It there such a hobby as the The Death Game? Find out from this taster of Chris Longmuir's latest thriller.
Thursday, 30 October 1919
Kirsty woke early the next morning, completed her ablutions, and pulled on her uniform. She pulled her belt tight after giving the buckle a final rub with a soft handkerchief, then buffed her boots, although they did not need it. She had to look her best today, because first impressions were important.
Declining breakfast, she set out for her interview and arrived at police headquarters in ample time for her appointment.
The desk sergeant grunted when she gave her name and handed him the letter for the assistant chief constable.
‘Sit there,’ he instructed, pointing to a polished wooden bench stretching the length of the room.
The desk sergeant turned his attention back to the massive ledger on his desk. He wrote laboriously, pausing now and again to dip his pen in the inkwell and sneak a look at her.
Kirsty pressed her knees together and loosely clasped her hands in her lap. She had already become aware her appearance in uniform was a novelty in Dundee. That had been apparent when she walked through the streets to the police station. Men and women gaped at her, and young boys followed her with catcalls. She ignored them all.
The minutes ticked past slowly, and the waiting became unbearable.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘The assistant chief constable is expecting me, and I would not want to keep him waiting.’
The sergeant laid his pen in the groove on his desk and, with a theatrical sigh, lifted the flap at the end of the counter. He opened a door and bawled, ‘Duty constable report to the charge room.’ He returned to his desk behind the counter, glared at Kirsty with an expression on his face that seemed to say, ‘pleased now?’ and lifted his pen to resume writing.
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