accompanying sensuality. But a glance at the brochure's photographs revealed slim and tanned young things perched on bar stools and lounging poolside, their fingernails painted and lips pouting glossily, attended by men with hirsute chests. Barbara pictured herself floating daintily among them. She snickered at the thought. She hadn't been in a bathing suit in years, having come to believe that some things are better left to draperies, shrouds, and the imagination.
The brochure went the way of the questionnaire before it. Barbara stubbed out her cigarette with a sigh and looked about the bungalow for further employment. There wasn't any. She trundled over to the day bed, searched out the television's remote, and decided to give herself over to an afternoon of channel surfing.
She pressed the first button. Here was the Princess Royal, looking slightly less equine than usual as she inspected a Caribbean hospital for disadantaged children. Boring. Here was a documentary on Nelson Mandela. Another snore. She picked up the pace and surfed through an Orson Welles film, a Prince Valiant cartoon, two chat shows, and a golf tournament.
And then her attention was rivetted to the sight of a phalanx of police constables facing down a mass of dark-skinned protestors. She thought she was about to settle in for a good wallow with either Tennison or Morse when a red band appeared at the bottom of the screen with the word LIVE superimposed on it. A breaking news story, she realised. She watched it curiously.
She told herself it was no different than an archbishop's attention being drawn to a story about Canterbury Cathedral. She was, after all, a cop. Still, she felt a twinge of guilt - she was supposed to be on holiday, wasn't she? - as she avidly watched the story unfold.
Which is when she saw ESSEX printed on the screen. Which is when she twigged that the dark-skinned faces below the protest signs were Asian.
Which is when she upped the volume on the television.
"-- body was found yesterday morning, apparently in a pillbox on the beach," the young reporter was saying. She appeared to be one or two leagues out of her depth, because as she spoke, she smoothed her carefully coiffed blonde hair into place and cast apprehensive glances at the swarm of people behind her, as if afraid they might seek to recoif her without her permission.
She put a hand to her ear to block out the noise.
"Now! Now!" the protestors were shouting.
Their signs - crudely lettered - called for JUSTICE at once! and action! and the real truth!
"What began as a very special town council meeting ostensibly called to discuss redevelopment issues," Blondie recited into her microphone, "disintegrated into what you see behind me now. I've managed to make contact with the protest leader, and - " Blondie was jostled to one side by a burly constable. The picture veered crazily as the camera operator apparently lost his footing.
Angry voices shouted. A bottle soared in the air. A chunk of concrete followed. The phalanx of police constables raised their protective Plexilas shields.
"Holy shit," Barbara murmured. What the hell was happening?
The blonde reporter and the cameraman regained their footing. Blondie pulled a man into the camera's range. He was a muscular Asian somewhere in his twenties, long hair escaping from a ponytail, one sleeve ripped away from his shirt. He shouted over his shoulder, "Get away from him, damn you!" before turning to the reporter.
She said, "I'm standing here with Muhannad Malik, who - "
"We've no bloody intention of putting up with evasions, distortions, and outright lies," the man broke in, speaking into the microphone. "The time has come for our people to demand equal treatment under the law. If the police won't see this death for what it is - a hate crime and an out-and-out murder - then we intend to seek justice in our own way.
We have the power, and we have the means." He swung away from the microphone and used a loud hailer to shout to the people in the crowd. "We have the power! We have the means!"
They roared. They surged forward. The camJ era swung wildly and flickered. The reporter said, "Peter, we need to get to safer ground," and the picture switched to the station's news studio.
Barbara recognised the grave-faced newsreader at the pinewood desk. Peter Somebody.
She'd always loathed him. She loathed all men with sculptured hair.
"To recap on the situation in Essex," he said.
And he did just that, as Barbara lit another cigarette.