Terry turned off his phone strode across the floor and opened his office door.
‘... ing bitch has bitten me, sir’ were the first words he heard.
‘Don’t be such a girl, Sergeant,’ said the other policeman.
The thinner of the two plain clothes policemen had the secretary in an arm-lock with her face pressed against a Turkomen rug.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Terry put on his sternest patrician manner.
‘These men were trying to muscle in on your ten o’ clock slot,’ said his secretary from floor level.
Before he could remonstrate, a warrant card filled his field of vision.
‘Bellend, Sir. Chief Inspector Frank Bellend of Serious Narcotics Investigation Force.’
The executive officer who had had ringside seats throughout the morning’s events whilst waiting for his ten o’clock appointment sniggered. He was rendered into silence by a glare from the Chief Inspector’s humourless features.
‘SNIF, eh?’ said Terry. ‘That’s very good.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. What?
‘SNIF. It’s the acronym of your organisation.’
‘Acro-what? Oh yeah. Funny that. No one’s ever pointed that out before.’
Not to be further delayed or diverted, Chief Inspector Bellend stepped through the open door into Terry's office.
‘And this,’ he said, ‘is Detective Sergeant Rimmer.’
Terry looked on as the policeman leant down to lift the now handcuffed and weeping form of his secretary from the floor. Behind them, Terry saw the executive officer’s shoulders heaving in silent laughter as he pretended to read the paper.
‘Was this really necessary, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Well, sir. She was being obstructive and Rimmer likes to keep his hand in.’
‘Well come in, then, Chief Inspector,’ said Terry guiding them into his office.
‘But your ten o’clock?’ blubbered his secretary now handcuffed to her typing chair.
‘Can you please ask him to reschedule.’
Terry began, ‘So, how can I help, Chief Inspector?’
‘Well, sir. It’s slightly awkward. I’m going to have to ask you to exercise your discretion regarding the information I’m about to divulge.’
Terry nodded acquiescently and the police officer continued:
‘You see, we’ve been tracking a group of Manchester drug dealers for about eighteen months now trying to find out about their supply and distribution network.’
Terry held up his hand.
‘Before we get any further, would you like some coffee? We’ve just got a new machine.’
‘Oh that’s very kind of you, sir. White with three sugars, thank you.’
Terry leant forward and pressed the intercom. There was no answer. He pressed again before looking up and through the glass wall where he saw his secretary still handcuffed to her typing chair attempting to operate the intercom with her nose.
‘Oh, of course. How silly of me. Would your Sergeant oblige me?’ Terry motioned towards the secretary.
‘Oh yes. Of course, sir.’
Bellend turned to his colleague.
‘Would you mind, Sergeant? To continue then. The operation has been a goldmine for us. We’d had evidence pouring in from all directions. We thought at first that it was just a regional network which had been set up in Manchester but we now know that Manchester is just one of five regional hubs distributing drugs which are shipped in from all over Central and South America. These hubs are supplied by one kingpin and we are now very close to discovering his identity.’
‘Has this got anything to do with those drug dealers who were buried in Scotland?’ asked Terry.
‘Well actually, it does, sir.’
Terry’s attention was momentarily diverted by the sight of his now liberated secretary using her new Jimmy Choo’s to kick Sergeant Rimmer squarely between the legs. The policeman hit the Turkomen rug like a sack of dog food and remained their clutching his groin.
‘Oh dear, Chief Inspector. It looks like coffee will be delayed. But do go on.’
‘These dealers from Manchester were our most productive source of information. Now they’re gone, it’s going to set us back a good two months in uncovering the kingpin of the operation. We’ve also been informed of a ‘wild card’.
‘A wild card?’ repeated Terry, with one eye on the life and death struggle taking place beyond the glass wall. He saw - not without satisfaction - that Sergeant Rimmer was now handcuffed to the typing chair sporting a wire mesh, wastepaper basket over his head at rather a jaunty angle.
‘I’m afraid I’m not as up-to-date on my poker terminology as I should be. Please be more specific, Chief Inspector ... or may I call you Bellend.’
The policeman winced.
‘Chief Inspector is fine, sir. This intelligence comes directly from one of our undercover sources. The ‘wild card’ or unknown factor to which I am referring ... er ... to appears to be one of your own officers operating under the codename Figgis.’
Terry felt faint.
‘I don’t know if we’ve got a parallel investigation going on here.’ said Bellend, ‘and I haven’t had time to check with Parallel Liaison, Operations and Duplications to see whether they have anything on their books.’
‘Oh yes. Another corker' said Terry. If there’s one thing I love, it’s a good acronym.’
‘Sorry sir?’ said Bellend, oblivious.
‘Well,’ continued Terry, ‘I suppose I could check with our Duplications Unit to see if anything comes up but it doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘Whoever it is nearly got himself killed with some pretty piss-poor ‘obo’ work. I’m told he soaked a group of foreign suspects with a roof-full of cold water and that our operative had to save his skin and risk ruining five years of work.’
‘No, no,’ said Terry playing for time. ‘I'm still a bell-free zone. Let me just give our duplication people a call and I’ll get back to you. Is that all okay with you, Chief Inspector?’