‘Forensics found no vomit in that area, sir. You must be right.’
* * *
At that moment the door of the briefing room sprang open and Holdsworth appeared, her permed brown hair bouncing as she flung down a holdall full of papers and leant her weight on a table, one knee raised above the other, hands clasped to her thigh.
‘Any news?’ Sant asked.
‘I’ve pulled a muscle,’ she said, kicking off a shoe.
‘You should ease off on that morning workout,’ said Capstick.
‘So I can serve you breakfast in bed, Brad?’
‘My stay-at-home girlfriend makes wonderful scrambled eggs, you know.’
Sant raised his hand. ‘Enough of the banter, you two. If I want to know your domestic routine, I’ll befriend you on Facebook.’
‘But you’re not on f*******:, sir.’
‘Exactly my point, Capstick. What’s in the bag, Ho
