“No,” snarled Webster, “I haven’t forgotten.” As if the buggers would let him forget! He spun on his heel and barged out of the lobby, slamming the door behind him.

That’s put the bastard in his place, thought Wells, feeling better now he had syphoned off some of his pent-up frustration.

Collier raced over excitedly. “The Chief Constable’s car, Sarge.”

“Well, don’t wet your knickers about it, Constable. Go upstairs and tell Mr. Mullett, quick.” Wells adjusted his uniform and made his back ramrod straight. He rapped on the panel and warned Control that the Chief Constable was on the way through.

The phone on his desk gave a little cough. Wells glowered at it, daring it to ring. It defied him. So did the other phone. Damn and blast! He’d planned a quick exchange of dialogue with the Chief Constable in which the Chief would look around the empty lobby and say, “All on your own, Sergeant?” and he would reply smartly, with much diffidence, “Yes, sir, but I can cope. I can run this place single-handed if need be…” And the Chief Constable would smile approvingly and make a mental note that there was some very promising promotion material here. Instead, the Chief Constable, in immaculate evening suit, breezed through, nodded curtly at Wells and said, “Those phones need answering, Sergeant.”

The first phone call was from a man living in the senior citizens’ flats off Arberry Road. Some idiot in a sports car was roaring round and round the block, cutting across the lawns and waking the oldies up. Wells scribbled details and promised action. No sooner had he replaced the phone than it rang again. He picked up the second phone. Another senior citizen complaining about the same thing. “Yes, we’ve got it in hand,” he promised, reaching for the first phone yet another old fool wanting the police to do something about this hooligan in the racing car.