Be not deceived; God is not mocked,
for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.
Galatians 6:7
To say the woman is slight would be an understatement. She is tiny—well under a meter and a half—and more thin than is usually considered attractive. She appears even shorter because she stoops a bit, seeming to carry a great weight on her shoulders. This impression is occasionally emphasized by the sadness she usually keeps hidden in the depth of her eyes.
She is working in a conservatory, trimming a leaf, pinching a faded bloom or seed pod, probing the soil for sufficient moisture, turning a pot for a change of light, and always, always, checking for unwelcome insects.
She moves slowly, stiffly, as though her joints resist the movement for which they were made. But her pale blue eyes are clear; she is no older than thirty.
She frowns now at one small plant that seems reluctant to settle in and develop. She decides it must still be in shock from its long journey, and she very much hopes it will soon be happy and thrive in its new home. As she sets it back, next to a much larger specimen of the same species, she hears a noise by the door, and she looks up, startled.
The young man she sees there is the physical opposite of her. His dark, spiky hair brushes the top of the door frame and the muscles of his broad chest strain the fabric of his grey tee shirt. He approaches without a word, holding out secateurs, blades like the curved beak of a raptor, sharp and shining. He does not stop until he is directly next to her. Unafraid, she takes the secateurs roughly from him, running a thumb across the edge of one blade. It leaves a line; no doubt if she pressed harder, it would draw blood. She looks up at the young man and shows her small, pointed teeth in an ungenerous smile.
"It's good, Warren."
The man's smile in response, like the rest of him, is the polar opposite of hers. His lips part in a wide grin, his big, square teeth showing the effects of long-term, inadequate dental hygiene. Praise from her is rare.
"Don't forget the washing-up, Warren. That must be done before we go to the library."
He immediately turns and heads out of the room, pleased to be doing whatever she asks of him.
Paul Garrick leans in toward the computer screen, breathing faster as he reads through the message he has just received. If he were at home instead of here in the Headington public library, he would be able to indulge in a bit of unrestrained self-pleasure, relieving the tension in his trousers. But he doesn't dare carry on this correspondence from home; too great a chance that Herself would find it on their computer no matter how deeply he tried to bury it. Anyway, soon enough "LuvrBoyPaul"—his screen name—will be meeting "HotNWilling" in person and he can stop leaving a trail of incriminating messages. She has promised many a long, energetic afternoon in bed. He can hardly wait.
Unable to keep from touching himself as he reads, he eases his zipper open and pulls out his erection, keeping it concealed with his hands as well as he can. But he needs his right hand to type his response. So he glances about to see if that library snoop, Henry Sawyer, is anywhere around. Finding the coast clear, he begins his answer, all the while furtively stroking with his left hand.
". . . im totally turned on by ur msg & rt now while i typ im abt to creem myslf. i cant wait 2 meet u 2nite. i no the place u sed 2 meet. if u do half th things u sed, i will fall totally in luv w/u." He signs off as LuvrBoyPaul and rereads her message, his breath coming faster.
A hand falls heavily on his shoulder, startling him and completely ruining his imminent climax.
"Mister Garrick, will you please make yourself decent, sign off the computer, and follow me?" Henry Sawyer looks disinterested, but his attitude hints at enough disgust to leave little doubt that he's seen more than Paul intended.
Garrick is asked to leave, and he does so. His computer privileges are revoked. But he has established the time and place for his meeting with HotNWilling; he really has no further need of the library's Internet link. It is the library's policy to cancel the membership of computer users found abusing their privileges in this way; charges are not sought against first-time offenders. Thus, Paul Garrick's indiscretion is not brought to the attention of the Oxfordshire Police. Nonetheless, he feels an intense ill will toward snoopy Henry Sawyer, shouting some choice words and threats at him as security escort him to the door, making other patrons look up in obvious disapproval. Garrick has little doubt that in the library's after-hours, Sawyer gets off on all the leftover messages that Garrick can't figure out how to purge from the library's system. Garrick vows that someday Sawyer will pay for this perversion.
The man eases back against the hard wall of his cell. He is tired, and it shows in his eyes. Tired of being here, sure. But mostly tired of dealing with Sharpe and all his bollocks. Sharpe has no business singling the man out just because he fancied his own daughter. Lots of blokes were in the nick (and many others were not) for having diddled their own children. It was no big deal. Sharpe was using it as an excuse to stay in control, to rally the rest of the bastards by making the man into a common enemy. It was Sharpe's classic power play and, as usual, Her Majesty's Prison guards were busy wanking, not noticing that one of their charges was riding roughshod over another. Deliberately looking the other way, of that he was certain. One day, something big would go down, and they'd all be caught with their knickers 'round their knees, and there'd be hell to pay.
