Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Three

It was hard to shake the notion that I had fallen victim over the last couple of years to Newton's first law of motion, which is, might I say, one of his finest. Through a combination of social and financial circumstances underscored by the immutable laws of physics, inertia had me entwined in its inevitable embrace.

Like the product of an assiduous dung beetle that painstakingly fashioned its spherical prize before accidentally pushing it over the brow of an unforeseen hill, I felt I was bouncing along at the whim of forces beyond my control. That is until I surely met an equal and opposite force, at which point the shit would hit the, well, whatever it was lying in wait in my path.

I could feel this clearly. What stubbornly evaded my grasp was what, if anything, I could do about it. Far from boosting my confidence, entering into a relationship with Sophie and a business partnership with Ty paradoxically knocked it flat on its arse.

It was the feeling I needed to do something, to rebel against the drift, that had me tripping over myself to take on the missing clock case. The lure of money didn't hurt either.

Ty and Sophie would both be cool with me going somewhat behind their backs and taking this job, once I sorted it out and could spread a little pecuniary love around, at any rate. It would show them I could pay my way in the world, and I wasn't some kind of hanger-on; a barnacle going for a ride on the hull of their respective boats.

I was so lost in these thoughts I barely even noticed anything particularly hair-raising about the journey into Wolverhampton. Ty's driving is erratic enough on empty country roads, but when he met city traffic his synapses stepped it up into another level altogether.

Wolverhampton Central police station is a red brick edifice calling to mind the city's industrial history. It very much looks like a converted factory or Victorian workhouse. I always assumed it was designed to conjure memories of troubles past, and likely troubles future. Even the entry, raised as it is a half-storey above street level, forced the poor miscreants passing across its threshold to trudge up out of the literal and metaphorical filth.

I had, after only minor quibbling, and at Ty's insistence, called what few remaining contacts I had on the force in order to secure us an interview. My father had been something of a legend in his own time in uniform, and though he was now long dead, his name still carried a certain amount of respect.

My name, on the other hand, is largely connected with hysterical derision. Dad had never shown outward disapproval when I had not followed him into the force but attempted to pursue other career paths. By contrast his former colleagues, and those that had come afterwards, had lost no opportunity to remind me of what a disappointment I must have been.

A dispassionate review of my life events since deciding not to join the police suggested they were probably right.

The officer on duty at the desk took my name and, with great flourish, made a play of punching the numbers on his phone, rolling his eyes and muttering something about "weekend coppers" just loud enough to make sure we heard.

Ty and I took adjacent dark blue plastic bucket seats in the waiting room. I slumped into mine with the lack of enthusiasm I imagined to be characteristic of the majority of its previous occupants. The seating was bolted in rows to a heavy steel frame set into the floor. Presumably, this was to ward off attempted theft. After having sat on them for a couple of minutes it was clear to me that they really need not have bothered.

"Thanks, Satchmo," Ty said tersely, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" I grunted, feeling sorry for myself.

"I know it's not easy for you to come here. I appreciate it. They wouldn't have spoken to me alone," Ty explained, staring off into the distance.

"I'm pretty sure I'll be in the same boat before very long. I'm something of a running joke around here," I groaned.