Those Who Feel Nothing Read Online Free Page B

getting the technology to fill the vacuum that creates. We’re stretched very tight.’
    â€˜And I’m guessing you’ve still got the same problem with the public and the politicians,’ Watts said. ‘You put all your efforts into reducing domestic burglaries and your critics moan that means some other kind of crime is being ignored.’
    â€˜Exactly.’ She gave Watts a sardonic look. ‘Sure you want to get drawn back into all that?’
    He smiled but said nothing.
    Hewitt spread her hands. ‘As you say, the public isn’t always happy with the choices we make dealing with the competing demands on our resources. And as you’ll remember, a dissatisfied public is an unhelpful public.’
    â€˜Tell me about it,’ Watts said, recalling all the public meetings he’d had to manage during his stint in her seat. He knew the importance of keeping the public onside.
    Hewitt looked at her tablet. ‘If you’re free the Force Command Team would like to meet you on Friday. Some familiar faces; some new ones.’
    Watts looked at the calendar on his own tablet. ‘Sure. Let me know the time.’
    Hewitt leaned forward and touched his hand on the table. ‘In relation to those kind of PR exercises there’s one thing you could do,’ she said. ‘One thing I beg you to do, actually …’
    â€˜I’m on tenterhooks,’ he said, glancing down as she squeezed his hand.
    â€˜Be the public face of Southern Police. You’re brilliant at that. I’m rubbish – plus, I hate it. If you would take over that role, among all the other things I hope we’ll be doing together, I’d be really grateful.’
    Bob Watts smiled as he withdrew his hand. Sure he could do that. Forgetting, in the flattering moment, that the last time he’d shot off his big mouth as the public face of Southern Police he’d swiftly lost his job.
    Karen Hewitt gave her cosmetically restricted smile right back. Only when he left the meeting did he recall that she, on the other hand, was a woman who forgot nothing.

TWO
    H eap was standing by Gilchrist’s desk with what looked like the same sheaf of papers as before. Stanford was behind Heap, towering over him, holding down a yawn. She saw the expression on Heap’s face.
    â€˜There’s someone who stands out?’ Gilchrist said.
    â€˜A certain Bernard Rafferty, ma’am,’ Heap said.
    â€˜Bugger,’ Gilchrist mouthed.
    â€˜Quite,’ Heap said.
    The constable looked from one to the other of them but didn’t speak.
    â€˜You don’t know who that is?’ Gilchrist said to him.
    â€˜Why would I, ma’am?’
    â€˜Because he’s the director of the Royal Pavilion.’
    â€˜Yes, ma’am?’
    â€˜You’ve heard of that, I suppose?’
    â€˜Nice pub,’ said the constable.
    Stanford was not her type at all.
    â€˜Watch your cheek, Constable.’
    â€˜Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that the Royal Pavilion itself is not a place you’d ever be likely to find me.’
    â€˜You surprise me. He’s also a regular broadcaster on current affairs shows on radio and television.’
    â€˜That’s not going to help me identify him either, ma’am.’
    Heap interrupted again. ‘In addition, he’s an expert on the churchyards of Sussex.’
    â€˜I didn’t think that included digging up the bodies,’ Gilchrist said. She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. ‘Was this a recent burial, Constable?’
    Stanford shook his head. ‘Definitely not – some one hundred and fifty years old.’
    â€˜Do we know he was the one who actually opened the grave?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Maybe the church was moving the body for some reason.’
    â€˜So why was he there?’ Heap said. ‘Was he cottaging?’
    Stanford showed his teeth. ‘In Keymer at four in the morning, sir?