Admittedly, Shillingham CID had not been favoured with the extended holiday enjoyed by the rest of the country, but the feeling of anti-climax was nevertheless strong. Nor was it only post-holiday lethargy that made him jaded. Alan Crombie had departed on a three-month course at Bramshill, and in his absence DI Stanley Bates from ‘C’ Division was sitting in for him. Sitting in, what was more, in Webb’s own office. And Stanley Bates, while no doubt a competent enough police officer, was not someone in whose company Webb took any pleasure. He glanced across the room, his eyes moving sourly over the man at Crombie’s desk. The dark hair, parted down the centre, was plastered against his head – whether by grease or haircream Webb had refrained from ascertaining, but he looked like a fugitive from the ’thirties. He also had a long nose, thin lips and a habit of nodding vigorously while being addressed, giving the impression that he already knew what he was being told and was hurrying the speaker along.
