Jack Tomlinson was a bit of a traditionalist. He stuck to his patch and anything outside it was referred to upwards as soon as it landed on his desk. It did not help much, though. The grey metal standard stock police desk had withstood the weight of Inspector Tomlinson's paperwork for over fifteen years and a good amount of table-thumping which he was prone to, particularly when confronted with one of the 'bright young new boys who thought they knew it all'. "Another hit-and-run on Newlands, Tom," said a colleague, as another bundle of papers landed on the pile. "Reckon there's any connection?"
"God knows Charlie", said Tomlinson, "unless we've got some madmen with a burning desire to knock off young men in Davenport Road or...where was the other one?"
"The first was in Davenport Road, Tom. This one's in Rowdon Avenue." ".... or Rowdon Avenue. I can see us hauling in a couple of kids with guilty consciences and dents in their S-reg 3 litre Capris before long. You know the type - one gang leader gets hit by accident - probably one of his mates pissed out of his skull on the way home - and they all get horny and screw up one of the others. Won't be long before they've cut their numbers down to a level we can manage!"
"Sure, Tom." agreed Charlie, a touch disapprovingly. Then, in case his boss may have noticed the tone, he added: "I reckon it's the milkman, anyway! Queer as old bats is Trevor." He laughed and turned to complete a schedule on the wall. The phone rang. Inspector Tomlinson put down his pipe and placed the new papers back with the others after a cursory glance, retaining one sheet, which he turned over to use for a note while on the phone.
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