Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

street was this Thrall lot did the deed, but
the one bloke we collared was peripheral at best. He never put his hands up to
it, never named names, case was about as watertight as a rusty bucket, and the
jury acquitted.’
    There
was a long silence.
    ‘Doesn’t
make Debbie look too good, does it?’ Marie tapped the name on the page.
    ‘Your
guv’nor should know about this.’ Gary glanced ruefully down at his breakfast.
‘Better get Gloria to stick this on a warming plate. Finish your Weetabix and
let’s go.’
    ‘Wait
a minute,’ Kim said, hand on his arm. Beside her, Marie saw it trembling. ‘What
else can you remember?’
    ‘Kim?’
    ‘This
was Mark Watkins, right?’
    ‘You
remember it?’ Gary sounded surprised.
    ‘I’m
black,’ she retorted with sudden vehemence. ‘Course I fucking remember it, and
Carruth. The slag what got off.’ She was shaking all over now. ‘And I tell you
another thing I remember. Mark Watkins was tarred and feathered.’
    ‘Oh...’
Gary said quietly.
    Marie
asked, ‘What’s tarred and - ’
    ‘Summink
else they used to do to black men in the American South,’ Kim cut her off. ‘The
ones they weren’t putting burning crosses outside their houses. Gary,’ she
said, after pausing for some deep breaths, ‘you’re brilliant. I love you.’
    He
looked at her. She was ashen-faced, but there was a glint in her eye. He picked
up the mood shift and grinned. ‘That mean you’re buying me lunch?’
    ‘If
this ain’t a coincidence,’ Kim said, grabbing the diary, leaping up and taking
his arm, ‘I’ll get you a seat at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet. Come on.’
     
    Slowly, Larissa
Stephenson raised a hand. A polite, not diffident hand.
    Detective
Chief Inspector Matthew Summerfield regarded her with a mixture of approval and
weariness. So many new aides started out timid as mice, so afraid even to
twitch that they’d sit on what might - sometimes, not often - be a vital
contribution. Not this one, though. Trouble was, this one was Special Crime and
that, in his estimation, meant lippy cows. Summerfield’s view of women in the
police was not an emancipated one. He yearned for the not so long gone days
when he’d been able to reach for a WPC to deal with a child, or a difficult
female witness or suspect, or a difficult any kind of witness or suspect.
Now they’d even dropped the W from WPC and what was that all about? Equality? That was a
laugh. Catch a woman kicking in the door of a crack house or bringing down a
scrote with a running tackle; real policework. Support. Making the tea. That, as far as
Summerfield was concerned, was a plonk’s place, not shuffling in as a CID
bloody aide, if you please. The addition of this one meant Special Crime now
had eight of the bitches. He wouldn’t mind except that they had a tendency to
nick investigations right when they got interesting, and for some god-unknown
reason Heighway almost always went along with it. As a result, Special Crime
weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms at the CID morning briefing and
generally stood at the back out of glaring range.
    He
picked her out in the shadows and said, ‘Yes, constable?’
    ‘Doesn’t
make sense, sir.’
    Summerfield
resisted the temptation to make a crushing remark, largely because of DI
Schneider’s presence. Special Crime usually sent two people to the briefing,
one being the on-call officer from the previous night and the other either
Schneider or DCI Beadle. He was relieved Beadle wasn’t there but on the other
hand, Zoltan Schneider had a way with his tongue, when he wished, that was the
verbal equivalent of a deep paper cut. With him were Detective Sergeant Wallace
and this new plonk. Summerfield had forgotten her name already.
    ‘Can
we enlighten you?’ he asked her, regretting the sarcasm as he sensed Schneider
staring at him from behind his glasses.
    She
stood up straighter and his gaze shifted automatically to her bust. Bit young
for him, this one, but a nice pair