At the best of times, Beard, the station's self-appointed grey-sage, treated the younger officers who had attained superior rank with an over-familiar lèse-majesté. But this, thought Rafferty indignantly, even for Beard, was a lèse too far. But he had hardly got the first word of his protest out before Beard waved his complaint aside much as he might swat away a particularly annoying probationer, pointed the podgy forefinger of his other hand across the reception desk of the police station's entrance and voiced the inviting suggestion, ‘Fancy being out of your head at nine in the morning.’ Cajoled away from his annoyance by Beard's proposal, Rafferty murmured, ‘Mm,’ and expectantly awaited the pleasant chink of bottle against glass. Chance would be a fine thing, he realised moments later as chinks came there none. Instead, the unpleasant clunk of a cold Monday morning on sober duty impinged on his unwilling psyche. Breathing out on a disappointed sigh, his gaze followed Beard's pointing digit and he peered, squint-eyed, through the rain-lashed glass.
