“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “Stop it.”
It was a gloriously sunny Saturday mid-morning, and the town was packed with shoppers. The couple took one look along Broad Street and decided instead to cross over to West Street and do their shopping at the enormous co-operative department store.
The shop carried everything from carpets to furniture, food to soft furnishings. It included a well-appointed paint, wallpaper, and DIY section where Don bought a new drill from a very pleasant, and surprisingly well-informed, young male shop assistant.
“He was nice,” said Rosemary. “Do you know him, you were chatting for ages?”
“I don’t know him, but he recognised me from an accident I dealt with a couple of years back. He wants to join the job next year when he’s a bit older. Would you believe it? I’m a role model!”
“He’ll learn,” said Rosemary with a grin.
After a light meal in the store’s restaurant, Don and Rosemary decided to leave with their purchases and pop over the road to the nearby Odeon cinema, where the afternoon performance was about to begin.
Don had been a Police Cadet in Reading some years previously and had enjoyed the concession of free tickets to go to the pictures for the local police. It had been a godsend for a cash-strapped young man in those days, and Don had made full use of the facility. He had consequently become well known to many of the staff and got on very well with them.
However, most of the cinema’s employees had moved on over the years, and, now he no longer worked at the local station, Don preferred to pay his way when going to the movies. Consequently, he was very pleasantly surprised when the cinema manager recognised him as he and Rosemary entered the picture house.
“Hello, young Don, nice to see you again.” The manager shook his hand. “How are you these days?”
“I’m very well, thank you, Mr Jones. This is my wife, Rosemary.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Rosemary. Look, the film’s about to start; you can leave your bags with Doreen in the kiosk. It’ll save lugging them about. Here you are, take yourselves upstairs.” He handed Don two tickets marked “complimentary” and gave a thumbs up to Doreen. He pointed at the bags the couple were carrying. Doreen smiled and nodded in reply.
The film was a light modern musical with a great soundtrack. Rosemary had been dying to see it since it first came out and she settled herself happily into the seat next to Don. As was usual with afternoon matinees, the cinema was almost empty, and the pair had a whole row to themselves.
During one particularly emotional scene, Don, who was in danger of dropping off to sleep, could feel his wife’s hand tugging on his shoulder, gaining his attention. He looked at her, and she nodded towards a young couple sitting in the row in front of them.
Don couldn’t see over the young man’s shoulder but from his rhythmic jerking, and the hand movements of the giggling girl with him, it was obvious what they were up to.
Suddenly the scene was softly, but clearly, lit up by the beam from the usherette’s torch – which clearly illuminated the man’s exposed nether regions. The young lady gasped, covered her mouth with her hand, and removed the other one from her boyfriend’s lap. The man, however, just grinned and poked his tongue out towards the usherette.
The young man’s grin froze as he found himself staring at the badge on Don’s warrant card, which the officer was holding in front of his face from behind. Don indicated with his thumb for the couple to exit to the aisle where the usherette stood back, ready to let them out and escort them from the premises.
Don began to stand up, ready to help, but the lady with the torch motioned him to remain seated. Don had met her many times in the past, and he relaxed back into his seat. He knew this lady was more than capable of sorting out the cheeky lovers without his assistance.
“How mean!” chided Rosemary. “Anyone would think you were never young.”
“I had no choice,” Don said. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch you know – or a free cinema ticket.”
The usherette was nowhere in sight when the film ended, and the pair were in good spirits when they eventually retrieved their shopping and made their way out of the cinema into the early evening sunshine. Don carried the heavier of their two bags in his right hand, and Rosemary held the other in her left. They linked their free arms together and walked down the street like a couple of teenage lovers.
It was too nice an evening to go straight home, so they decided to go for a stroll along Friar Street. The shops had, by that time of day, either closed or were just about to close. It didn’t matter, Rosemary simply enjoyed looking in the windows. After a few hundred yards, however, her arm grew tired, so Don took both bags and Rosemary lightly held his left elbow with her right hand as they walked.
“I haven’t seen the flowers in the Forbury yet this summer,” said Rosemary. “Can we have a walk through before we go back to the car?”
The historic Forbury Gardens, and the adjacent Reading Abbey ruins, were a bit off their route back to Minster Street, but Don shrugged his shoulders and hefted the bags.
“Do I look like a donkey?” he asked with a grin.
“No, darling, you’re Don Barton, not Don Key – but you’ll just have to do.”
They both laughed and continued walking along to the town hall, past the museum then down Valpy Street where the old Borough Police Station used to be located. At the end of the road, they crossed over the main street that led to the nearby railway station and went in through the entrance to the gardens.
The superbly maintained, ornate flower beds made a spectacular display as they walked along the pathway, and Rosemary was enthralled. By now, though, Don was growing weary from carrying the shopping and, at his suggestion, they decided to sit down on a bench facing the huge statue of a lion that dominated that area of Forbury Gardens.
“Did you know that’s an Afghan lion?” said Don. “At least I think it is. The statue’s a monument to the soldiers from the conflict in Afghanistan back in Queen Victoria’s day. You know, the war Sherlock Holmes’s Doctor Watson was supposed to have been in.”
