Chapter 18

The sun was barely visible, yet Jain was already up. The grand total of 4 hours sleep barely made him feel human, but all he wanted was caffeine. As coffee dripped into the jug, the smell of slightly burnt grounds was hypnotic. If ever there was a better smell in the world than fresh coffee grounds, he had never happened upon it. Insomnia had become an increasingly big problem of late. Shift work had that effect on most people eventually, causing lost sleep, irritability and reduced concentration. All of these were making work increasingly difficult, although he still enjoyed the job. There was no way he could survive the rest of the day on coffee alone. His shift was not due to start until three pm. Full cup in hand, the sofa called. Napping on the sofa was sometimes easier than sleeping in the bed. Not ideal, but it was the only way to boost a worsening ability to concentrate, even if it did cause perennial back pain.

Slumped on the sofa, Jain placed his empty cup on the coffee table and picked up his Kindle. Reading usually helped him sleep. Not that it was boring, but there was something about the screen that was easy on the eye. The alternative was the phone or the TV, both of which had the opposite effect: keeping his eyes open. A few pages in and his eyes felt heavy. Mission accomplished.

Mornings at home usually consisted of intermittent naps, punctuated by cups of increasingly bitter coffee. Eventually, work beckoned, and he began his journey. It was at this time, on his journey, that he regretted having such an uneventful existence. Every day was almost entirely the same. Wake up, drink coffee, spend time on the sofa, go to work, come home, repeat. The only thing that changed was the time of each activity. Work was the only place, at least recently, that held any meaning. Everything else in life seemed virtually pointless. Why make friends when you could never commit to a consistent social life? Why have children if you could never be there to play with them? If he was honest with himself, he should probably just buy a camp bed and set it up in the station. It would save on rent. Earning money that he would never spend on anything meaningful. He could save up for early retirement and then repeat his pre-work ritual on a constant cycle, completely eliminating the one thing that gave him any satisfaction.

Finally, he arrived at the station, his church. Hopefully, today would be more satisfying than yesterday. He sat in his car for a moment, eyeing the reddish bricks around the building. Another twenty years of this with nothing else to enjoy about life might prove difficult. A person only had so much energy to give to one pursuit. Things had pretty much gone to plan so far. University, join the police, get experience, get into CID. The next steps were going to be tricky. Getting promoted was not a given anymore. Budget cuts and politics were playing a bigger part in policing than a few years back. There was no room for mistakes, especially if you were not yet part of the 'clique'. Those people were the worst, in Jain's opinion. Sycophantic, arrogant, superficial officers with an eye on shiny shoulders rather than real police work. Of course, getting promoted was something to aim for. The extra power to make decisions and the influence over what work got done, as well as the pay and pension. But, and he was confident about this, the bootlickers would not get any support from their colleagues if the shit really hit the fan. No matter how many friends you make in high places, they will drop you and disavow any interaction you ever had. Police officers were no different to any other profession. Those in charge, and those with aspirations of power, were just as concerned with self-preservation as a corporate banker or politician. Public service was very far from the minds of the most senior officers. Jain was not sure he ever wanted to reach the Ivory Tower of senior leadership. Inspector level was fine for him; still able to get involved in real day-to-day investigations but have some influence over the whole team. He had to make it to sergeant first and had already failed the exam once. He could not seem to remember definitions, especially when it came to traffic law. He also had no intention whatsoever of ever working in a traffic department, which just made it worse when the exam result came through and he knew those were the areas failing him. Who gives a toss about 'use, cause and permit'? You could cause someone to drive a car with bald tires, or permit them to do it. He frankly cared little for the difference. It was the same scene of carnage when the inevitable car accident occurred. Let the courts worry about semantics.

Sighing at the thought of traffic legislation, the weary detective exited his trusty old hatchback. They clicked and creaked in unison with the effort of his body getting out. He took the steps up to the second floor two-at-a-time and counted that exertion as today's only bit of exercise. Exercise was fine, if it was competitive, but sweaty shirts were definitely not. PCs got issued with their own uniform to get sweaty in, yet detectives had to buy smart clothes for work. It seemed unfair. Shirts and trousers were expensive, and so was dry cleaning, yet he still ended up meeting the same blood-covered drug addicts and grubby witnesses as every other department. Living alone on a ?35,000 salary was doable, but he really wanted to save money and not have to check his balance at the end of each month to make sure his bills were covered. After tax, massive pension contributions and professional subs, there was little left when bills were factored in. He wondered how people survived on lower salaries. Most of the people he met through his work were on the lower end of society's scale. The middle-classes seemed to rarely call the police about their neighbour's violent outbursts or to report they had been stabbed by a prostitutealthough he was sure they had their secrets.

The computer's hard drive crunched as it loaded up the desktop. All the computers in use around the office were making unhealthy crunching noises. Computers were in use pretty much non-stop in a police station. Years of use by multiple techno-dullards twenty-four hours a day. No wonder they were so slow. The force could barely afford to keep the cars running so it was unlikely that new high-spec machines were about to arrive. Finally, the applications opened and he could log into his email. One by one, they flooded his inbox. Interesting headings like 'prison escapee', 'changes to knife legislation' and 'dirty fridge' populated the screen. He bulk deleted anything that was not personally addressed to him and found that only two remained.

The first was about a piece of evidence he had seized at a crime scene. The court case had concluded and nobody was claiming it. The item was a blood-stained sweater, handed over by a robbery victim when they reported being mugged in the street. He remembered it well. A young, drunk, attractive female had been walking home after a few drinks in a local pub when someone threatened her with a knife. The 'robber'a funny word, he thoughthad simply pointed it at her and asked for money. She opened her purse to show him that it was empty of anything but coins, and received a punch in the face for her troubles. The thief still took the purse. It was not the most serious crime that had occurred that week, but it was still a robbery and therefore got a lot of attention from the bosses. As a result, he had done everything by the book: statements taken, CCTV from the street was seized, area searched, house to house conducted, offender description circulated by email and, of course, her bloodied sweater was taken into evidence in case the smackhead had touched it. She handed it over willingly, wanting to help catch the bastard, but was left in a thin, scrappy vest that allowed her ample cleavage to meet Jain's eye. He tried not to stare, but soon realised he was just as much of a creep as his other male colleagues when his gaze kept returning to her chest. He almost considered keeping her phone number for a future date opportunity and then remembered he could actually lose his job for such an unprofessional act.