“Mickey Wore’s out today Governor. Want to go meet him and share a cup to tea?” Detective Sergeant Jean Fisher asked of Detective Chief Inspector Harding knowing exactly his reply before she asked, but she was an ambitious one was Jean, never liking to remain obscure for long and confined to the back of anyone’s memory.
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Harding was old school. Close on twenty-four years in the job, with only sixteen months before that lonely drink accompanied the desolation that waited that he often spoke of. He’d seen the university graduates increase in volume and, he would admit on quiet moments, their attractiveness and appeal to the echelons of the politically correct. Never aloud, and sharing with anyone that impression though. He preferred to keep such personal observation on the QET as it were.
It wasn’t a bad pension to look forward to, he would, when asked, reply, and he could, if moments of sober inspiration allowed, pen some reminiscences to supplement it, if need became a must he told to anyone who bothered to listen. The only trouble he had, on that otherwise transparent facade of his, was strictly private and could never be divulged.
“Mickey Wore eh, well, now there is a name to conjure with. Got a commendation with him. Mine you, if it had been nowadays with everyone being armed, I would have gratefully shot the bastard and lived through the consequences.”
Seventeen years had passed since the day Harding had come across Wore, and every stinging memory was as if the whole episode had taken place five minutes ago.
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To be continued, next week. http://www-thedesolategarden-com.co.uk/
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