Up in Flames by Geraldine Evans Page B

hothead, who was, if possible, even less politically-correct than Thomas Catt. With such a headline on the first day of the case he knew what to expect from the super. His usual mixed metaphors when upset would go into overdrive.
                  ‘I’ll have him for this,’ the super threatened. ‘I’ve already spoken to Anthony Lorn about it.’
                  Tony Lorn was their local Labour MP, one of the super’s many PC acquaintances. Casey thought it unlikely that even a red-hot PC barrister like Lorn would find a charge on the Statute Book that would hold water. He doubted Superintendent Brown-Smith believed it and was just venting his spleen. Besides, the editor was merely putting forward a possibility — one which Casey was also considering.
                  Still, it was unfortunate timing. Obviously the case would be picked up in the next day’s nationals, but Casey was confident that Superintendent Brown-Smith would have made sure they wouldn’t repeat the local editor’s speculation. Casey would have talked to the editor, tried to reason with him so that he refrained from further conjecture along similar lines, but from the thunderous expression opposite he suspected such an intervention would not only be pointless but come too late as Brown-Smith’s next words confirmed.
                  ‘Do you know what Owen had the cheek to tell me when I spoke to him?’
                  Casey shook his head.
                  ‘That I was the racist — only I was racially prejudiced against my own people. Can you believe it?’
                  Wisely, Casey kept silent. Not that the super really expected an answer, certainly not one that agreed with the editor’s opinion. But it was a view ThomCatt certainly shared  and had frequently expressed. There was more than an element of truth in it, too. Unfortunately, ThomCatt had a way of speaking his mind without thought for who might be listening. He would have to speak to him about it and about his ‘attitude’ before someone else did.
                  ‘After seeing that - that rag,’ the super didn’t trouble to name the offending local organ as he went on, ‘You’ll understand me when I say I want you to tread very warily on this investigation. The last thing we want is a repeat of the Stephen Lawrence fiasco and its subsequent media witch-hunt. I want the media to have not one single aspect of this case to criticise. Tread softly when speaking to the ethnic community. Kid gloves are what’s needed here. Do I make myself clear?’
                  Casey nodded, aware that with the super in this mood, it was pointless to try to reason with him, he let much of the predictable politically correct platitudes wash over him. But as he took in the first mixed metaphor and briefly wondered whether the superintendent expected him to be shod in kid gloves during any conversation about the deaths with one of the ethnic community, other, more pressing questions occurred to him. They would earn him no brownie points, but he voiced them anyway. ‘And what if, during the course of this investigation, it becomes clear that a member of the ethnic community –   even a member of the victims’ own family – killed them?’ The tiniest tinge of irony coloured Casey’s voice as he added, ‘I presume charging them will be permitted?’
                  Superintendent Brown-Smith shot him a venomous look. Casey swallowed a sigh, aware he had spoken the unspeakable. It was clear the prospect of meting out justice in such an eventuality appalled the superintendent. Determinedly on the way up the career ladder these murders really were the case from hell for the superintendent. As the super’s wall clock — a much-cherished family heirloom — loudly ticked away the seconds, Casey became convinced that should such an unwelcome conclusion become