He leaned across the desk to the sergeant, taking him into his confidence with great news: “The Chief Constable said he might look in, Sergeant, to say goodbye personally to George Harrison. You might ask one of your spare constables to keep an eye on the road outside.. .”

“I haven’t got anyone spare, sir,” cut in Wells hastily. “I’ve only got one constable with me to help run the entire station.” He indicated young Collier, who didn’t seem to be making much progress with the caller on the phone.

“He’ll do fine,” beamed Mullett, who had no intention of getting involved in these minor staffing problems. “The instant the Chief Constable’s car turns that corner, I want to be told. I’ll be upstairs with the lads.” He paused. “Sorry I had to put you on duty tonight, Wells, but there are so few men I could really trust to do a good job when we’re short-handed.”

Wells gave a noncommittal grunt.

Mullett pushed open the door to the canteen and steeled himself. He was not a very good mixer as far as social ising with the lower ranks was concerned and would never have attended were it not for the promised visit of the Chief Constable. He squared his shoulders, then, like a front-line soldier going over the top, he bravely charged up the stairs.

Wells glowered after him, speeding him on his way with a blast of mental abuse. “That’s right… go and enjoy yourself. Never mind us poor buggers sweating our guts out down here.” He became aware of Collier’s worried face looking helplessly at him, the phone still in his hand.

“What is it now, Collier? Surely you can handle a simple phone call on your own?”

“She won’t talk to me, Sarge, and she’s getting stroppy. She says she wants a high-ranking officer.”

A loud burst of sound and the crash of breaking glass from overhead.

Wells hoped it was Mullett falling over the beer crates.