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Jack Culverhouse was glad he was the sort of person who didn’t give a s**t what people thought of him. As if the looks and double-takes from his former colleagues on spotting him walking around the station in week-old clothes, unshaved and with unkempt hair weren’t enough, the ignominy of having to be buzzed through doors that only a few weeks ago he could open himself was truly humiliating. This was his lair, his domain. And now he was a stranger in his own world, unable to even open a door for himself. That was the ultimate insult.
By the time he got up to Charles Hawes’s office, he was ready to rumble. Hawes ushered him in and Culverhouse sat down on the plush chair.
‘I’m going to get straight to the point, Jack,’ Hawes said. ‘There’s a reason I asked you to come here. I’m retirin
