parade being held at 7.30. You’re running it. Some Asian done over good style by one of the scummy Costains last night. Still alive, but well whacked. Could pop his clogs, I believe. One of the Khan family, I think. Anyway, the suspect is coming back in on part four bail tonight. There’s one witness I think . . . see ya.’ He disappeared like a shot, clearly and absolutely aware of what he had just dropped on Henry’s toes on his first tour of duty as a uniformed inspector.
    A certain queasiness overcame him. He sat down slowly at the desk, cursing. An ID parade was the bane of a uniformed inspector’s life. Difficult to manage and