Six
“I don’t know why I kept all that Uni stuff. I guess I’m just a hoarder.” — Francesca BoyleBailey stabbed at the end-call button on the phone in the cradle, cursed her own stupidity and swung the Prius round in a tight U-turn. It was a manoeuvre that the car was unaccustomed to — the tyres screeched, the car body swayed unsteadily, and the traction control light blinked angrily in protest at the undignified handling. Bailey stabbed again at the phone — fast-dial, button number 2 — and called in for backup, possible armed offender with hostage. The unflappable dispatcher on the other end of the line promised four general duties cars immediately, and a tactical squad within twenty minutes.
It took Bailey barely a minute to get back to Francesca’s apartment, but there were two patrol ca
