The
Deputy Chief Constable wasn't stupid but he
still hadn't worked out why he'd never made it
to Chief Constable.
Detective Superintendent Gordon could have told
him: it was his teeth.
When Ronald Stark opened his mouth, he revealed
not a full set, even and white, but two broken
rows of yellow stumps. It was hard to know
what was worse: the teeth or the foul breath
that issued unchecked whenever Stark's mouth was
open.
But bad breath wasn't the only reason why
subordinates tended to stand well back in the
presence of the DCC. Not for nothing was
he known as Ronnie the Rottweiler.
Everyone knew his role only well.
The Chief Constable was an affable highlander,
effortlessly projecting confidence and serenity
as he sailed through his public duties.
But Hamish McGill knew that his gifts needed to
be complemented by those of a deputy who was a
grafter. a fixer, a master of the darker arts of
management - someone who could savage people in
order to get results.
The discovery of
Brown's hands in the Golf Museum had been the
last straw for the Chief Constable and his
Deputy. They were angry. And it was
the DCC's job to convey that anger to those down
the line. Starting with the two officers
in charge of the Brown investigation: Detective
Chief Superintendent Moran and Detective
Superintendent Gordon.
The rottweiler had started the moment the pair
were shown into his office.
"You should change your name Moran!
One letter would be enough. Make it
fucking Moron. That would be more like
it."
© David
Gray |
