by Roger Busby
Deputy Assistant Commissioner Tom “The Cat” Parker cast a jaundiced eye over the zoo like chain link fence which protected the yard of Peckham’s central police station from the denizens of the neighbourhood, breathed a despairing sigh and exclaimed: “Rank hath it’s privilege, Bobby, and for a DAC just four rungs from the top of the ladder, mine happens to be a nice warm office on the fifth floor with plenty of passing eye candy and a good lunch in the Commissioner’s mess, not slumming it out here in the backwoods. So before I put this down to a sad bad dream, get back in the car here and tell Simon to whisk me back to The Yard, please remind me what the hell I’m doing here.”
Grinning from ear to ear as he held open the door of the DAC’s Range Rover, Detective Chief Inspector Bob Jones who ran the Borough’s robbery squad replied with studied insouciance: “You’re the guv’nor, guv’nor; me, I’m just a foot soldier toiling in the weeds, so you tell me.”
From anyone else the flippant response would have brought a sharp rebuke, but despite the gulf of rank, the pair were old friends from back in the eighties when they had stood shoulder to shoulder in full riot kit repelling the hordes as members of the Met PSUs dispatched north to quell the miners’ strike, a plum tour of overtime duty which had enabled Bobby Jones to pay off his mortgage and “The Cat” to buy a pied-a-terre in The Barbican as a hedge against inflation. Both men were career cops with time in, but loathe to sever the umbilical. Jones inclined his head towards the mesh-enclosed tunnel, which accessed the factory through the custody suite, and swept a hand: “Shall we,” he said.
In the squad chief’s office Jones drew the Venetian blinds and produced a bottle of Bells from his desk drawer. He poured two glasses and for a long moment they sipped whiskey. Then The Cat said: “I was in the outer office admiring Charlene's legs, the pelmets they wear for skirts these days are enough to give a man palpitations, when I got called to the presence and the Old Man was stalking around the office like a caged tiger. Apparently Hollingsworth is tipped for promotion to Home Secretary in the next reshuffle and the Old Man’s terrified he’ll be out on his ear and no chance of the promised K, so he practically pleaded with me to get over here and sort this little job of yours pronto so he can get back into the heir apparent's good books.”
“So a penny-ante stick up which might have rated a DS top weight, suddenly gets five star treatment, eh guv “
“You know the game as well as I do Bobby, the Old Man says jump, all I say is ‘how high.’ I’m not dying in this ditch, and neither are you. So lets take it from the top and see if we can’t wrap this up pronto, before it all hits the fan.”
Jones fed a disk into his laptop and swept a theatrical hand. “Meet the burka bandit,” he said as the black clad figure appeared in blurry monochrome, “got him on the Mickey Mouse street CCTV.”
“Not much to go on there then,” The Cat peered at the fuzzy image, “looks like a walking tent.”
“Oh it gets better,” Jones said, as the briefest glimpse of the bandit entering the King Kebab and mini mosque flashed up and then the screen went blank, “that’s when he shot out the camera.”
“Weapon?”
“TEC-9 on full auto just to make sure he’d got their undivided attention.”
“Part One prohibited weapon,” The Cat sighed, “where do they get them from? We’ve been running Trident like an express train, and still they keep coming.”
“South London, guv’nor,” Jones shrugged, “You could get yourself anything from a Saturday-night-special to an RPG if you needed one. All Trident’s done it make ‘em smarter; nobody keeps their own shooter anymore, you hire ‘em out from rent-a-gun.”
Jones tapped the mouse to pause the DVD. “He gives ‘em the gypsies while they’re paralysed in shock-n-awe and good as gold they turn out their valuables on the tables, mister scoops up the goodies, empties the till and he’s on his toes in thirty seconds flat. Good old fashioned no frills stand-and-deliver blag.”
“Score?”
“Twenty grand top whack. Cash and the brethren’s bling.”
“Including the third’s Classic platinum Day-Date diamond studded Rolex Oyster on President bracelet presented to him personally by one time El Presidente himself, Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq for services rendered when he was the ISI section chief in Waziristan.”
“Spook?” Bobby Jones raised an eyebrow.
