*
'Are you out of your mind?' DS Kirkwood yelled at Amanda in the privacy of his office.
The two of them were alone in the department and were sat in a small glass-fronted office in the corner of the open plan room. He threw the ten page report onto the desk with a force that caused the venetian blinds to rattle.
Amanda braced herself for the defence of her theory. She had slept on the random facts floating through her mind until they began to make a warped kind of logic. She had awoke early and leapt out of bed, ready to propose that she initiate a murder investigation into the death of Donald Grace.
'Let me explain,' she said. 'Someone was in his office just minutes before he was killed. The pest controller.'
Kirkwood glanced at the ceiling, breathing in long and deep before letting the tremors in his chest subside.
'He committed suicide. Middle-aged stockbroker takes a tumble in light of poor investments. You have it right there in your box.' Kirkwood nodded at the brown cardboard container on the floor. 'The same box, I hope, that you will be taking back to the stockbroker's offices this morning with a heartfelt apology for your enthusiasm.'
'The pest controller has yet to be found, let alone interviewed,' said Amanda. 'Those offices weren't infected by cockroaches, they were brought in on purpose. I found cockroaches in the kitchen and when I checked out the restaurant, it had been closed down for hygiene. I think the cockroaches were planted in the offices and the pest controller used chemicals to make Grace delirious, perhaps suicidal.'
'Or,' Kirkwood's voice pitched low. 'One of the cleaners had a Chinese and threw the rubbish in the kitchen, cockroaches were attracted to the smell. And the bug guy did a lousy job.'
'His card is missing. I think he stole it back when he left the offices.'
'Stole it back? It was his card.' Kirkwood rocked back in his chair and shook his head incredulously. 'And no one else has been throwing themselves from his office window due to gas poisoning. Lemmings anonymous have not been queuing up to make their final leap, despite numerous people walking through the offices. You included, I might add.'
'There are questions unanswered. I still believe his death wasn't natural.'
'No, it wasn't natural. It was suicide. Pavement pizza. And I am not going to approve further resources on your wild stabs at criminal intentions. No matter how nicely you've done those flowchart timelines. It just ain't happening.'
'There is more to this than meets the eye. There are witnesses unaccounted for. That makes it a suspicious death. Jigsaw pieces of this particular puzzle that just don't fit.'
Kirkwood relaxed into his chair and glanced about the office through the blinds. 'Do you want to talk to me about the real reason for all this?' His tone softened, as much as a forty-pack-a-day voice could.
'The reason?'
'I know you've been handed these crappy jobs. I'm trying to get you assigned something with more bite. There's a "with menaces" case in the pipeline. Perhaps even room on the DIY serial killer task force.
'You're not happy here, but it will pass. They can be a bunch of assholes, but coppers have a short attention span and it'll be someone else's turn soon enough. Pack mentality. They'll turn on an easier target soon enough. But you can't create a case if it's not there. Especially something as flimsy as this murder-not-suicide fantasy.'
Amanda withdrew. Her theory, under scrutiny from a detached third party, could not hold up. And though she felt there was more to Grace's death than suicide, she could not gather enough evidence to even begin an investigation. What was worse, Kirkwood thought this grasp at a murder enquiry was a flight of fancy brought on by her desire to transfer to another station. She studied his wide, blunt face. He was earnest in his appeal.
'I know I have something here, Sarge. And I appreciate you listening it over. I'll get the belongings back and thanks for looking out for me. Maybe I am getting stir crazy - and any chance of attachment to the DIY killer case would be good. Even a "with menaces" case would help break the monotony. Anything more interesting than interviewing another tic-tac popping methadone abuser would be a relief.'
Kirkwood studied Amanda. He knew she was playing him, but he didn't care. 'Get some breakfast. The cafeteria opens in five minutes. It's another glorious day on the job.'
'Will do,' Amanda sighed. She took hold of her report and left the office. Making her way to the top floor cafeteria, she waited whilst the cook and serving staff completed their pre-opening ritual, banging cutlery and clanging dishes until the shutters were pulled open.
Amanda ordered a light breakfast, sat at a window and stared out onto the early morning traffic. What had possessed her? A ridiculous situation where she had let her imagination get the better of her, letting fly with a fanciful murder investigation worthy of a Miss Marple novel. Kirkwood was mostly right. She did want out. She wanted to escape, and perhaps that was why she let her imagination run. Created a theory and tried to force them into a shape of murderous intent.
Amanda finished her breakfast and returned to her desk. The office was filling up with detectives and she settled into her chair, switching on the computer and grabbing the first internal envelope on top of the tray.
The envelope, from the administration department, contained the results of an email yesterday, requesting a breakdown of the numerous parking fines that were listed under Donald Grace. Each fine had the initials 'VT' circled on the corner and were incurred every three months in or around Threadneedle Street, the heart of the finance sector within the City of London.
They were all paid for by a 'Duvalier & Rose', a law firm within the city's financial district.