Probably. The number was different every time Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss counted and she’d lost track of how often she’d started. She curled a lip. Tarting up the grim surroundings with primary prints and pot plants didn’t change the ambience. Pain and shame lingered here, almost tangibly. Bev slouched back in a not-so-easy chair and blew out her cheeks in a sigh. She was acutely aware that counting tiles wasn’t the most productive use of her time but she couldn’t talk to the victim, Laura Kenyon, until the police doctor cleared it. He’d been in the examination room with the teenager for two hours. Bev glanced at her watch. It was 9.05 already. Make that two hours twenty. She picked at a few strands of fraying fabric on the arm of the chair. If the day had panned out according to the best-laid et cetera, she’d be down the Bullring flashing plastic with her best mate, Frankie. A burger at the Hard Rock Café and Johnny Depp at the UGC had been on the cards for later. Mental note: call Frankie.
