Detective Sergeant James Hathaway looked up from his computer screen as his boss, Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis, entered their office. "Running a bit late this morning, Sir? Heavy date last night?"

Lewis snorted. "Well, you know me, always with the heavy dates. No, I managed to spill the tea and had to change me shirt and tie. How about you? Have a good weekend?"

"Yeah, I did. The band played a little gig out in Chipping Norton. Nice place, great audience."

"How come you never play 'round here, like?"

"I don't want to be recognized."

"Oh, aye, that's understandable. Wouldn't do to have all those autograph seekers interrupting our police work, would it?"

"Anyway, you're in luck, Sir. We're playing at All Saints this Saturday so you can come out and cheer us on then."

"Great! I will. I mean, it's weird music, but it'll be fun to see you play."

Lewis had powered up his computer and was checking his email. He stopped conversing as he peered closer at an attachment to one of the messages.

"What's this 'Productivity Goals' thing all about, Hathaway? Did you read this?"

"Of course I did. I read it over an hour ago, when I first got here, Sir. We now have a goal of closing cases ten percent faster than our past rate."

"Oh, bother! As if we can just step up the pace, think a little faster. At least you and I have a rate that's above average, so we don't have to do anything different, right?"

"Ahh . . . didn't you read Goal 8.3, 'Expectations of individual team units'?"

"I can only read English and a little German, so, no."

Hathaway read from the document. "'Each team unit averaging a closure rate at or above the fiftieth percentile will be expected to outperform by at least ten percent the closure rate achieved by that individual team unit in the previous fiscal year. Each team unit averaging a closure rate below the fiftieth percentile will be expected to perform at least ten percent better than the fiftieth percentile average closure rate of the previous fiscal year.'"

Lewis was utterly blank. "I have no idea what that means. And since when are we a 'team unit'? Can't we just be a 'team'?" He shook his head despairingly. "Hathaway, the short version. What does it mean for us?"

"It means you and I have to work ten percent faster than we did last year."

"Even though we already work fifty percent faster than everyone else?"

"Fifty-three, in fact, but yes."

"And what happens if we just keep plodding along at our current pace?"

"This doesn't really say. Vague threats about reorganization, reassignment, that sort of thing."

"Which will never happen to us, right? Forget the whole thing. It doesn't apply."

An unexpected voice came from the doorway. "It does apply, Inspector Lewis, and I will personally be checking your and Hathaway's rate to ensure you're improving just as much as everyone else." Both men wheeled around from their computers to face Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent.

She continued. "Not only do you two have to improve your rate by at least the requisite ten percent, I will be looking for your team to improve even more than that. I know you have the capability—you're almost never here evenings or weekends."

"We're not paid to work evenings and weekends, Ma'am." Lewis was getting indignant.

"You're paid to do your job, Inspector Lewis. Besides, it's not like either of you has a demanding home life to which you need attend."

"What's that got to do with it? It's not fair. We're getting punished for being efficient."

"Oh, stop whingeing, Lewis. It's not as if these Performance Goals are my personal idea." She swirled out of the office, leaving the two disgruntled men to stare after her.

"Well, I guess we better get busy and solve something, eh, Hathaway? How about I go kill whoever put these Performance Goals together and we can get started on solving that murder?"

"Conflict of interest, Sir. Someone else would get the case."

"Sometimes I really can't stand working here, y'know?"

Just then, the phone rang on Lewis's desk. "Yeah, Inspector Lewis . . . yeah, where? Okay, we're on our way." He hung up. "We're back in business, Hathaway. Looks like we've got a double this time, out in Wytham Woods. Forester heard a couple of shots that came from an area closed to hunting. Checked it out and found some bodies for us."

"How thoughtful."

* * *