Where the Bodies are Buried by Christopher Brookmyre, Brookmyre Page B

officers, your ability to spot a murderer runs a fine line between earning admiration
     and creeping them out.’
    ‘Thanks,’ Catherine told her. ‘That really makes me feel better.’
    ‘It’s the truth, hen.’
    ‘I know. So now we’ve got the sugar-coated bollocks out of the way, do you want to tell me the real reason?’
    Moira had taken a sip of coffee and nodded, an ironic smile acknowledging that she’d been nailed.
    ‘You wanted it too much,’ she stated, her eyes meeting Catherine’s unflinchingly, which told her not only that Moira agreed
     with this assessment, but that she suspected Catherine would too. ‘That’s the feeling. It made them uncomfortable. You hate
     these people, Cath: the Stevie Fullertons of this world, the Frankie Callahans, the Paddy Steels. Don’t pretend otherwise,
     and don’t kid yourself that it doesn’t go unnoticed. The brass know what you’re good at and they know how you operate. They
     were worried that you’d be happy to keep bringing in heads when you’re dealing with a hydra. They want to construct an anatomy
     of the monster. Supply, distribution, revenue collation, where the money goes next, how it’s laundered, how the deals can
     go down without money or goods ever seeming to change hands. To do that, there might have to be some unpalatable compromises.’
    Moira didn’t need to spell it out any further. Catherine could see clearly why she had never had a chance of getting the post.
    ‘They needed a political animal. Somebody dispassionate and pragmatic.’
    ‘Abercorn’s young and ambitious,’ Moira confirmed. ‘He’ll be autonomous without going off the reservation; do what he’s told
     but won’t need his hand held.’
    ‘A yes man.’
    ‘More somebody who’s smart enough to know when to give his best
impression
of a yes man. For dispassionate read “sly”; for pragmatic read “sell his granny”.’
    Moira was the first person to slag off Abercorn in an effort to make her feel better, but in truth Catherine now understood
     why they had made their decision, and it burned all the more because she knew they were right. She did hate these people,
     and her feelings could influence her judgement and have a deleterious effect upon her professional patience. When she had
     scum like Paddy Steel in her sights, she found it very hard to pull back and look at the whole battlefield.
    Abercorn’s patience, by contrast, seemed limitless; so much so that he wasn’t perceived to be in any great hurry to actually
     prosecute any criminals, hence the derision that tended to accompany any mention of him or his unit.
    He tapped on the glass gently and gave an almost apologetic wave by way of announcing his arrival. Huffs and tantrums must
     have been contra-indicated by his profiling of forty-one-year-old mothers-of-two.
    As usual, he looked like he had spent ten minutes in the toilets preening himself before strolling up and attempting to look
     nonchalant. There was not a hair out of place on his sculpted coif and he was slickly dressed, his suit immaculately turned
     out and guaranteed bobble-free. Some might say smartly dressed, even suavely, but for Catherine, slick was the apposite term,
     the others lacking the necessary connotations of oil. She would admit she could imagine other females finding him good-looking,
     though maybe not other female cops. Abercorn reminded her a bit of Don Draper in
Mad Men:
attractive in a classical way, but the wrong side of polished for her taste. Not enough rough edges: all surface, no feeling.
    ‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch. I heard about James McDiarmid and just wanted to offer any information or insight I might
     be able to provide.’
    Which translated as ‘I’m over here seeking to hoover up any information or insight your investigation might provide
me.’
    Actually, it might not even mean that. Abercorn was even harder to read than Sunderland, but the one thing you could be sure
     about was that there