He was an imposing man at 6ft 2, the sort that silences a room upon entry. People instantly
knew what he was about: serious business, no time for jokes. His square jaw line and dark blue
eyes screamed authority before his toned arms and wide shoulders needed to. His short, sweeping
dark blonde hair added to his handsome good looks. As always when on duty, he was in a dark
suit, white shirt and coloured tie, old-school CID uniform.
As he walked closer to the scene, he stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and
slipped it back in the box. He then ducked under the yellow tape and was greeted by a smartly
dressed, petite female: Detective Constable Jenny Pearce.
“Evening Jack. One victim, single gunshot wound to the chest.”
“Gunshot?” he responded, suddenly alert and eyebrows rising in anticipation.
“Yep, I know, crazy ain’t it? He was dead when the paramedics arrived though, we got a tip-
off from a phone box nearby.”
Jack watched as much as listened to her explanation: her pretty pink lips sought his approval,
her eyelids fluttered over dazzling blue eyes.
“You got enough of that fake tan on? You’re glowing brighter than those flood lights. It’s
even outshining your hair tonight! Jen, you’re 29 and a detective now, time to leave the tan out?”
He glared at her as he spat out the uncalled-for rant.
She in turn looked slightly wounded and tried to explain, smoothing down her shoulder-
length, bleached blonde hair self-consciously. “I’ve been out sir, it’s a Friday night, and one of
my best friends just got engaged.”
“Don’t tell me you’re drunk too, Jen?” he snapped back, just as viciously as before.
“No, of course not sir! I was on call tonight, I’m not bloody stupid!” She raised her voice,
clearly and understandably offended.
Jack backed down and smiled uneasily, as if it didn’t come naturally to him; his insult had
been issued on impulse rather than actual thought.
“Okay, sorry, I’m tired, it’s late… So what have we got on the victim then?”
Jenny knew him well, and accepted this as more than enough of an apology and went back to
her bubbly self.
“His name is Harry M Whittington.”
“Sounds posh?” Jack butted in, with a confused expression.
“No, not at all, guv. Local lad, from Crowley, 28, few previous charges for drunk and
disorderly, but nothing major. Nothing that would lead to th
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