Wilde was throwing accusations as well as punches, swearing the chief had used Hunt’s absence to launch an unprovoked attack. From what she’d heard, it was just conceivable the youth’s injuries were self-inflicted: the split lip, bruised cheek, scratches near the eye were superficial. The medical examiner hadn’t delivered a verdict yet. With no witnesses, nothing on tape, currently it was Wilde’s word against the chief’s. She pulled her camel coat closer. What a frigging mess. ‘Never rains, eh, Dave?’ She gave a thin smile as they dashed across the car park huddled under Harries’ golf-sized Guinness umbrella. Not that she was talking weather. They’d just left a nick buzzing with rumour, gossip, bets on Baker’s future, sweepstake on how long he had left. ‘Reckon the old boy’s on the level, boss? Shit!’ He’d stepped in a puddle deeper than it looked. For once, she let the ‘old boy’ go. ‘Of course he is.’ Her instant unequivocal backing contrasted with the scepticism she’d clearly failed to hide earlier.
