The Killing Time [working title]
Intro: This is the beginning of my 1st DS Greaves novel in rough first draft. I’ve not yet edited it but hope it’s readable enough to invite your comments and critiques. Thanks.
Detective Sergeant Greaves’ mobile phone burst into Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, aka the theme to The Exodist. Greaves had uploaded it to his phone some while back, knowing how it would freak those of meak and weak minds in his Section hub and give credence to the rumour spun between his colleagues that he was a sicko, a weirdo.
The ring tone made Detective Sergeant Alice Coleman stir beside him. “Christ, I thought you’d taken that thing off.” She groaned, turning over to stare, one sleepy eye open, at him.
He grinned at her as he punched the answer button with his thumb,
“Greaves!” He announced to the caller.
“You’re wanted in. Everybody’s wanted in. There’s been an incident in Burnley. Oh, it’s DC Bowan, by the way.”
“Hi! Coming in. Can you fill me in? Give me a clue?”
“Crime scene at the Clare House, that creepy place in the woods. Two bodies. The boss said it’s just your kind of thing.”
Greaves punched the Call End button and put his mobile back on the bedside table. He looked at Coleman beside him. She was looking up at him sleepily, rubbing her eye.
“We’re wanted.” He told her.
“Great. What time is it?”
Greaves watched her roll away from him and throw the duvet off herself and walk off naked to the bathroom. A minute or so’s pause then the sound of the shower running. Greaves looked at the doors of his wardrobe and wondered if he had any clean shirts. He decided the only way to know was to look so, reluctantly, he got up. He took out a blue shirt and a pair of underpants. And began to dress. Coleman wandered back in, wrapped in his towel. She looked at him dressing and pulled a face, “When was the last time you had a wash?”
“Yesterday.” He lied.
She pulled a “Yuk” face of disbelief. “We had names for people like you at school.” She said, drying herself.
“Smeghead. Crusty. Dickcheese.”
“Something like that.” She said and threw the towel at him. He caught it and laughed.
“Dick head!” She said, grinning back at him.
To the best of both their knowledge they had managed to keep their affair out of the station and section gossip. Both knew, however, that it probably would not be long before tongues began to wag. Both knew that this meant their affair had a short life span.
Greaves kept to himself the fact that he did not really mind much if their time together had a shelf life.
He preferred it that way. Honeymoon periods were preferable to the slow drag that led to break-ups. Greaves had seen too much how break-ups between officers and staff at the station could blow people’s lives apart and turn them into nightmares. Weeks, months of enduring gossip, snide remarks, station pranks and sometimes, if matters had really exploded shit everywhere, hard, nasty, revenge and bitterness. He had seen it all in action, on Facebook feeds, lies, obscene photos posted to be sniggered at by colleagues at leisure, the shared images on Snapchat and Instagram. There was even the odd time noticeboards still got pinned with obscene notices and pictures. Greaves was happy his reputation was such that most people gave him a wide birth. Not that there had not been times when ringleaders had tried to break him with rumour, gossip or lies. Water off a duck’s back.
He had The Passenger to thank for most of his lack of caring what people thought. The Passenger had his uses. And Greaves felt he had discovered how to control The Passenger and not let him loose when he, Greaves, needed to appear at least a little bit normal. Times like when women like DS Coleman accepted his invitation to “sleep over at mine?” He wondered what DS Coleman would make of The Passenger if she ever met him. He glanced over at her, almost dressed, putting the last touches of makeup on from the small makeup bag she kept in her handbag. Best hope he never got the chance to find out.