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confident optimism. He liked to feel that what often seemed to him the chaos and quandary of day-to-day, night-to-night policing were not really like this at all, but elements in a general scheme fully understood and subtly regulated by sharp administrators and government masterminds and mistressminds in the capital. Naturally, he recognized that this was probably bollocks, but it helped keep him going.
    â€˜Fucking Oxford
Literae Humaniores
fucking graduates with Firsts, the fucking lot of them,’ Iles said as they passed through security into the building. ‘But don’t get scared, Col. I’ll see they make allowances for you. I won’t have them treating you as negligible, regardless.’
    â€˜Regardless of what, sir?’
    â€˜Well, yes, regardless, Harpur. You deserve quite a bit better than that. Yes, quite a bit.’
    A screen. Harpur sat next to Iles halfway back in the little Home Office Projection Room to watch it. Maud, their hostess, had a front-row place. She wanted first-name conditions. Harpur thought she’d be late twenties or less. In another room, she’d introduced herself – Maud Logan Clatworthy, ‘your permanent contact with the department during this project, my mobile ever-on if I’m not here’. She had a round, affable, rustic-sexy, swede-basher’s sort of face, but Harpur realized there was no reason why someone with a round, affable, rustic-sexy swede-basher’s face shouldn’t have one of those fucking
Literae Humaniores
Firsts Iles had spoken of. Maud wore a dark-blue trouser suit with some kind of glinting gold thread in the silky looking material. It produced a sort of will-o’-the-wisp effect when she moved, which Harpur found deeply stimulating. Iles would be intrigued by it. He might love to create a will-o’-the-wisp impression himself. Harpur would watch to see over the next few weeks whether the Assistant Chief ordered the same kind of bright interlay for one of his custom-made blazers. On the other hand, Iles could probably decide he came over as sparkling enough, without help from fancy clobber.
    Maud Logan Clatworthy had given them a quick sketch of the case: ‘This being your first official involvement with it, though you probably saw and heard reports in the media at the time, and I’ve sent you some of the transcripts and so on. OK, it’s of this order: four men from the successful drug-dealing firm of Leo Percival Young are told to take out another member of the outfit, Justin Paul Scray, who has apparently been recruiting loaded punters for his own gain. Classic jiggery-pokery, establishing a secret, elite firm within the L.P. Young firm and diverting these gains to himself. Among the four is a camouflaged cop.’
    Now, Maude operated a hand-held control able to put white rings around those elements in the film she wanted to call attention to and talk about, the way soccer analysis on television could encircle some players to illustrate sweet tactics in a game, or crap tactics. The film showed arcades, a building site, a square, a shopping mall, streets. Harpur didn’t recognize any of it. This was a different police domain. ‘Some are simply situation shots of the area done quite recently,’ Maud said, the accent possibly refined Merseyside, out-of-town Merseyside, ‘but we’ve spliced in CCTV material from the night of the shooting where this seems apropos. Some of it was shown to the trial jury, of course.’
    She moved the film on to a new frame and held it. ‘This is where things started, the recessed bus stop and Monthermer Street,’ she said. ‘No CCTV here, unfortunately. It’s only a geography clip. But, as you’ll have probably seen among the statements, a trial witness described three men moving off from a Volvo and into this thoroughfare, cocky like the crook team near the start of
Reservoir Dogs
. Remember them? That Keitel – so