The snow had been falling heavily for the last twenty
minutes, causing the RAF policemen to slow down to a virtual crawl. They had
phoned ahead once already to advise that they would be delayed or may even need
to find alternative accommodation for the night.
Jim had no interest in the snow, their speed or where they
would spend the night. The journey had simply acted as a focus for his
concerns; the more he thought about it he realised that his career was on the
rocks. Sixteen years’ service was going to be wiped because he had been made a
fall guy for some Secret Service cock up. The policemen escorting him were
still treating him like a leper, speaking only when absolutely necessary and
usually across him. He felt he was being transported to Fylingdales simply to
be set up, to be made a scapegoat for the mistakes made at Officer level. He
became aware of one of the policemen talking into his mobile phone, undisguised
irritation in his voice.
'We've got to turn back, take him to Bristol somewhere,'
the policeman sat alongside Jim said.
'What? Tonight? In these conditions?' blurted the driver,
eyeing the carpet of snow lying across the road.
'Yes, and it’s come from a very high level. The Station
Commander has been over-ruled on this one. Our shifts for tomorrow have been
filled by others on the base. Apparently this guy is now the new flavour.’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
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