Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The door at the back of the bullpen was marked "Chief Inspector" in faded gold lettering. My guide knocked once then, without waiting for a response, pushed the door open and walked in like he owned the place.

Hesitating for only a moment, I followed him inside where a tall, scruffy man sat behind a desk cluttered with piles of paperwork that were, quite literally, overflowing its edges. As I came to an approximation of parade rest before him I couldn’t help but wonder, what kind of man they had in charge here. I mean, there’s no way he could have missed the commotion going on just outside his door and yet, he appeared calm, relaxed even, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

I felt my small, professional smile slipping as my frustration at being ignored grew until, dropping whatever it was he’d been reading, he finally acknowledged our presence. "Our new recruit," he said, his voice an unexpected smoker’s baritone at odds with his appearance. "Thanks, that'll be all, Gimli. Go polish your axe or something."

My guide huffed indignantly but retreated without comment, even managing to close the door behind him softly, with no further signs of irritation. I, on the other hand, was seething. If his neanderthal like attitude to the disabled was anything to go by, I was concerned about how backward his views regarding women in the workplace might be.

His gaze swept over me, giving me chills as he took in my doubtless frazzled appearance.

"You look like hell.” His first words to me weren’t exactly warm or friendly, “Rough night?"

Just great. I bristled internally at his comment, he was one of those, yet another superior more concerned with a woman's appearance than her qualifications or abilities. He had some nerve given the state he was in. Hell, like some of the guys I’d seen out in the bullpen, his face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days – stubble giving way to a wispy beard. Although, unlike some, at least he was fully dressed, and either knew how to use an iron or had someone to press his suits for him.

Predicting a visit to the PSU in my near future, I strained to keep my face neutral against the tug of a malicious grin, managing to nod in response only when the silence had stretched uncomfortably between us. I regretted it almost immediately, wincing as the movement exacerbated the pain in my head and made me want to throw up all over again. This really was a doozy of a migraine, I just hoped it wouldn’t last much longer.

"Headache," he half asked, half commented, noticing my obvious discomfort. "Don't worry, I’m sure it'll pass... if you're here for a while."

The 'if' didn't go unnoticed, but I kept my thoughts to myself, there wasn’t any point in handing him ammunition to use against me.

"DI Marchant," he said slowly, gesturing for me to sit. "I hope you're ready for this. The MCD isn't your typical police unit."

"So I've gathered, sir," I replied, trying to keep my voice level.

The DCI leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Yes, well… things are a bit more... relaxed up here on the thirteenth floor. I’m sure you’ve noticed some, umm, peculiarities already.”

I bit back a snort. Relaxed? Peculiarities? That was the understatement of the century. My mind flashed back to the scene I'd just witnessed - the shirtless brawl, the horrendous smell, the overall chaos. This wasn't just ‘relaxed’, it was bordering on insanity.

"Peculiarities, sir?" I echoed, no longer able to keep a hint of sarcasm from my voice. "Is that what we're calling it?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, and I realised I might have overstepped. But to my surprise, a ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Sharp tongue you've got there, Marchant," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Good. You'll need that here."

I blinked, thrown off balance by his response. That was not how I was expecting this conversation to continue.

Dismissing my question, he stood abruptly and moved to the door. "Let's introduce you to your partner. He can show you the ropes, tell you who’s who and what’s what," he paused, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."

***

I braced myself as we stepped out of the DCI's office, ready to step back into the madhouse, stumbling to a halt as my brain tripped, trying to work out how so much had changed in so little time. The atmosphere was calmer, much calmer. The chaos I'd witnessed earlier had vanished, the buzz of phone conversations and clacking of keyboards had replaced the raucous yelling and cheering, even that horrible smell seemed to have vanished. Hell it almost resembled a normal police station. Almost. The two shirtless wrestlers were still bare-chested, and stood chatting amicably near the water cooler.

Surely, I thought, The DCI wouldn't be able to ignore that!