“Our teachers used to tell us stuff like that when we came here on school trips but …”
Rosemary’s reply was cut short by the sound of shouting and a very loud bang coming from just inside the gate by which they had just used to enter.
The couple looked up to see a short, wiry man wearing an old-fashioned grey suit weaving his drunken way into the gardens. He was shouting at the top of his voice and carrying a wine bottle in each hand. He took a long swig from one of the bottles before throwing it onto the tarmac path where it shattered into a thousand pieces.
“What are you fucking looking at!” the man screamed at an elderly couple walking nearby. He started staggering towards them.
Don felt it was time to intervene. “Mind the bags, love,” he said to Rosemary as he stood up and began making his way towards the drunk.
“Be careful, Don!” Rosemary pleaded. “You’re not on duty, you know.”
“Just stay there,” Don told her over his shoulder as he drew close to the man.
Don opened his arms in a conciliatory gesture as he approached the man, and said, “All right, me old mate, calm down a bit and tell me what the problem is.”
“Just who the fuck are you?” the man shouted.
“I’m a policeman, and you’re going to get arrested if you don’t quieten down a bit, so calm down, will you.”
This seemed to enrage the man even further.
“What are you fucking staring at?” he yelled at the elderly couple, who had stopped walking and seemed frozen in their tracks.
The drunk threw his remaining bottle at the two old people, then he turned back to Don and raised his fists.
“Steady! Steady!” said Don, but the man lashed out with his right hand. Don sidestepped and grabbed the man’s sleeve. He pulled the man towards him and neatly slipped his other arm around the man’s forearm trapping
him in an armlock.
The man twisted and pulled violently, causing them both to fall over onto the grass lawn at the side of the path. Fortunately, Don landed on top and was able to use his weight to hold the man down – with the armlock still in place.
Rosemary screamed and rushed over to where the men were struggling. She frantically looked all around and started calling for help.
The prisoner proved to be a lot stronger than he looked. Don had difficulty keeping him pinned down.
“Rosemary!” he shouted. “Get someone to phone the nick. I can’t hold him much longer.”
Rosemary, loathe to abandon her husband, shouted at the old couple to run and find a phone box. However, as it happened, their help wasn’t needed. Two uniformed constables, helmets in hand appeared at the entrance and ran over to where Don was still lying on top of the man, trying to keep him down.
Rosemary shouted, “That’s my husband, he’s a policeman.”
The officers got either side of Don and, having firmly gripped the prisoner, helped Don to lift him to his feet.
The drunk was no longer fighting but, as Don released his hold, the officers kept both the man’s arms securely pinned behind his back. At this point, a police Ford Transit van arrived at the entrance to the gardens, and a hatless uniformed sergeant rushed up to the disturbance. Don recognised the “skipper” as one he had worked with in the past. Sergeant Mudders, a decent sort of bloke, as he recalled.
On seeing the sergeant, the prisoner began howling, “Ow! Arghh! Let me go! You’re breaking my arm! Arghh! Please, you’re really hurting me!”
To Don’s amazement, Mudders said, “All right, lads, let him go.”
The officers released their hold on the man who promptly drew back his fist and landed a right hook squarely on Don’s jaw. Don staggered back as the two constables jumped back on the prisoner and wrestled him, again screaming and shouting, to the ground.
Once the drunk had been properly subdued and was safely locked away in the back of the Transit, the sergeant, somewhat embarrassed, went up to Don and checked he was all right and not badly injured.
“Look, Don,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think he’d kick off like that, Bill doesn’t normally attack the police. He’ll be full of apologies in the morning.”
“Do you know him then?” asked Don.
“Yeah, ‘Wild Bill’ we call him. He’s a sad case. Ex-POW from the Burma Railway. Suffered really badly in the war. Nicest bloke you could meet until he has a drink, then he becomes a demon.”
“So, you thought it would be okay to let him loose?” said Don angrily, rubbing his chin.
“Well, you know what the press are like these days. Before you know it they’d have had themselves a great story about police brutality to a war hero.”
“Yeah, but they’ve never had to deal with a violent drunk, have they? All very brave, these chaps, sitting behind their typewriters. No bloody idea of real life.” Don was hopping mad.
“I don’t blame you for being upset. I’d be the same if he’d thumped me. Anyway, Don, you don’t need to do any more on it this evening. We’ll let him sober up in the cells then bail him out. I’ll do the paperwork, just send me a short statement through the internal dispatch – tomorrow will do. Okay?”
“Okay, Skip,” said Don, finally calming down a bit. “I need to get Rosemary home anyway; she’s pretty upset.”
The sergeant shook hands and walked off. Don re-joined Rosemary by the wooden bench.
“Are you all right, love?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s you I’m worried about. Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” said Don, smiling. “Let’s get back. You can cook me a nice dinner. Returning hero and all that.”
“You really are a hero, Don, and I’m not joking. I just hope the public are properly grateful. I don’t think they always know how much they owe you chaps.”