By this time, mid-afternoon on Friday, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis and Detective Sergeant James Hathaway have little to say to each other. They're between cases and have already caught up on what scant personal details their brief conversation rendered in the morning.
Hathaway looks up sharply, however, in response to his senior partner's long, drawn-out exhale, complete with an embedded groan.
"Something wrong, Sir?"
Lewis's eyes snap from his computer screen to Hathaway.
"Never you mind, Sergeant."
Hathaway adopts a look of mock sadness. "Must we still have secrets from each other, Sir? You know half the time I can solve what you see as an insurmountable problem in about ten minutes, if you'll only tell me all I need to know."
Lewis stares at him for a long time. His expression covers a spectrum: anger, frustration, embarrassment, defensiveness . . . ending with a bit of eyerolling. He is at last ready to cooperate.
"Look. Me daughter thinks I shouldn't be on me own so much. So she's trying to fix us up with a . . . erm, compatible ladyfriend. She's making up a . . . what d'you call it? A profile? for us with all these matchmaking web services."
Hathaway manages to not smirk. "Sounds as though she has your best interests at heart, Sir. What's the problem? All you have to do is say no if you're not interested."
"The thing is, even if I thought it a good idea—which I don't—none of them is anythin' close to what I'd be interested in. Lyn thinks I'd want someone like Val. The fact is, I would find that extremely weird. I definitely would be looking for someone not like Val, if I were looking, which I'm not."
"Ah. And I suppose it's quite awkward to tell her to stop trying to fix you up, as long as you remain thoroughly single."
Lewis smiles grimly. "She knows I'm not capable of managing this over the Internet meself. So she sees it as her duty to help me."
"Why not tell her your Sergeant is taking care of it? Maybe that would get her off your back. Here. I'll send you a link I expect she's missed. This should be all you need."
Looking askance, Lewis waits until the message from Hathaway comes through, then he clicks on the link. The flashing, hot-pink heading reads:
"FIND A LOCAL SLUT. EMAIL HER. FUCK HER TONIGHT!" Below that is a photograph of a naked woman in an unmistakably provocative pose.
Blushing furiously, Lewis clicks away from the site as quickly as he can. Hathaway is smothering giggles despite the withering glare to which he is being subjected.
"If that just loaded one of those whatsits on my computer, Hathaway . . ."
"It's just a joke, Sir. I'm in no position to criticize your incredibly inactive sex life."
"Who says it's inactive? I have a lot more 'almosts' than you do, as far as I can tell."
Then he peers at his computer with interest and speaks as if to himself. "I wonder if they have one of these matchmaking sites for someone looking for a new sergeant?"
"Oh, you'll not find another sergeant like me, Sir."
Lewis shoots a glance up, feigning surprise at being overheard. "I won't be looking for one like you, Hathaway."
Whatever it was Hathaway was going to say in response is cut off by the appearance of Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent at their doorway. She fires glances from one to the other, aware there has been some kind of bickering between them, but unable to discern what, or how serious it may be. She increases the sternness of her gaze.
"You two seem rather unoccupied for a Friday afternoon. Between cases, aren't we?"
They both know this means she has something unpleasant in mind for them. Hathaway agrees, reluctantly.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good." She fixes her eyes on the Inspector. "Lewis. Next week is Career Day at the Jobs Centre. I've agreed to send some representatives of this station to spend a few hours, chat up the benefits of a career in law enforcement. PCs Williams and Hart will be going, and DC Hooper, and I'd like a senior officer there, as well."
A pained expression crosses Lewis's face. "Ma'am, I've probably had unfriendly dealings with half those chaps. Hathaway could do it, it would be good for him to see the other side of society."
"That's exactly why he would be ill-suited for it, Inspector. The men there need to see that it's a job that can be done by someone like themselves, that no special education or privilege is needed. They need someone they can relate to."
"Ah. You mean an undereducated loser who manages to stay employed only by the grace of God." Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis sees Hathaway biting back a grin.
Her glare intensifies. "God does not control your employment, Lewis. I do. Best not to forget that. Plan to be there from noon until three on Tuesday. You four can travel together, save on expenses." She turns and swirls from the office.
