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.Jimmy settled into the other seat.Everyone sitting down, a room waiting, every face turned towards Shand.He began, almost on autopilot, giving the basic details of the case – the names, the village, the time frame, where everyone had been found.His mind drifted further ahead.What was he going to say next? What was he going to leave out? It was such a fine line: say too much and you tip off the killer, say too little and you miss the vital witness – the woman who saw the car or the handbag you omitted to mention.He talked about the missing murder weapon.“We’re looking for a garden spade.It may have been dumped from a car early this morning.”“Any idea where?” shouted one of the reporters“Somewhere north of Athelcott.”“How far north?” asked another.“Probably within ten miles,” said Shand.A sea of hands rose and fell.Everyone shouting questions at once, Shand looked from one side of the room to the other.He could feel the press conference slipping away from his control.Should he ignore the questions and press on with his statement? Did he have a statement?“And we’re looking for a handbag,” said Shand, trying to retake the initiative.“Probably dumped from the same car.”“What kind of car?”“A large four-door saloon with leather interior.”“What make?”“We don’t know.”“What colour?”“We don’t know.”“But it has got four doors?” asked Kevin Tresco.“Yes, that’s right.”“And presumably four wheels?”Laughter.It was only a few people, but it totally threw Shand.Why were they laughing? This was a press conference about a murder.Tresco smirked from the front row, looking around at his colleagues, lapping up the attention.Shand swallowed, confused, desperately thinking of something to say.Tresco didn’t give him the time.As soon as the laughter died down, he was back.“You don’t have much to go on do you, chief inspector? A man of your experience.Tell me, how much experience do you have?”Shand hesitated.He was used to impressing people with his CV.His Masters in Criminology, his time lecturing in the States, his years in Training Branch, his secondment to the Home Office, the Met, the Inspectorate of Police.He’d been a high-flyer all his career.But now it sounded hollow.All theory and admin.That’s what Tresco would see.“I’ve been in the force for fifteen years.”“Mmm, impressive,” said Tresco, looking down at his notes.“And how many of those years were in CID?”Jimmy Scott reached over and took the microphone from Shand.“I don’t think that question’s relevant.Can we move on, please? Next question.”Tresco kept going.“How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”Shand opened his mouth to answer, but Jimmy cut in.“Kevin, this an open press conference, let someone else have a chance.”A reporter at the back repeated the question.“How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”Kevin Tresco leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and smirked.Shand took the mike, his mouth suddenly dry, his palms oozing a cold sweat.“This is my first murder case,” he said.“Isn’t this your first case ever, chief inspector?” said Tresco, now standing up.“In fact, isn’t this only your second day on the job?” He turned to milk the reaction from the press corps.An excited buzz, a flurry of camera clicks.“What do you think of that, Mr.Shand? Do you think it right an outsider with no experience should run a local murder enquiry?”Uproar.Shand suddenly felt very alone, the table elongating by the second taking his colleagues with it.The room doing the opposite – contracting – a sea of faces pushing closer.Open mouths, lights flashing, questions everywhere.Tresco in the front leading the chorus.“I know what my readers think.”A sneer, a pointed finger, that irritating laugh.“Have you got one single lead?”Everyone was watching.His own people in the wings, countless viewers at home, Anne.His career was incinerating before his eyes.He had to say something, do something.The schoolboy in him wanted to get back at Tresco, wipe the smile off his face.Destroy him with one withering remark.Another voice.One from memory.What was it his old boss at the Press Office used to tell him? If you want to kill a story, give them a better one.Something they want to hear.He glanced down at the table.Saw the folded newspaper.Bold headlines – Asylum Seeker Row Deepens [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Jimmy settled into the other seat.Everyone sitting down, a room waiting, every face turned towards Shand.He began, almost on autopilot, giving the basic details of the case – the names, the village, the time frame, where everyone had been found.His mind drifted further ahead.What was he going to say next? What was he going to leave out? It was such a fine line: say too much and you tip off the killer, say too little and you miss the vital witness – the woman who saw the car or the handbag you omitted to mention.He talked about the missing murder weapon.“We’re looking for a garden spade.It may have been dumped from a car early this morning.”“Any idea where?” shouted one of the reporters“Somewhere north of Athelcott.”“How far north?” asked another.“Probably within ten miles,” said Shand.A sea of hands rose and fell.Everyone shouting questions at once, Shand looked from one side of the room to the other.He could feel the press conference slipping away from his control.Should he ignore the questions and press on with his statement? Did he have a statement?“And we’re looking for a handbag,” said Shand, trying to retake the initiative.“Probably dumped from the same car.”“What kind of car?”“A large four-door saloon with leather interior.”“What make?”“We don’t know.”“What colour?”“We don’t know.”“But it has got four doors?” asked Kevin Tresco.“Yes, that’s right.”“And presumably four wheels?”Laughter.It was only a few people, but it totally threw Shand.Why were they laughing? This was a press conference about a murder.Tresco smirked from the front row, looking around at his colleagues, lapping up the attention.Shand swallowed, confused, desperately thinking of something to say.Tresco didn’t give him the time.As soon as the laughter died down, he was back.“You don’t have much to go on do you, chief inspector? A man of your experience.Tell me, how much experience do you have?”Shand hesitated.He was used to impressing people with his CV.His Masters in Criminology, his time lecturing in the States, his years in Training Branch, his secondment to the Home Office, the Met, the Inspectorate of Police.He’d been a high-flyer all his career.But now it sounded hollow.All theory and admin.That’s what Tresco would see.“I’ve been in the force for fifteen years.”“Mmm, impressive,” said Tresco, looking down at his notes.“And how many of those years were in CID?”Jimmy Scott reached over and took the microphone from Shand.“I don’t think that question’s relevant.Can we move on, please? Next question.”Tresco kept going.“How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”Shand opened his mouth to answer, but Jimmy cut in.“Kevin, this an open press conference, let someone else have a chance.”A reporter at the back repeated the question.“How many murder cases have you been on, chief inspector?”Kevin Tresco leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and smirked.Shand took the mike, his mouth suddenly dry, his palms oozing a cold sweat.“This is my first murder case,” he said.“Isn’t this your first case ever, chief inspector?” said Tresco, now standing up.“In fact, isn’t this only your second day on the job?” He turned to milk the reaction from the press corps.An excited buzz, a flurry of camera clicks.“What do you think of that, Mr.Shand? Do you think it right an outsider with no experience should run a local murder enquiry?”Uproar.Shand suddenly felt very alone, the table elongating by the second taking his colleagues with it.The room doing the opposite – contracting – a sea of faces pushing closer.Open mouths, lights flashing, questions everywhere.Tresco in the front leading the chorus.“I know what my readers think.”A sneer, a pointed finger, that irritating laugh.“Have you got one single lead?”Everyone was watching.His own people in the wings, countless viewers at home, Anne.His career was incinerating before his eyes.He had to say something, do something.The schoolboy in him wanted to get back at Tresco, wipe the smile off his face.Destroy him with one withering remark.Another voice.One from memory.What was it his old boss at the Press Office used to tell him? If you want to kill a story, give them a better one.Something they want to hear.He glanced down at the table.Saw the folded newspaper.Bold headlines – Asylum Seeker Row Deepens [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]