“Well, one of them wasn’t exactly grateful,” said Don, picking up their bags from the seat where they’d left them. “My new drill’s been nicked.”
Instinctively, he scanned the area and saw what appeared to be a youth ducking behind some bushes a couple of hundred yards away. He glanced at Rosemary and decided to let it go. She’s had enough for one day, he thought. Joe public doesn’t know how easy he’s got it!
It was six pm before they finally got home, and their good spirits of earlier in the day had pretty much returned. But they were both utterly exhausted.
“Whew, my feet are killing me!” said Rosemary, throwing her shoes in the corner before going to the sofa and collapsing in a heap.
For Don it felt good to see her this happy and smiling – just like her old self. We need more time like this together, he said to himself, but without the adventure.
“How are you feeling now?” said Rosemary.
“You know, it sounds stupid, but I’m more upset about the drill than the assault,” said Don
“Yes, that is stupid!” she said. “A drill can be replaced, you can’t!”
Don grinned. “I’m glad you realise that,” he said. “And just to prove how indispensable I am, I’ll cook the dinner. How’s that?”
“Well, it’s the least you can do after scaring the life out of me AND those late suppers I’ve made for you all week.”
“I’d been working hard!” Don protested.
“Oh, and if you put a bottle wine in the fridge,” she said, ignoring his remark, “it should just be chilled nicely by the time the spuds are bubbling.”
“Yes, milady,” he replied, treating her to his best imitation of Lady Penelope’s “Parker” from the TV show, Thunderbirds. “Oh, and by the way, your ladyship, there’s a certain matter you started back there in the cinema that I think we should finish between us.”
“I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure,” she giggled as she replied.
“I’ll get that wine then,” said Don.
A couple of hours later, while they were sitting cuddled together on the sofa watching television, the phone rang.
“Don? It’s Dave here,” Detective Sergeant Johnson liked to keep things as informal as possible. “Have you got an up-to-date passport?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one here,” Don replied cautiously. “Why do you ask?”
“Strictly speaking, you don’t need it where we’re going, but the airlines like to see one.”
“Are we going somewhere, then, Sarge?”
“We’re off to the Emerald Isle, mate, first thing in the morning. I’ll pick you up at six; we’re already booked on the nine-o’clock flight to Dublin from Heathrow. Obviously in civvies, smartly dressed please – suit if possible – but don’t bother packing a bag. We fly back at seven and should be home in time for last orders down the pub.”
“But I’m day off tomorrow,” protested Don.
“No sweat, the overtime’s been authorised, all paid – a nice little pick-up for you!”
Don groaned inwardly; Rosemary had been looking forward to lunch at her parent’s house on Sunday. This was not going to go down well.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
“Right, strictly in confidence, Steven Hoskins has turned up. He walked into a Garda station this afternoon and said he knew we were looking for him. He’s refusing to return to England but says he’ll speak to us if we fly out to him. The lads in Dublin are arranging an interview for us, but they won’t take any official action on our behalf without proper authority.”
Don was fully aware that the spate of IRA bombings then taking place on the mainland had strained diplomatic relations between the two countries; however, it was well known that individual police forces would usually co-operate with each other as much as they could. It was strictly on an informal basis, but only if there were no political considerations – and the offence was serious enough.
“Why me, Sarge, surely you need another senior detective with you for something like this?”
�
��I would have thought that was obvious, Don. You’re the only one who’s met this Hoskins chap – I need to know I’m talking to the right person. I’d look a proper Charlie if I ended up talking to a ringer, now wouldn’t I?”
“Okay, but you’ll need to tell me what I can say to him. I don’t want to go putting my foot in it, so to speak.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t do that, Don, so don’t worry about the interview. I’ll give you a full briefing on the journey.”
Of course, it made sense – and there was no denying the urgency. Under normal circumstances, Don would have found it an interesting experience and he would have been very keen to go. However, he felt terrible letting Rosemary down; the couple had decided to tell her folks all about their current difficulties and had been going to seek a bit of parental advice.
Diane had cast a long, dark shadow.
However, this was a murder enquiry, and the job came first, so Don knew better than to argue. He realised he really had no choice in the matter. Sergeant Johnson was putting it politely – but there was no doubt that his invitation to go on this enquiry was an order he dare not disobey.
If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined – as the old saying went.
“Okay, skipper, I’ll be ready at six. But I was supposed to be taking the missus out tomorrow – so don’t be surprised if I’ve got a black eye when you pick me up.”
Chapter Seven
Heathrow Airport
Johnson arrived in a divisional CID car spot on six o’clock the next morning. The driver, George Cracknell, was a young DC who Don had worked with previously and with whom he got on well.
“Good morning, Don,” said Johnson. “How did it go with Rosemary?”
“You can never tell with women,” grinned Don. “Both she and her mum were surprisingly good about it, I had no grief at all. Rosemary understood how important this trip was. She’s decided to have lunch at some village pub with one of her new friends from work, instead of seeing her folks. It’s something she’s been meaning to do for a while, so there was no drama.”
Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton Page 7