The exchange of expressions between the two men renders discussion of the topic completely unnecessary. Lewis turns to note the time in his diary. But the appointment is indeed forgotten at that same moment because the telephone on his desk rings.
Five minutes later, they are on their way to the nearest prison, all teasing between them over and done. An inmate has been killed, stabbed to death by another in a fight having something to do with the snooker table.
The death is certainly murder but it does not demand much skill of detection to solve. Clifford Branson was anally raped—no doubt with the bloodstained, broken broomstick found next to his corpse—and then strangled. Fellow prisoner George Masters is not shy about taking responsibility. Boasting, even. It's clear to Lewis and Hathaway that Masters gains something by having caused Branson's death. The warden fills in the details.
"Masters is a puppet of Harrison Sharpe. Sharpe runs this ward. Sometimes his method conflicts with Her Majesty's policy, but it gets the job done."
Lewis is flabbergasted. "You turn a blind eye to one prisoner abusing another for, what? Expediency?"
The warden studies him, his look betraying his impression that Lewis is seriously out of touch with the realities of managing a prison in the post-global-meltdown economy.
"It's not an ideal world, Inspector." He looks sad. "It's the real world. We do what we can with what we're given."
Lewis backs off, recognizing the man has to work minor miracles with extremely inadequate resources. The warden continues.
"Sharpe maintains order and discipline. If I lose an inmate or two, well . . . It's better than losing a guard." The warden sighs in heavy resignation. "And that's how the world is here." He flashes a sort of ironic grimace at the men. "How my world is."
"I know, Sir." Lewis says quietly.
Accepting this as an apology, the warden reviews Branson's record. Reading from the file, he notes, "Branson was in for sexually abusing his daughter. According to the victim's statement in the PSIR—the presentence report—he had sexual intercourse with her starting when she was eight, shortly after his wife died in a car accident. The abuse continued over a course of years. He impregnated her at age twelve, and when a teacher noticed her condition, she confessed everything. Charges were brought and there was quite a public outcry. He pleaded guilty in hopes of leniency at sentencing, which he did not receive. Before the baby was born, Branson's daughter ran off. Disappeared completely. She was never located."
Lewis is clearly concerned. "Never located? She must have turned up somewhere. She couldn't very well go have the baby by herself."
"Well, you can check with Social Services. But it's my understanding she managed to vanish without a trace. That doesn't necessarily mean she was without private assistance."
"No trace of the baby, either?"
"Of course not, Inspector. One would lead to the other. Most likely she found someone willing to purchase the baby in return for taking care of her during childbirth."
He takes them to see Branson's cell. Unlike many of the inmates, Branson has few things tacked to the wall, only a copy of the Ten Commandments and a photo of a smiling woman standing beside a Jensen-Healey convertible. Lewis gestures at the latter. "That his wife?"
"I think so, Inspector. I never spoke with him personally much, you know."
"Nah, of course not."
The two detectives finish up and return to their office. By now, it's late, especially for a Friday. They are at their desks for only a moment when Lewis clears his throat.
"Look, Hathaway. No reason this can't be written up Monday morning, eh? I'll tidy up here, you go see if you can salvage anything of your Friday night, alright?"
Hathaway is impressed with his boss's generosity. "Sir? Isn't there anything you meant to be doing tonight?"
He can see a bit of regret in Lewis's demeanor. The older man sighs before speaking. "Aye. I was to be taking Doctor Hobson out for a nice dinner. But that is long gone, now. Fortunately, she understands about our schedule. So you go ahead and be on your way." He manages a weak smile. "Weekends are for the young, after all."
"Well, uh . . . thank you, Sir."
Lewis finishes up the Branson paperwork himself in the early hours of Saturday. It's not a difficult report, after all. Cause of death is known and the person causing the death is known. And whether they consider that person Masters or Sharpe makes no difference—both are already serving life sentences. Lewis completes the report with no regrets. Branson was a despicable bastard and, in Lewis's mind, the world is better off without his corrupting presence.
He prints the report and signs it, case closed, no known relatives. The night is on its way to becoming dawn, but he dials Hobson's number anyway, getting her voice mail. "Would you call me when you get a moment, Laura? I'm really sorry about last night. But I thought maybe we could do something else yet this weekend. Okay, bye." From his tone, an eavesdropper might expect "Love you" to follow, but it does not.