“Probably still is,” The Cat said, “not unusual for the right hand man to the High Commissioner. So he’s giving it bunny to Hollingsworth that this is a Taliban inspired attempt on his life; thinks they’ve got a Fatwa on him and Hollingsworth gets the hot prickles under his collar and starts melting the Old Man’s dog-n-bone.”
“Give me strength guv,” Jones sighed, “next they’ll be saying it’s the Klingons.”
“Al Qaeda was mentioned,” The Cat said.
“More like Al Capone,” Jones said, “this tickle isn’t a jihad it’s a gee-up.”
The Cat folded his arms: “Enlighten me further Chief Inspector.”
Jones tapped the mouse and the laptop came back to life. “We got a blizzard of niners and the rapid response van got there first.” A kaleidoscope interior of a speeding transit caromed around the screen. “Head-cams,” Jones explained, “They’re doing a reality doc for Channel Four, Cops-n-Robbers.”
“Who authorised that?”
“Fifth floor guv,” Jones grinned, “All part of the Commissioner’s hearts and minds programme. Remember ‘Dull it isn’t’?”
“Yeah and ‘Badge of Courage’, classics from the DPA cringe-makers.”
“One good thing though,” Jones said, “We got witnesses on tape.”
A wild eyed Pakistani waiter lurched into view. “Suicide bomber,” he wailed, “had on bomb belt, blow us all to kingdom come!”
“Too much information,” The Cat said, “turn it off Bobby and just give it to me straight.”
Jones closed the laptop and refreshed the DAC’s drink. “Well we gave all the usuals a tug. Rikeman was favourite, fitted his MO to a tee, he pulled an across the pavement one Christmas dressed as Santa and he’s got form as long as your arm.”
“And..”
“Looked tasty too, if he hadn’t got a cast iron alibi, playing poker down at the Showdown with a bunch of the Borough’s finest.”
“ID parades?”
Jones shook his head. “Nobody really got a good look at the bandit, one burka’s much the same as another. One thing though, on his way out the bandit pulled up the nicab and took a big bite out of Hollingsworth’s doner kebab. When we were putting the usual’s through the hoops we tried for a regurg order so we could stomach pump ‘em, but the CPS wouldn’t wear it, so in the end they all walked.”
The Cat laughed. “That would’ve been a first.” He took a pull on his drink. “Back in the good old days, Bob, when you and I were rip roaring young Ds we’d have nicked the lot of ‘em and let ‘em draw lots to see which one was going on the sheet. All the villains knew the score; if it wasn’t the one you were nicked for it was for the one you were plotting up. What was the old slogan?”
With a big grin Jones said: “Don’t bother with Burton’s, the robbery squad’ll fit you up.”
“Happy days.”
“Long gone guv’nor. CPS said stomach pumping a suspect was a definite
no-no, would infringe their human rights and we’d all end up in the dock at Strasburg.”
The Cat chuckled at the thought: “So basically, Bobby, you’re still on square one.”
“Have a heart guv’nor, it was hardly the crime of the century, and if it hadn’t been for a couple of top weight string pullers jerking the Old Man’s chain, we’d just be giving it a crime number and you’d be nice and cosy admiring Charlene's legs.”
The Cat thought about it for a moment and then he said: “Look, Bob, no offence and no criticism of your lads, but I’ve got guiding light on this so I’m bringing in the Sweeney, full throttle.”
Jones blinked, “Jesus, guv,
talk about a sledgehammer to crack a nut.”
“The way it crumbles,” The Cat shrugged, “Look on the bright side, actually I’ll be doing you a favour because you won’t have to take the flak when the heavy mob start treading on toes; your squad can take a back seat while my lot squeeze the local villainy until the pips squeak.” The Cat finished his Scotch in one swallow. “Summon the troops,” he said, popping a mint, “I’ll do the briefing myself. Who’ve you got on intel?”
“DC Malloy.”
“Any good?”
“Crackerjack.”
The Cat nodded, then he said: “Oh and just to smooth any ruffled feathers, Bob, you can give ‘em the good news.”
“Oh yeah, and what would that be guv’nor?”
“Brakes are off overtime,” The Cat rubbed his hands, “could be a nice little earner, like the good old days.”
ooOoo