Soul Seeker by Keith McCarthy Page B

which neither side was pretending to have respect for each other.
    The worst of it, though, was that she actually liked Braxton, a unique feeling for her when it came to her relationship with her superiors. He had never given her the impression that he was sexually interested in her, indeed she suspected that he looked on her from a purely pastoral, purely paternal standpoint. He did not see her as a rival (he was due to retire in less than five years anyway) and consequently did not feel the need to denigrate her, insult her, patronize her or actively plot against her. She judged that he was able to look above the office politics and career ladder to concentrate more upon what, after all, they were all supposedly there for – the solving of crimes. Not that she underestimated him; his manner was mild, his voice was relatively cultured and his smile warm, but the corollary was that he gave these expecting respect and diligence in return, and woe betide those who failed to appreciate this.
    His door was open when she climbed the stairs to the top floor and before she could knock he bade her come in and be seated. ‘I’ve read the reports,’ he said without preamble.
    His tone, she assessed, was that of a man who was not impressed and, accordingly, she said, ‘They don’t make good reading.’
    â€˜No.’
    His monosyllabic reply gave her nowhere to hide and she had to continue. ‘We’re going through the routine – missing persons, DNA, dental records . . .’
    â€˜I know that, chief inspector. I can read, you see . . .’ A trace of sarcasm but, like all the best cooks, he had added the perfect amount, especially when combined with a small smile and an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word chief. Stung, she was momentarily lost, unsure of what to say, and it allowed him to add with a sad but affectionate sigh, ‘Beverley, you haven’t got the faintest idea what is going on, have you?’
    What could she say? ‘No.’
    Lambert would have exploded, or been excoriating, or just incredibly angry, but Braxton no longer had any interests beyond the furtherance of the investigation. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Neither do I.’ His smile, momentarily gone, returned and was broader but sadder. ‘Relax, please,’ he suggested and the atmosphere became at once easier. He got up and went to a filter coffee machine on top of a filing cabinet, came back with two mugs, handing one to her; it was black and unsugared, as he knew she liked it. Then, as he sat down: ‘I don’t envy you this one, Beverley.’
    Which conveyed sympathy at exactly the same time as it smacked her in the face with the realization that he was hanging her out to dry; solve it or else. Perhaps, she thought, she had underestimated his capacity for viciousness; she had been perhaps naive to assume that anyone could rise to his level without being a hard-hearted bastard. She sipped her coffee, deciding that it was too weak and possibly, the greater crime, decaffeinated. ‘Can you offer any assistance?’
    â€˜Of course,’ he said quickly; too quickly. ‘We have to catch this one, especially now it’s public.’
    She knew better than to take this at face value. ‘How can you help me?’
    â€˜Manpower and other resources . . .’ Of course there had to be a caveat, though. ‘Within reason.’
    She supposed with the bitter cynicism of experience that it was about as much as she could expect, but it was hardly a blank cheque; it could mean anything from an extra car to a promise of half the Gloucestershire Constabulary under her command; it was likely, she suspected, to be closer to the former than the latter. ‘And I could appreciate the benefit of your experience. Have you ever come across anything like this before?’
    He looked momentarily astonished, the coffee cup arrested on its journey