Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,12

at a lavish family gathering. Inevitably, onlookers were outraged and the rest of us – mainly me, it had to be said – were left to clear up the mess.

These days, Miranda was on the right medication, after numerous trials and false starts. She was just like any other person, only her emotions and behaviours soared and dipped several notches beyond the rest of us. She was more volatile, excitable and conversely, gloomy and disconsolate than anyone else I knew. But she was also funny, imaginative, generous, the life and soul of the party, and far more outgoing than me. In fact, she was more everything. The one constant in her life was that I adored her.

10

Once inside the police station, my pass was heavily scrutinised by an officer at the desk. After several checks on the computer and a phone call, I was allowed through. I headed along the corridor and encountered a walk-through security scanner before I had to press the card against a small black box on the wall beside double doors. Finally, I was admitted inside a large office.

It was like any other open-plan place of work with long rows of desks and computer terminals. Filing cabinets, a couple of shredders and a handful of parlour palms competed for the remaining space. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but there were no stark crime-scene photos or mugshots on whiteboards, just an overwhelming impression of beige.

I hovered beside one of the central pillars wondering where to go. My head was still throbbing with the hangover and the flickering strip lights didn’t help.

Several desks looked unoccupied, but on closer inspection had either a jacket over a chair-arm, a pen on the mouse mat, or a half-full mug on the coaster. In the end, I trawled the room and finally came to a vacant terminal beside a coat stand. I dropped my briefcase against the chair, sat down and slid my pass through a reader attached to the monitor to log on.

It didn’t work.

At that moment the woman next to me swore vehemently, making me jump.

‘Sorry,’ she said, nibbling her bottom lip. ‘Just input a pile of suspects in the wrong age band. Don’t tell anyone. I’m Prue, by the way. And you’d better get a neck strap for your pass or you’ll never see it again.’

I laughed. ‘Right. Thank you. I’m Sam. I’m just temporary. Browsing cold cases for DCS Claussen. Or supposed to be.’

‘Ah, you’re the clinical whatsit.’

‘Clinical psychologist – yes, from St Luke’s by London Bridge.’

‘Oh, my dad went there for a hip replacement. Not your department, obviously.’

I tried the pass again. Still no luck.

‘I appear to be locked out of Fort Knox,’ I said, scowling at the card.

‘Let me give Donald a ring.’ Prue reached for her phone. ‘There’s probably been a hitch getting you onto the system – it won’t be the first time – want a coffee while we wait?’ she said, all in one breath.

‘I’d love one. Strong and black, please.’

She said a few words into the receiver then replaced it. ‘It could be half an hour,’ she told me, wrinkling her nose. ‘Rough night?’

I nodded with a groan. She’d no doubt spotted the slugs that replaced my eyelids and the charcoal smudges under my eyes. She puckered her chin, emanating sympathy rather than judgement, then got up.

Prue gave me a tour of the scant kitchen facilities.

‘We’re meant to be getting a machine that makes macchiatos and cappuccinos with frothy milk and all that, but it hasn’t arrived yet,’ she said, flicking a switch on the wall beside the kettle. ‘So, it’s basic hot water and instant, I’m afraid.’

‘Hot and black is all I need right now.’

‘I’ve got a spare mug you can use while you’re here, if you like?’ She held it up. ‘Don’t be put off by what it says on the side.’

She turned it round so I could read it. My handcuffs are for off-duty use only. I laughed. ‘That’ll do nicely,’ I said, blowing my fringe out of my eyes. She poured hot water onto a sprinkling of coffee granules and handed it to me.

After a brief chat about the location of the canteen, loos and lockers, we returned to our workstations.

With time to kill before I could get into the system, I looked up Jack the Ripper on my tablet. Terry hadn’t actually given me his book last night – my fault, not his.

Since I’d joined the course, I’d been meaning to check if any psychologist