He didn't so much as miss a step. "Peculiarities my arse." I muttered so quietly that I barely heard it myself, only to be surprised by a feminine giggle from the other side of the room. Weird, I thought as I forced my feet back into motion, but coincidences happen, something else must have amused her... I lost my train of thought as we got nearer to the half-naked pair and I caught the tail end of their conversation.

"...wouldn't be enough to scare her off," the taller one said, a triumphant grin on his face.

The shorter man grumbled something inaudible, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-pound note. He slapped it into his companion's outstretched hand with a rueful shake of his head before walking away with a huge smile on his face.
I felt my eyebrows climb towards my hairline. They'd been betting on me? On whether I'd what? Turn tail and run for the hills? The indignation I felt warred with a grudging respect for their audacity.

The DCI cleared his throat, and I snapped my attention back to him. His eyes twinkled with barely concealed amusement.

"DI Marchant," he said, gesturing to the taller, victorious half-naked man, "meet your new partner, DI MacTire."

No, I couldn't have heard that right. It was impossible. This man, shirtless and cocky as all hell, was supposed to be my partner? And he was a DI? How? I knew the Met had a bad reputation for its low standards, but this was bloody ridiculous. A not-so-tiny part of me wanted to walk out of the station right then and there, but the stubborn side of me, the side that never backs down, told me to grin and bear it. For now.

"I'm sorry, sir," I asked, "did you say partner?" Adding the "and DI?" silently to myself.

MacTire grinned and extended a hand. His grin was infuriating, a smug smirk that said he knew exactly how much he was getting under my skin, and how funny he thought this whole situation was.

"Nice to meet you," he said, voice low and rolling like the Scottish Highlands, smooth, rich, and completely at odds with his appearance, "Hope that wee pup didn't upset ya."

I stared at his outstretched hand, then at the ridiculous smirk plastered on his face, and finally back to the DCI. This, umm, guy looked like he'd fit better in some back-alley biker gang than as a detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police.

"Right then," the DCI declared, seemingly oblivious to the 'what-should-have-been-blindingly-obviously-elephant-in-the-room', "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Mac, show her the ropes."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there besides a half-dressed caveman wannabe, slack-jawed, and more than a little pissed. This had to be some sort of joke, right?

MacTire chuckled, dropping his hand when I failed to take it. "Don't worry lass, I don't bite. Unless you're into that sort of thing."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks, whether more from embarrassment or anger, I couldn't quite tell. I shifted my weight, forcing myself not to cross my arms over my chest. I didn't want to seem defensive - but I needed to say something, to snip this arrogant, patronising attitude in the bud. I opened my mouth, ready to let him have both barrels, and nearly bit my tongue as I snapped it shut again. I needed to stay professional here, one of us should after all, and coming across as a shrieking harridan wouldn't do me any favours.

"Look," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking with frustration, "I don't know what kind of operation you're used to running here but, where I come from, officers at least try to appear professional... you know... by wearing shirts and, oh I don't know, not engaging in bareknuckle brawls in the middle of the bloody office."

So much for calm and collected.

He raised an eyebrow, the grin never faltering. "Aye, well, the MCD's a bit different, lass. You'll get used to it." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as he motioned towards a door labelled 'break room'. "Tell you what, why don't we grab a coffee, and I'll fill you in on some of the finer points of working here. And, if you ask nicely, I'll even put a shirt on.

The patronising jerk.

He turned and walked away, leaving me to either follow, or stand there looking like an idiot.

I stared at his retreating back, unable to miss intricate tattoos spanning across his shoulders - a complex pattern of interlocking symbols that seemed to shift and change as he moved. Something about it tickled at the back of my mind, a half-remembered detail from a case I'd seen? Read about? Damn but my head hurt just trying to think about it!

With a sigh, I followed him. What choice did I have? I was stuck here until God knew when - if the chaos didn't swallow me whole first. Still, I mused, maybe things would get better... if not, there was always the PSU, they'd have a field day with this circus I'd stumbled into.