"Look, is this really necessary? You know who I am."
"Jordan, you can't go breaking and entering premises
and pretending it didn't happen when you're caught."
"But I used to work here."
"As far as the law is concerned, you are one of the peasants
now," said Sergeant Rawlings, slamming the Custody Record
shut. "You were found straddling the windowsill of the
offices of Hemsworth & Co, Solicitors, Dayton Street, Latching.
Don't tell me you were comforting a seagull with vertigo."
"I hadn't broken into anywhere and I hadn't entered,"
I protested, filtering my gaze on the familiar bleak walls of
"Do you want a cup of tea?"
I nodded, wondering how I was going to get out of this one.
It was humiliating. My first day working on my first case and
I get arrested by a fresh-faced puppy probationer who should
have been patrolling the streets looking for the real villans.
"Thank you," I said. It was canteen brew in the
same thick cups which the Admin Officer thought appropriate
for both law keepers and breakers. It wasn't my high profile
Earl Gray but I needed the liquid and the caffeine. "Can
I have a biscuit?" I added.
"Still not eating, Jordan?"
"Not the point. Show me food which isn't murdered, poisoned
with chemicals or stuffed with additives and I'll eat it. I
eat fish from the sea but it does have a chance of getting away."
Sergeant Rawlings produced some ancient digestive biscuits
rimmed with fluff from the depths of his desk then showed me
the way to the cells. I knew the way. He didn't have to show
"You'll have to wait in here, Jordan, until someone comes
downstairs to interview you. It's hardly the Hilton, sorry."
The cells hadn't improved. Still narrow, rectangular cubicles
with half-tiled walls, scuffed lino on the floor and a bunk
bed with a thin plastic-covered foam mattress. The blue plastic
had unmentionable stains. I didn't want to sit on it. I was
"I'd like some paper and a pen," I said, knowing
"Want to write a letter?"
"No, my memoirs."