Superintendent Trevor Bullock strode into the incident room in Endeavour House, sternly grim faced and angry. Bank robberies, shotgun killings and the fatal knocking down of little girls by getaway cars do not happen on his patch and his anger is palpable, radiating around the crowded room like a blast of heat from an open furnace door.
Bullock was a tall burly man, broad shouldered with a heavy beer gut, thick grey walrus moustache and hair reduced to a thin white fringe to the back of his head. Permanently red of face, he looked more like a man who spends his days out in the open fields rather than behind a desk.
Bullock sat down at the front of the room and lit up his pipe, once it was well lit, swathing those close to him in a thick miasma of blue-black smoke, he turned to DI Yarrow,
