12
Earlier the same morning, the men and women delegated to the enquiry were variously dispersed about the dedicated incident room at Milford Road Divisional Headquarters, waiting for Mayo. Waiting for Godot, it was beginning to seem like. He was late, which was unusual. Hating to be kept waiting himself, it was one of his virtues not to keep others waiting. People had found seats or perched on desks, windowsills, leaned against the walls. The air was thick with chat, banter and cigarette smoke, this last a permanent gripe for the non-smokers, who considered it an infringement of their rights which forced them into passive smoking. Abigail threw open a window before Mayo came in, hoping to forestall any abrasive comments from him. Looked at her watch, again.
‘Finish that Caramello, Scott
