Ghigau 7 part 1

Detective Sergeant Samantha ‘Sam’ Tate woke with a headache. Thumping temples, ringing ears, dry mouth. The ceiling was unfamiliar, until she remembered she was in the spare room. She got up and went to pee and brush her teeth, drinking great gulps of cold water straight from the tap after she rinsed. In the mirror was the face of a woman at least a week older than the one who, on the spur of the moment and at the invitation of her friend Tom, (whom she suspected would like to be more than a friend) had ill-advisedly gone to a party the night before. On a weeknight, I must be mad, that’s another couple of million brain cells gone, she mused. She checked on Tom, who was snoring contentedly next door, she’d insisted he take her more comfortable bed. How did he do it? He had definitely drunk as much as her, if not more, but was sober as a judge by the time they got home. She, on the other hand, had insulted the taxi driver (they always took black cabs never Uber) who had assumed Tom was paying, and she had to be helped up the stairs because too much Prosecco and a fit of giggles had reduced her legs to jelly. She checked her phone — 6.15am, she would be at work by 7.30. Luckily she wasn’t driving. 

    She didn’t wake Tom, she wasn’t that cruel, but rather left him a note thanking him for a fun evening and telling him to let himself out. By the time she was dressed, in a dark blue jacket and trousers, over a white shirt, with flat shoes, had applied some make up, and fixed her hair, she felt half human. The pre-arranged traffic unit was already waiting outside, She checked her handbag — phone, keys, vape  — then shut the front door softly on her way out. She could already feel the warmth of the sun through her jacket as she walked to the car.

    The CID accommodation, on the second floor of the ugly, red-brick 1970s built police Station, housed fourteen detectives and was already busy. Grimy, meshed windows, set high in the walls, reduced the intensity of the fierce morning sunlight, but did nothing to prevent it bleaching virtually all the colour from the room.  The heat was oppressive. Phones rang, doors slammed, keyboards clacked. The smell of sweaty bodies pervaded the air. Did some of these guys never wash? With her head down and dark glasses still on, Sam threaded her way to the rear of the room. DI Conway’s office was just behind her, separated only by plate glass, hopefully he was in an unobservant mood.

    “G’morning Sarge” Detective Constable Philip Tench stood between Samantha and her desk, smirking. He was in his mid forties, short, although not so short he didn’t make it into the force, with a florid face and small eyes that blinked too much. A cheap, pale-blue shirt stretched across his belly, exposing patches of grey undershirt between each buttonhole. A worn, brown belt dissected his well padded midriff producing bulges above and below. Despite this he was tough; heavy set with broad shoulders, a wide neck and powerful forearms. He could defend himself if he had to, as long as he didn’t have to run.

    How does he manage to make everything he says sound like a piss take? She thought unkindly.  She would have liked to smack that smirk off his fat face. “What’s good about it?” She felt nauseous, her head was pounding, and Tench wasn’t helping.

    Tench ignored her comment and said — just a little too loudly— “Strong coffee is it then Sarge?” Partly to make her wince and partly to let her colleagues know she was hungover.

    “Oh brilliant! Did you stay up all night working on that one eh?” Sam snapped. There was a snigger from somewhere in the room. She watched Tench’s face darken and immediately regretted her over-reaction.

    “No harm in asking is there?” He tossed a file on her desk. “It’s a MISPER, surprisingly.” Tench’s tone was ironic. He pushed past her, his heavy thighs, clothed in shiny suit-pants, chafing audibly, and returned to his desk.

    Sam sat down and pulled the file across to read its legend, but soon realised she actually did need coffee before she could do anything. This presented her with a dilemma. Having just given Tench a hard time — not that he didn’t deserve it, she thought — she couldn’t possibly ask him, which meant getting her own coffee, which meant crossing the room, passing every other desk including Tench’s to get one. Her treatment of her junior officer (in rank but not age) was probably a bit harsh but there was history there. They had both been Detective Constables up until a year ago, then Sam had been promoted and Tench resented her for it; that and her gender, her looks, her age, and probably even her height … he was just resentful full stop. She was tired of the constant insinuations that she’d been promoted because she was young, or attractive, or blonde, or female — or anything but being good at detective work, which she was. 

    “Fuck it” She muttered petulantly. She stood up and headed for the coffee machine, smoothing her jacket as she went and sensing the eyes in the room following her. She made two coffees, strong and black for her, half and half with four sugars for Tench. She placed the cup of caramel coloured liquid (you could hardly call it coffee any more) in front of him saying sweetly, “You’re welcome,” then went back to her desk. That’ll confuse him, she thought. After all they had to work together and there was always the chance she would need to count on him for backup at some point, though she sincerely hoped not.

    Sam turned back to the file Tench had dropped in front of her. She had a heavy workload already and could have done without more. Theirs wasn’t the worst borough to police, that honour went to the City of London, but it was fourth from the top with a bullet. A MISPER or missing person case was always an absolute ball-ache to investigate. Everything would have to be run through COMPACT the police missing persons central records system. There were different protocols for dealing with vulnerable people, fostered children, children in care, domestic abuse victims, honour based abuse victims — the list went on. The golden hour principle was almost never observed except in cases involving very young children, where they were likely to be reported missing as soon as someone realised they were gone. In the case of adults it could take days until the police became involved. If you’ve had a row with your spouse and they storm out and don’t come home that night, you generally don’t ring the police.

    Sam looked at the file. The name scrawled on the front was ‘Talbot’. ‘That rings a bell’ she thought. 

    When she’d made Sergeant it was explained to her that there would be a ‘settling in’ period. That her team, which due to staff shortages was basically her and DC Tench, would get the jobs no one else wanted until she proved herself. That was ok. Missing persons cases were important, sometimes. But she couldn’t wait to get her teeth into a juicy murder, or kidnapping, or bank robbery or something interesting. Nine times out of ten, missing people turned up; if they were teenagers they were at a friends pulling a long weekend bender; if they were adults then they had either run off with a lover or were escaping an abusive partner. Once or twice Sam thought she might have been on the trail of a person who had been killed but (thankfully for them) they always turned up. One of two were never seen again but with no evidence of foul play the police’s hands are tied. The bottom line is, it’s not a crime to disappear. 

    Detective Inspector Steven Conway’s rich baritone cut through her thoughts. “A minute please Samantha?” He always used her full first name which made her feel like a schoolgirl; it irritated her, unreasonably so. He was leaning round the corner of his office door, looking as if he’d just returned from a month at an expensive health spa; head and chin shaved to perfection, smooth features with impossibly white teeth set off by virtually ebony skin.

    How the fuck does he always look like that? Samantha thought, looking down at her blouse and noticing it already had a small coffee stain on the front. Perhaps he was gay? She’d never met a straight man that could consistently look that good. There had definitely been women in his life though, she remembered a tall alluring plus-one he had brought to one of the Christmas dos. 

    “Be right there Sir.” She pretended to shuffle some paperwork.

    “Bring the Talbot file with you.”

    She was surprised by that. “Uh, yes will do.” Why are you interested  in a MISPER? Was what she didn’t say out loud.