The TV Detective by Simon Hall Page A

motorists slow subserviently, glancing over nervously as he passed. All he got was a battered old Vauxhall, which smelt of rotting sandwiches and stale cigarettes.
    His disillusionment must have been apparent. ‘We like to blend in with the crowd,’ noted the annoyingly observant Adam. ‘That’s another lesson for you. No marked cars for the CID.’
    Before they’d left Charles Cross, Dan told Adam about his interview with Arthur Bray, the man’s estrangement from his son, and also his shotguns. Without a word of appreciation or thanks Suzanne noted it down for further investigation that morning. They had been about to leave when one final irritant was inflicted on Dan.
    A young man walked into the office, eyed him with interest, and said, ‘I’ve lost then. Damn.’
    â€˜What was that about?’ Dan asked Adam as they’d walked across the car park.
    â€˜You don’t want to know.’
    â€˜It’s about me, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Well spotted.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Are you sure you want to know?’
    â€˜I think I’d rather know than not.’
    â€˜OK then. There’s a sweepstake running. On how long you’ll last.’
    â€˜Is there?’
    â€˜Yep. And Jim there, he drew the shortest time. An hour, I think it was.’
    â€˜Oh. Well, I’m dreadfully sorry for him.’
    â€˜Don’t worry. His loss will be someone else’s gain.’
    â€˜You really know how to make a man feel welcome, don’t you?’
    Adam stopped, and Dan wondered what he was going to say, whether whoever had got the next time slot in the sweepstake was about to scoop the pool.
    â€˜Listen,’ the detective said, but his voice wasn’t hostile. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. It’s absolutely true we didn’t want you. There’s no space for passengers on a big case, particularly a high-profile one like this. But as you’re here, I’m prepared to give you a chance. I suggest you keep your head down, keep quiet and learn what you’ve come to learn. The police haven’t come anywhere near to this modern world of politeness and political correctness, pretend though we sometimes may. We still like our goading and teasing. The best you can do is to try to rise above it. OK?’
    â€˜It does get a little wearing.’
    â€˜Then wear it. OK?’
    Dan nodded. ‘OK.’
    And off they had driven. To see their first witness, or, potentially, their first suspect. Edward Bray’s long-serving secretary, Penelope Ramsden, a woman with a surprising story to tell.
    Bray’s office was an undistinguished, functional 1970s building of concrete and dark glass, which had been left as far behind by the advances of fashion as flares and platform soles. Dan recognised the complex from the story he’d seen, when it was besieged by protesters. He parked just outside the main doors.
    Adam got out of the car, made to walk in, then stoppedand asked, ‘What are you waiting for?’
    â€˜Well, I didn’t know whether you’d want me in on this.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜It feels – I don’t know, sensitive I suppose. This is the real thing, isn’t it? The heart of what you do. Interview people and try to work out whether they might be a murderer.’
    Adam rolled his eyes. ‘Come on in. You’re here to learn about police work, and this is an important part of it. Just remember, you’re here on trust, so keep quiet, observe, and later you can tell me what you make of her.’
    They walked along a corridor, all tiles and brick, punctuated by the odd door, water fountain and poster advertising fitness classes and diet plans. All in preparation for the heavy guilt which inevitably followed the excesses of Christmas. There was no sign of any festive decorations.
    An automatic door swung aside, and they were in a large, open-plan office containing rows of