8
‘These crime figures …’
Words of doom, coming from Mayo’s secretary, Delia Brown, she who ruled him like an old-fashioned but benevolent nanny. She stood militantly between him and the bank of foliage plants that some office design consultant, brought in to tart up the working environment, had deemed necessary for someone of his rank. Her figure, small as it was, blocked out even more of the light, forcing him to put down his pen and pay attention.
‘These crime figures from Inspector Kite,’ she repeated firmly, tapping the sheaf of papers in her hand, ‘they have to be checked and be ready for me to print out by the end of the week.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised hastily.
‘Right-oh.’ Her eyes held him to his promise, telling him he couldn’t bamboozle her. She knew very well how he ha
