Even so, he felt tired when he set off, and, assuming lack of food to be the culprit, stopped at the corner shop in Hartington just opening its doors. He bought packs of uncooked bacon as well as other staples like bread, butter and milk, returning briefly to the cottage to dump his supplies in the kitchen. Once at St Mary’s, he walked briskly through the smoked glass doors, carrying his flask and a bacon sandwich from a local chuck wagon. His old sparring partner, Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, was on reception. Brook looked away, though without the trepidation of old. Their animosity had cooled recently and Brook no longer had to run the gauntlet of Hendrickson’s jibes about the nervous breakdown he’d suffered while serving in the Met. Now neither of them even acknowledged the other’s existence, and that was exactly how Brook liked it. Trudging towards the stairs, he was surprised to see Chief Superintendent Charlton walking smartly in his direction in his crisp uniform. ‘There you are, Brook.’ ‘No denying it, sir,’ answered Brook.
