That same night the skinny sixty-year-old officer on desk duty at Catesby Police Station was hoping not to be troubled before he went for his midnight break at the canteen.
However, you can count on nothing in this world, particularly in policing, and the way one of the constables was shaking his head and muttering to himself as he approached the desk suggested complications.
‘What is it, old mate?’
‘They phoned this incident in as a domestic and then tried to back pedal,’ said the constable, ‘but I got the idea there was some funny business going on.’
‘Funny business?’ said the sergeant. ‘If your heightened awareness came into play over something like that, my son, I’ll bet it warrants a closer looking into. Where was all this?’
‘Right. What was there about the incident that was irregular, like?’
‘The woman who had phoned in, she was suddenly all over her husband. He was a complacent brute by no means showing any respect for the uniform.’
‘One of those, eh?’
‘Yes, and the woman was flushed and, well, unnatural like. She said she wanted to retract her phone call.’
‘I don’t know if that’s enough—’
‘But she had, between you and me, two big bastard puncture marks on her. Above the collar bone, like,’
‘Puncture marks? What are you suggesting?’
‘Well, I suppose he must have stabbed her. Or … used his teeth.’