Killing Me Softly by Marjorie Eccles

being chronically short of sleep, as well. That was what it cost for a job you were willing to give your eye-teeth to get, even though you sometimes hated it. But it was ultimately stimulating and fulfilling, which was more than you could say for most jobs. And she’d have come in on her wedding day if it meant catching the scum who were responsible for this lad’s death. Drug dealing was despicable, the rock-bottom end of a dirty business; it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
    She sensed an atmosphere of tension building up in the room. A suggestion was being put forward by DC Steele that they should lose no time in raiding the Bagots, but this was immediately vetoed by Skellen.
    Mayo, arms folded across his chest, was obviously of the same opinion as Steele. ‘Time to get the priorities right, Inspector,’ he reminded Skellen. ‘Before any other youngster cops it. We know who the dealer is – so we pull him in. What’s your problem?’
    â€˜My problem is we’ve spent weeks on this. There’s a new supplier on your patch, and the jungle drums say the dealing’s going on from the Bagots. We can bust them any time, but we can’t guarantee they’re going to grass on their source, and that’s who we want.’
    â€˜How much longer do we have to wait?’
    â€˜We should’ve had him last Wednesday, we’d good information he’d be there, but word must have got out. We need more time.’
    â€˜I’d be asking your informant for your money back, if I were you,’ Mayo remarked caustically.
    â€˜He’s always been reliable enough in the past.’ Skellen shrugged, not liking the implied criticism, and looked to his sergeant for back-up. ‘We’re building up good intelligence, but sometimes it all comes unhinged, despite best efforts.’
    â€˜Somebody got wind,’ agreed the laconic Tillotson. ‘It happens.’
    The two men trod a dangerous line, sometimes working undercover, playing with fire. Mayo thought they overdid the streetwise bit. They were wearing the required gear, jeans and leather and scruffy trainers. Skellen sported a grade three haircut and an ear-ring, wasn’t as young as he looked. His eyes were the giveaway. There was something about him Abigail tried to remember, a background of trouble, something menacing. His sergeant, a thin, cadaverous man, looked so like a druggie that certain people had been known to wonder if his double life hadn’t skewed him in the wrong direction. But he wouldn’t have lasted long with Skellen if he had.
    â€˜This guy who’s dealing, he’s small potatoes,’ Skellen said. ‘He’s not part of any organized drug-trafficking that we know of but there’s more stuff getting through to this neck of the woods than there should be, and we’ve a chance here to get back to the source if we get it right.’
    No one said anything for a moment.
    â€˜The ACC’s not happy about this. “Crime-related drugs-taking”’, Mayo quoted, ‘"is costing this force alone twenty-three millions a year."’
    â€˜Yeah,’ Skellen said, ‘and forty-three millions next time he blinks. Catching a two-bit street dealer isn’t going to stop that. There’s dozens more ready to crawl out of the woodwork and take his place.’
    â€˜I know, I know.’ Mayo sighed irritably. Skellen was right, of course. It went against the grain, however, to allow drug-pushing to go on under their noses. But it was good policy to let it continue, for months sometimes, never losing sight of what they were after, in an attempt to get a definite line to the supply chain. ‘But don’t expect me to like it. A kid out there on my patch died last night.’
    â€˜I hadn’t forgotten,’ Skellen said quietly. ‘But we’ll get nowhere compromising the operation.’
    â€˜OK. You win. But for God’s