Hi - I'm reading "ONE STEP AHEAD: detectives hunt a serial killer who knows all their moves (The DSI Jeffrey Brandt Murders Trilogy Book 1)" by DENVER MURPHY and wanted to share this quote with you.
"Well this is it, thought McNeil.
Any hopes of being allowed to quietly slip back into the anonymity of his old role had been dashed.
He would now have to face the humiliation and injustice of being blamed for merely following orders.
Whilst he knew that he would want to stand up for himself and argue that any fallout from that day was Johnson’s responsibility for hatching the risky, not to mention ethically questionable, plan, he also still felt somewhat intimidated by her. Even if he could brave the inevitable wrath that would immediately meet his accusations, he could do nothing to stop her exacting revenge by ensuring he was given nothing more high profile in the future than shoplifting. He could of course make a formal complaint but as modern as the police was in the 21st century, and as much as official policy endorsed whistle-blowing, the truth was tradition came above everything. A grass was still a grass, and a grass could not be trusted; shunned forevermore by his colleagues. If Sergeant Andrews had an opinion on how best to handle the situation, he clearly wasn’t keen to share it and maintained his focus on completing sections in his logbook.
All that remained for McNeil was to get this over and done with, in the hope that he might be allowed to leave early and crack on with his plan to quickly fall into an inebriated oblivion. It was as he neared the top of the stairs that he remembered he still didn’t know the code to enter the plain clothes’ floor. Just as he was about to gingerly knock, like a school pupil at the door to the staffroom, he heard footsteps behind.
Without greeting, Johnson brushed past him and started punching numbers into the keypad.
McNeil was hit by the strong aroma of fresh cigarette smoke mixed in with whatever perfume she had applied that morning. Although she held the door open behind her, she did not look in McNeil’s direction and strode across the floor towards her office.
That none of the few detectives in the room glanced in either of their directions was small comfort. He walked into Johnson’s office and turned to close the door, having resolved to speak first; hoping that a heartfelt, in tone at least, apology might go some way to fixing things
Nevertheless, it was she who spoke first: ‘Who shat in your cornflakes?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Not quite the apology McNeil had intended.
‘I said, why are you looking so glum all of a sudden?’
‘But, ma’am, the flat… Sarah, Josh…’
‘Ah, bollocks to that. So what?’
‘But I thought you would be…’ Was all he could manage in reply.
‘Nah, it was a long shot anyway.’ She smiled and eased back in her chair.
‘And as for that contemptuous little twat, I would love to have seen the look on his face when he saw all those automatic weapons trained on him.’"
Any hopes of being allowed to quietly slip back into the anonymity of his old role had been dashed.
He would now have to face the humiliation and injustice of being blamed for merely following orders.
Whilst he knew that he would want to stand up for himself and argue that any fallout from that day was Johnson’s responsibility for hatching the risky, not to mention ethically questionable, plan, he also still felt somewhat intimidated by her. Even if he could brave the inevitable wrath that would immediately meet his accusations, he could do nothing to stop her exacting revenge by ensuring he was given nothing more high profile in the future than shoplifting. He could of course make a formal complaint but as modern as the police was in the 21st century, and as much as official policy endorsed whistle-blowing, the truth was tradition came above everything. A grass was still a grass, and a grass could not be trusted; shunned forevermore by his colleagues. If Sergeant Andrews had an opinion on how best to handle the situation, he clearly wasn’t keen to share it and maintained his focus on completing sections in his logbook.
All that remained for McNeil was to get this over and done with, in the hope that he might be allowed to leave early and crack on with his plan to quickly fall into an inebriated oblivion. It was as he neared the top of the stairs that he remembered he still didn’t know the code to enter the plain clothes’ floor. Just as he was about to gingerly knock, like a school pupil at the door to the staffroom, he heard footsteps behind.
Without greeting, Johnson brushed past him and started punching numbers into the keypad.
McNeil was hit by the strong aroma of fresh cigarette smoke mixed in with whatever perfume she had applied that morning. Although she held the door open behind her, she did not look in McNeil’s direction and strode across the floor towards her office.
That none of the few detectives in the room glanced in either of their directions was small comfort. He walked into Johnson’s office and turned to close the door, having resolved to speak first; hoping that a heartfelt, in tone at least, apology might go some way to fixing things
Nevertheless, it was she who spoke first: ‘Who shat in your cornflakes?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Not quite the apology McNeil had intended.
‘I said, why are you looking so glum all of a sudden?’
‘But, ma’am, the flat… Sarah, Josh…’
‘Ah, bollocks to that. So what?’
‘But I thought you would be…’ Was all he could manage in reply.
‘Nah, it was a long shot anyway.’ She smiled and eased back in her chair.
‘And as for that contemptuous little twat, I would love to have seen the look on his face when he saw all those automatic weapons trained on him.’"
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Have to rate this as a draw, both side stepping their whistle-blowing policies.
