A MINISTERIAL AFFAIR

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Detective Sergeant Jordan entered the room with an air of expectancy. It seemed as if he’d been a copper all his life, but although he enjoyed it, he knew that, at thirty five, he should be an Inspector by now. He knew, of course, what the problem was – he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut or tow the line. And with a new user-friendly police service – NOT force – he knew he was seen as a dinosaur.
He turned his balding head to take in the room – called over the Alsatian which sat, peacefully, by a large leather settee. ‘Hello, chum,’ he said, stroking it affectionately. ‘I wonder if you know your master’s dead?’
Jordan certainly knew he was. And it was his job to find out why. And he well knew that if he got this right, he’d be one step closer to that mythical Inspector.
Sir Keith Masters had been found, dead, on the road below his balcony that morning. Jordan’s initial reaction on hearing the news had been that it was suicide, even though there was no evidence of psychological problems before hand. But even this conclusion would be an embarrassment, for Sir Keith was – had – been a junior Minister at the Ministry of Defence.
Murder had obviously to be considered, and it was to check out this possibility that he stood in Sir Keith’s study, the balcony visible through the open french windows.
He had been in the room, alone, for ten minutes, having found no sign of struggle or break-in, when the door opened, the Alsatian ran out, and in walked DS Tina Thompson.
Jordan scowled. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
Tina Thompson pushed back her long, auburn hair and her piercing brown eyes fixed on him. They had only worked together once before, and she’d wished it would never happen again. But the DCI had wanted her on the case, for he just didn’t trust Jordan’s tact. Telling him straight, Jordan paced the room. ‘Typical,’ he said, ‘bloody typical.’
‘Well I don’t like it any better than you do.’
A silence followed, finally interrupted by Tina, saying: ‘So have you found anything?’
‘It’s as clean as a whistle.’
Opening the french windows, Tina Thompson walked out onto the balcony, looked down, winced, and looked over the road. Momentarily distracted from the case in hand, she said: ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely.’
Jordan followed her gaze, took in the Siamese cat sitting on the balcony opposite, and swore. ‘We do have a case to solve, you know.’

Tina Thompson considered herself part of the new, caring police service. Just ten years in the job following her degree, she was on the fast track, not long, she knew, from her inspector. She hated coppers like Jordan and wished they would just disappear. The Met quite simply had no room for them any more. Rather, the future had to be caring, or all that would happen is the circle of crime would go on spinning round and round.
‘Not if we lock the sods up,’ said Jordan as they left Sir Keith’s flat and got into his car.
Their destination was Sir Keith’s London constituency office. Walking into the office, Matthew Perkins was already waiting for them. Sir Keith’s constituency agent, both Jordan and Tina immediately noticed his shiftiness and realised he had something to hide.
The interview was standard: ‘Did Sir Keith have any problems? ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?’ ‘And where were you between midnight and six o’clock this morning?’
The answers were nothing more than they’d expected. ‘But he’s hiding something,’ said Jordan.
Tina agreed, adding: ‘Of course. he’s having an affair with Sir Keith’s housekeeper.’
Jordan whistled. ‘And how do you know that?’ he asked.
‘Because as we entered the office, he slipped something quickly into his desk drawer. And when you were dist¬racting him, I took a look.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘A snapshot of him arm in arm with the woman who let me into the flat this morning.’

Jordan hated smart coppers, especially if they were female. It was that he was anti-feminist. Just old-fashioned.
‘So that puts him in the frame,’ he said as they got back into his car, heading back to Sir Keith’s flat.
Tina sighed. ‘We can’t say that. Not yet. But it’s certainly suspicious that he didn’t want us to know.’
‘Well I go on hunches, love. And I’m telling you, it’s him.’
‘Don’t call me love.’
‘And they should hang him. Hang ‘em all. That’s what I say.’
‘Yea, yea, yea,’ said Tina, sitting back in her seat, wishing the day would end.

Jennifer Armstrong was maybe forty five, her good looks just beginning to disappear under a profusion of wrinkles. Tina immediately noticed two things about her as she sat in front
of them. First, she just didn’t seem the housekeeper sort. And second, she had been crying a lot, and even now, was forcing herself to hold back the tears. It was midway through the interview that Jordan dropped the bombshell:
‘And what did Sir Keith think about your affair with Matthew Perkins?’
Ms Armstrong was clearly rattled by this, and Tina just couldn’t get it out of her head that she thought it had nothing to do with the case. And it was then that her own intuition struck – a much more fundamental thing, she knew, that Jordan’s animal-like hunches. Excusing herself from the interview, she wandered about the flat, looking for the tell-tale signs she was sure she would find.
‘Well I don’t think that added anything to the investigation,’ said Jordan when they left.
‘I disagree,’ said Tina, feeling rather smug, and determined to show Jordan up for the dinosaur he was.
‘Oh,’ said Jordan, ‘and why’s that?’
‘She was far too upset, so I looked round the flat. There was no sign of Sir Keith having any woman friends visiting him. He’s not gay, so that’s unusual for a man in his position. But I did notice that Jennifer Armstrong’s room had not been slept in for God knows how long.’
‘So what are you getting at?’
Is he dumb, or what, thought Tina. ‘That they slept together, of course.’
Jordan whistled. He had a nasty habit of doing that, thought Tina. ‘So we’ve got a motive,’ he said.
‘It would seem so.’
‘But which one did it?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Which was rather like stating the obvious.

The rest of the day was spent at the station, making calls and confirming that Sir Keith AND Matthew Perkins were lovers of Ms Armstrong. The following day they would have to find out who pushed him off the balcony. Tina Thompson spent most of the night mulling on the matter.
The next morning she entered Sir Keith’s flat. Jordan was sat on the settee, stroking the Alsatian as it sat, patiently, next to him. ‘If only you could talk,’ he said, prompting Tina Thompson to question his hands-on technique.
Jennifer Armstrong entered the study, then. ‘What is it this time?’ she said, irritated.
Tina was about to put the question delicately, when Jordan interrupted and said: ‘So you’ve been playing around. All I want to know is who pushed him? You or Perkins?’
Jennifer Armstrong broke down at that point. Tina Thompson had had enough and needed some fresh air. She opened the french windows and walked out onto the balcony. Embarrassed,by Ms Armstrong’s tears, Jordan joined her, and as Tina flashed him
a look that could kill, said: ‘I know, I know, I’m not good at tact.’
‘Well we’ll never find out which of them did it, now, will we?’ said Tina, walking back into the study.
Jordan looked over the road as he leaned on the balcony. As the Siamese cat appeared once more, he said, ‘your cat’s back. ‘
Tina Thompson suddenly stopped in her tracks. ‘What did you say?’ she asked. Whilst at the same moment the Alsatian spotted the cat, growled, and bounded towards the balcony. With a warning of ‘watch out!’ from Tina, Jordan jumped out of the way just before the dog would have sent him spiraling to his death.

‘Jordan?’ said Tina as they were about to leave. As he looked round, she held up the dog lead, as if a noose, and tugged. Then, following a trail of expletives, she smiled and followed him out.

© Anthony North, March 2007