Another day got off to another jolly kick-start: the dreaded public consultation with the SAVE OUR EYES brigade. Sant gazed over the crowd and noted faces from the protest the day before. None of them looked attractive except the boyish one worn by the ever-popular Councillor Dobson. He was shaking hands with anyone and everyone, his blond curly hair positively bouncing with exuberance, his eyes dancing from soulmate to soulmate.
Sant was no politician and didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention. He left that responsibility to Hardaker. The superintendent was a natural showman, the microphone attached to this shirt collar purring approvingly at his polished northern parlance. His kempt red beard and matching locks had earned Hardaker the nickname ‘Chiefman’. He didn’t mind the name bec
