It is 1985. Detective Inspector Mungo ‘Bob’ Willis is being forced out of Avon and Somerset Police on medical grounds. His career is in tatters, his body broken, his mind shattered, and his partner—DS Lizzie Harper—dead in a sting operation gone wrong.
Here’s an early scene from Deceived by the Light introducing Bob; a police officer very much at the end of his career, rather than the beginning.
I’m sitting in the window of the Little Chef at Camel Hill, watching the world go by, waiting for my Jubilee Pancake to arrive. You’ll understand if you’ve ever had one.
Life has its compensations.
I had a lot of time to think when I was in hospital. About life, the universe and everything. I thought a lot about Lizzie, but spent most of the time feeling sorry for myself, to be honest.
The trouble with a career in the police is it sweeps you along. One case to the next, never a chance to draw breath, totally wrapped up in the job.
Then comes the divorce.
I noticed it after a while. Nobody asks if you’re married. They ask how many times you’ve been married.
Most of us are divorced. The rate for male officers is seventy-six per cent, or something like that. Come to think of it, that might be America, but you get the picture I’m sure. It just sort of happens without you even knowing it. You’re on some case. Working all hours, finally get a chance to open the post and there’s the solicitor’s letter.
We are instructed by Mrs Shirley Willis that the marriage between you has irretrievably broken down . . .
The next envelope had the divorce petition in it.
And there was me thinking she’d gone to stay with her sister.
I don’t blame her. It wasn’t as if my career was really going anywhere anyway. A journeyman. I made detective inspector by the skin of my teeth. I think they just felt sorry for me in the end. I kept applying, mainly because Shirley kept pushing me into it, and they probably thought they couldn’t keep saying no.
Remarkably unremarkable, if I had to sum up my career.
Pub fights, fraud and a couple of murders, both of them domestic.
Not much to show for nearly thirty years on the force.
Thinking too much is a dangerous business. It’s best if you don’t do it at all, which explains why so many retired police officers go straight into a second career, or take up golf.
I’ve tried fishing on Blagdon Lake. Shirley’s new husband, Alan, offered to take me out in a boat for a day, so I didn’t have a lot of choice. It would’ve been rude to refuse, particularly when they’re letting me live in the flat above their post office rent free. It was either that or a cardboard box in the Bearpit. That’s an underpass in Bristol for those of you who don’t know it.
It was a nice gesture, the fishing, and it is relaxing. I’ve been a few times since – Alan’s lent me a rod – but there’s too much time to think.
That’s why the good doctor has got me scoring the cricket matches. I have to concentrate on that. Or at least I would if I did it properly.
Three months in a hospital bed, then the rehab. It was quite a shock.
Time to sit back, take stock, and find you don’t like what you see. I don’t recommend it.
Mediocrity.
Divorce.
Two daughters who don’t speak to me.
A grandson I’ve never met.
I know what you’re thinking, but sticking my head in a gas oven is not my style; too much of a coward for that.
So, here I am, recovering from injuries sustained in the line of duty that will keep me on sick leave until my retirement. Full pay until then too, so it’s not all bad. Nothing else to do except watch the cricket, go fishing and relax.
Perhaps not.
I’ve got one case left. One chance, then maybe I can look back on my career and think it was worthwhile.
Four people are dead and the official line is that the police aren’t looking for anyone else in connection with the murders.
They might not be.
But I am.