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office. DI Powell, a sheaf of printouts in one hand, swung his legs
off the desk, straightened a perfectly aligned grey silk tie and flashed a fake smile. One of his pet hates was people who waltzed in without knocking, an aversion he’d picked up over the
years from Byford. Mind Knight could have rapped out the Blue Danube before entering, Powell still wouldn’t be joining the new boss’s fan club. Why drop by anyway? The brief was in ten
minutes.
    “What can I do you for, sir?” Powell ran ostensibly casual fingers through perfectly coiffed blond hair. The mateyness sounded forced even to his ears, but he’d rather eat shit
than show he was rankled. Powell had also been up for the DCI job, reckoned he’d been robbed. Assumed his name was written all over it, hadn’t figured on the board being illiterate. Was
he hacked off? Hell yes. As if being pipped wasn’t bad enough, Knight was three years younger, three inches taller and the best looking bald bloke Powell had ever set eyes on. Not that he was
gay or anything.
    “I hear you’re good with the press, Mike?” Cool hand-in-pocket pose, the DCI exuded effortless confidence. Powell thought he looked more diplomat than detective, or a sort of
James Bond special agent. Dressed the part too; his suits were almost as classy as Powell’s own. Almost.
    The DI gave a modest shrug. “I’ve done the odd turn.” Media tart was how Bev Morriss put it. Got a way with words, had Morriss. Mind, Powell had realised recently just how
tough it must’ve been for her a few years back when he got the DI post over her. Maybe they could compare notes, lick wounds. Or something.
    “Anyway...” Knight’s full lips gave an almost imperceptible twitch. “The media’s going ballistic over the Josh Banks story. The news bureau’s got a list of
interview requests long as your arm. Think you can manage the telly stuff today?”
    “Piece of cake.” Like hell. Powell saw a Damoclean sword. Or poison chalice. With Knight’s sticky fingers on it. Being a talking head for the cameras was no problem, except the
DI knew how these things worked. If there were no developments, there’d be naff all to say and muggins here would be the one getting it in the neck from the pack. Of course, if there was a
half decent police press officer around to take... share... the flak: “Who’s looking after it upstairs?” News bureau boss Bernie Flowers would be the obvious choice but the lucky
bastard was on a sabbatical.
    “I’ve asked Paul Curran to co-ordinate for the duration. Case like this needs continuity.” Long fingers picked a speck of white from a charcoal sleeve. Powell spotted nails
that were bitten to the quick; his childish smirk was subliminal, replaced by a knowing frown. Curran seemed a nice enough bloke but he was another new guy.
    Maybe Knight sensed the DI’s reservation. “Paul knows what he’s doing. He was a reporter, knows what they want, how their brains work.” Mindset of a vampiric vulture
then. “Either way, Mike, with a kid missing, we need them on side.” He lifted a cuff, checked a slim gold watch. Subtle. “Liaise with Paul after the brief, OK?”
    Like there was an option. Powell seethed inwardly. Far as he knew, Curran had come from some cushy public relations berth in a sleepy Hereford backwater. Cutting edge media supremo he
wasn’t. It wasn’t so much that, though; at least the guy would be malleable. It was the way Knight dished out orders that stuck in Powell’s craw. Like he’d ever show it.
“On it, boss. Good call.”
    “Yeah.” Three, four second pause then: “I knew I could count on you, Mike.” Powell looked away first, but not before he’d clocked the glint in Lancelot’s eye.
As the DCI headed for the door, Powell nonchalantly gathered a few files, pocketed pen and mobile. Close run thing, but he saw the skirmish as one-all.
    When he glanced up the DCI was still in the doorway. “Don’t play heavy with him, Mike.