The sergeant standing at the door pointed to a desk that had a stack of identical files with ‘Dr J. Harker. Lecture Files. Confidential’ stamped on them.
‘Stop chattering, take a file and sit where you want. Fill out the name card on your desk and then stand by it ready for inspection,’ he said in a monotone.
There were twenty probationary officers present, all in their early twenties, and only Jane and one other were WPCs. As the sergeant inspected them he told some of the male officers that they needed haircuts, hadn’t shaved properly, or their uniform trousers didn’t have neatly pressed creases. He told the other female officer present to remove her hooped earrings, and she apologized saying she had meant to do so before class but had forgotten. The sergeant gruffly remarked that if a violent prisoner grabbed them she’d never forget her ear lobes being ripped off.
Jane felt good when he commented to the rest of the class that he expected to see all their uniforms in the same neat and well-pressed condition as hers. She knew it was all thanks to her mother and realized she’d have to get some tips from her if she was going to move into the section house. Looking after her uniform, washing and ironing her clothes would then become her own responsibility.
‘Sit your backsides down,’ the sergeant shouted out.
The room was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and whispered conversation as they all sat down.
Jane found herself at the front. She looked round the classroom and saw a couple of people she knew from training school. She raised her hand slightly and gave them a wave, which they returned.
The sergeant suddenly shouted out, ‘Class!’ and everyone stood to attention as the Inspector entered with a man whom he introduced as ‘one of the foremost and renowned forensic scientists in the UK… Dr Julian Harker’.
Harker acknowledged the polite applause and gestured for everyone to be seated. The room was full of expectant energy as everyone waited eagerly to hear him speak.
Jane was surprised by how young Dr Harker looked: he appeared to be not much older than the rest of the class. She flicked open the front of the file and, seeing from his CV that he had a PhD in biology, realized his youthful appearance belied his actual thirty-eight years.
Harker clicked his fingers in her direction. ‘Please do not open the file yet. I will tell you when to do so.’
Jane flinched, mumbled an apology and noticed he had cold, slate-grey piercing eyes. Kath had said he was attractive, interesting and worth listening to, but in his stiff white-collared shirt, bow tie and grey, creased trousers, Jane found him rather pompous.
Harker took his time, placing his folder on the lectern before turning to an officer and asking him to close the blinds and turn off the neon strip lights. He had a very cultured, aristocratic tone.
‘In your folders are some of the relevant statements from a major investigation, such as the pathologist’s and my forensic report. There are copies of the crime scene photographs, but I will be showing you slides of the scene and bodies as well. Some of you may find them disturbing, but at some time in your career you may well find yourself attending scenes of a similar nature. I hope you have enquiring minds as there will be a Q and A session at the end of my lecture for me to clarify anything you feel necessary. However, I will be asking you questions relating to the murders during my talk as it will show me whether or not you are paying attention.’
Curious to see what was in the file, Jane sifted through the paperwork in front of her, while Harker placed a sheet of acetate paper on the overhead projector, then covered it with a blank piece of paper so as not to reveal all the contents. He switched on the overhead and, as if conducting an orchestra, used a broken telescopic radio antenna to point at the words projected onto the wall. Jane settled back in her seat, listening intently as the lecture began.
At the station Kath was at the front desk dealing with an irate Nancy Phillips who was demanding to speak with someone in authority about her grandson being slapped about. She wore a crossover apron under her cardigan, and a pair of fur-lined ankle boots. Her thick stockings fell in folds around her swollen ankles.
‘You bleedin’ lot don’t have any idea what happens when you keep nosyin’ around and drivin’ up in yer patrol cars. There’s some nasty villains livin’ around me, and God forbid you’d ever take them in. Instead yer just harass my poor Eddie when he’s done nuffink wrong. He’s entitled to a solicitor, you know, like me he knows his rights. I know he’s got drug problems, that’s why he’s livin’ with me, so I can keep an eye on him, unlike his bleedin’ mother… the no-good bitch, and-’
Kath slapped the desk with the flat of her hand.
‘Mrs Phillips, if you would just let me get a word in edgeways I can write down the particulars and deal with your complaint appropriately.’
‘That’s what I’m fuckin’ here fer, you dozy cow.’
