‘Alright, Guvnor – how’d you get on up north?’ Skelgill gives a non-committal shrug. ‘Aye, well – they let me back into England without a passport.’ DS Leyton makes a disapproving grunt. ‘That’d be all we need, Guv – criminals would have a field day if there was an international border thirty miles up the road.’ Skelgill and DS Leyton have crossed paths just inside the rear entrance of Penrith HQ. Skelgill, arriving shortly ahead of his sergeant, has paused to read a staff noticeboard, there being a small ad for a vintage split-cane spinning rod that has caught his eye. DS Leyton, hurriedly returning after some errand or other, bears a small though bulging brown paper bag. The team has a scheduled catch-up meeting for which they are both already overdue. ‘Er, Guv...’ ‘Aye?’ ‘I just walked past your motor.’ DS Leyton scratches his head in an obvious acting-dumb fashion. ‘Not meaning to be nosey, or nothing, Guv – but I could have sworn there was a cat in there, asleep on the passenger seat.’ Skelgill swings around and stares at his colleague. DS Leyton looks suddenly anxious – perhaps his superior’s trip has not gone well and now he will be on the end of an undeserved admonishment. But Skelgill’s severe demeanour can be misleading – sometimes it is slow to catch up with his fickle sentiments. He sighs in a bored manner – rather like a schoolboy returning home to his overbearing mother, and the tiresome and inevitable question about what kind of day he has had. Why, after all those skirmishes, stresses and strains, would anyone want to relive them?
