In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson

region. If there were, she had a good guess what they would be: dyke bitch.
    Annie parked on the strip of tarmac beside the ugly brick section station and walked inside. Only four of them worked directly out of the station: Inspector Harmond, Annie and PC s Cameron and Gould. Apart from Samantha, their civilian clerk, Annie was the only woman. That was okay with her; they seemed a pretty decent bunch of men, as men go. She certainly felt no threat from any of them. PC Cameron was married, with two kids to whom he was clearly devoted. Gould seemed to be one of those rare types who have no sexual dimension whatsoever, content to live at home with his mum, play with his model trains and add stamps to his album. She knew that in books such types often turn out to be the most dangerous of all, the serial killers and sexual deviants, but Gould was harmless. Even if he liked to wear women’s underwear in private, Annie didn’t care. Inspector Harmond was, well, avuncu-lar . He liked to think himself as a bit like Sergeant Blake-ton out of “Heartbeat,” but he didn’t even come close, in Annie’s opinion.
    Harkside police station might be ugly on the outside but at least inside it was a sparsely populated open-plan office area—apart from Inspector Harmond’s office, partitionedoff at the far end—and there was plenty of room to spread oneself around. Annie liked that. Her L-shaped desk was the messiest of all, but she knew where everything was and could put her hands on anything anyone asked her for so quickly that even Inspector Harmond had given up teasing her about it.
    Annie’s desk also took up a corner, part of which included a side window. It wasn’t much of a view, only the cobbled alley, a gate and the back wall of the Three Feathers, but at least she was close to a source of light and air, and it was good to be able to see something of the outside world. Even if there was hardly any breeze these days, she loved each gentle waft of warm air through the window; it lifted her spirits. These little things mattered so much, Annie had discovered. She had had her shot at the big-time, the fast-track, with all its excitement, but it had ended badly for her. Now she was slowly rediscovering what mattered in life.
    Harkside was generally a law-abiding sort of community, so there wasn’t a lot for a detective sergeant to do. There was plenty of paperwork to keep her occupied, make her feel she’d earned her pay, but it was hardly a high-overtime posting, and there were slack periods. That also suited her fine. Sometimes it was good to do nothing. And why should she complain if enough people weren’t getting robbed, killed or beaten up?
    Just now, she had two domestic violence cases and a spate of after-dark vandalism on her plate. And now the skeleton. Well, the others could wait. Inspector Harmond had increased patrols in the area most often hit by the vandals, who would probably be caught red-handed before long, and the wife-beaters were at the moment contrite and arranging to seek help.
    Annie headed first to the coffee machine and filled her mug, the one with “She Who Must Be Obeyed” written on it, then she walked over and knocked on Inspector Harmond’s door. He asked her to come in.
    â€œSir?”
    Harmond looked up from his desk. “Annie. What is it, lass?”
    â€œGot a minute?”
    â€œAye. Sit down.”
    Annie sat. Harmond’s was a plain office, with only his merit awards on the wall for decoration, and framed photos of his wife and children on the desk. In his early fifties, he seemed perfectly content to be a rural inspector for the rest of his working life. His head was too large for his gangly frame, and Annie always worried it would fall off if he tilted it too far to one side. It never had; not yet. He had a pleasant, round, open face. The features were a bit coarse, and a few black hairs grew out the end of his misshapen,