They ate dinner in front of the television, Beryl's choice, as always, since White had no interest in it. He liked television, understood the nation's love for it and appreciated the service it provided in keeping people off the streets. He generally enjoyed whatever he was put in front of though he couldn't suspend his disbelief. Everyone was an actor and their traumas weren't real. The dead bodies (except those on the news) were fake, the autopsies just spectacle. His ever-changing shifts and random pattern of work prevented him from following any one series, and even if Beryl recorded episodes he missed he generally fell asleep when he tried to watch them.
He left her watching Coronation End Farm, or whatever it was, collected the plates and went into the kitchen to wash up. T didn't take long. Two cups, two spoons, the teapot; two plates, knives, forks and the plastic trays that had to be washed before you could put them for recycling. He had a huge respect for dustmen. Heavy work in all weathers and the smell! He couldn't even walk past a bin lorry. Heaven knows what it took to work on one. They went everywhere no matter how rough the neighbourhood.
He took out his phone and dialled Peters. It rang for some time and switched to voicemail, which took White by surprise.
“Peters? It's me. Er...White. Detective-inspector White, that is. Check when Chervil Close has a bin collection, would you? And find out everything you can about the supposed meth lab arrest of our two lads. There's something fishy going on.”