by TL Dyer
‘Realistically though, Steve, are you going to get the time?’ She says it like I’m the one who’s disillusioned. ‘Especially once you’ve made sergeant.’
‘If I do.’
‘You will. You aced the exam. Job would’ve been yours years ago if you’d gone for it.’
I scratch at an itch that isn’t there on my jaw. We need the extra money the sergeant’s grade would give us, but desk work and staff assessments was never what I wanted. I like the street. I like being responsible only for myself and my partner. And progress comes at a price. It did for Dad. Face down on his blotter, only sixty years old, not even time to enjoy his forthcoming retirement.
‘I’m not heartless, Steve, I know there’s an emotional attachment to consider.’ The tilt of her head makes the shadows under her eyes even darker, and for a second I think we’re still talking about the job, until she adds, ‘The Lobster meant a lot to your parents. There are memories there, an attachment. I understand that.’
‘Haven’t really thought about it,’ I say. Because I haven’t; when would I get the time? ‘I’ve got to go.’
I hope she won’t get up from the sofa, but she does. I back up to indicate time’s getting on, but she comes with me, so I have to stop and peck her on the cheek. She taps her hand at my chest, looks up at me with a gentle smile.
‘Leave it to me, love. I’ll get us a figure and then we can go from there. And who knows, perhaps after sergeant you’ll go for inspector and maybe retire earlier than you thought. It would be nice if you could leave the Force before your dad meant to.’
‘Before my heart gives out on the job, you mean?’
Ange frowns at my reference. She’s not very good with the old gallows humour – she’d make a terrible copper. I give her another kiss, and head down the hall, glad to be finally on my way.
With my kit bag on the passenger seat, I’m pulling the Focus away from the pavement, when I glance up to Dan’s room on the first floor. Instinct makes me do it, a long-ingrained habit. When he was little, he’d watch me go off to work from there every day, wearing his policeman’s costume tabard and waving a plastic revolver, in much the same way I used to do with my own dad.
Course, it’s been a while since he’s watched me leave for work. So I’m surprised to see him standing at the window now. Not waving of course, nor even smiling, but I can just make out the grey of his t-shirt, the dyed black mop of his hair. I tap on the brakes, lean forward and raise a thumbs-up close to the windscreen where he’ll be able to see it even in the fading light. I flick on the interior bulb as well and give him a big smile.
Before he pulls the curtains, I think I see a slight puff of his chest and jerk of the head, as if he’s snorting out a sarcastic laugh. But the light’s too poor to be sure. Maybe I got that wrong.
That’s the thing about being a copper, it makes you cynical. While the thing about teenagers is, they make you paranoid.
Chapter 2
‘Got a bad feeling about this one.’
Everyone groans at PC Mark Jones’ prophecy, as if by being collectively complicit in his doom, they might just deter that same prediction coming true.
‘Sure it wasn’t something you ate, Jonesy?’ Dalston says, clapping a hand to the young lad’s shoulder on his way past, a cardboard folder tucked under his armpit. ‘That new wife of yours been cooking again?’
Jonesy’s palm goes to his stomach. ‘Beef curry. Not bad, actually.’
‘Curry? Shit.’ PC Neil Smith drops all his weight into an empty chair. ‘Any chance I can ride single-crewed tonight, Sarge?’
Sergeant Frederick ‘Freddie-Boy’ Dalston slaps the folder on the desk at the front of the room and drags a plastic chair across the wooden parquet to sit and address his next shift. Had it been Sergeant Roberts, he would have either stood or perched on the edge of the desk. But Dalston’s got a thing about meeting his team on the level. He avoids anything that might make him appear superior to them, even though, technically, he is. He’s never come out and explicitly said this is his reasoning, but me and Freddie go way back. He’s easier to read than the Beano.
‘Not enough wheels, Smithy,’ he says, in answer to the question. ‘Otherwise I would have been only too happy to approve your diva-like request. But since some clumsy Tango Whisky Alpha Tango pole-axed one of our units – mentioning no names, but cakes when you’re ready please, Jaffa – we’re a set of wheels down. You’ll just have to open a window.’
Smithy looks to his copper-haired colleague, Julian ‘Jaffa’ Collins, with the kind of ‘thanks mate’ expression that earns him the middle finger in response. Jaffa’s not vocal on a normal day, but is less so now since losing control of his marked unit and dropping it into a ditch during a chase that saw the stolen BMW, and the teenagers joyriding in it, disappear over the horizon; a delighted pair, no doubt wetting themselves to have got one over on the cops so spectacularly. More spectacular though, was how Jaffa had managed to make such an arse of what was a simple chase on a lovely day, with dry conditions and a perfectly straight road. Rumour had it there was a fourth dimension to this scene, the sort with two-webbed feet, a beak, and a disregard for its safety and anyone else’s. And that if it had only chosen to take its journey over tarmac five seconds earlier, it might well have prevented the thieves escaping; albeit perhaps at its own expense, but everyone loves a hero. Anyway, all of this was confidential between Jaffa and his senior officers, of course, and not intended as public knowledge. As such, all duck jokes were strictly off limits.
There’s a tap at my arm as I pull out a chair to sit, and a voice conspiratorially close to my ear says, ‘Talking of curries, you like a good bhuna, don’t you, Fuller?’
The PC who asks this question takes the seat next to mine. Had I seen him coming, I’d have engineered a diversion, but it’s too late now. Don Edwards was christened Peghead by his fellow workers many moons ago, owing to the way his face pinches up when he’s talking. He often leans in close and drops his voice too, as if what he’s about to say is confidential or shocking. It’s rarely either, but he does have lively breath and a receding hairline greasy enough to fry your chips in. Body odour can sometimes be an additional issue, particularly in the warmer seasons. Peghead is the only PC who rides or foot patrols solo on a most consistent basis. This doesn’t bother him at all – he assumes it’s down to his experience, coming up on thirty years. That’s nine years more than me, which makes us the top two oldest constables on our beat, but I like to think I’ve learned a fair bit more about personal hygiene over the years than he has.
My wafty colleague shuffles his chair a little closer so that only I can hear him when he says, ‘You should try that new Thai place in town. Charles Street. The king prawn jungle curry is to die for.’
‘Yeah?’ I prop my hand at my mouth to deflect the eggy aroma Peghead’s emitting. If I had to guess, I’d say cheese omelette with a smidgen too much garlic.
‘Course, the missus likes the tofu green curry and all that vegetarian shit. Couldn’t stomach it myself but, you know, keeps her happy. You’d love it, you would.’
‘You’re probably right, but Rajiv would never forgive me if I went anywhere else,’ I say, thinking of the Gate of India down the road from the house, the one me and Ange have been keeping in business since we moved in three months before Dan was born.
‘I’m not kidding, Fuller, you’ve got to try it.’ Peghead taps me on the arm and leans in again. ‘And I’m not just saying that ‘cause of the little five-foot-nothing brunette stunner who works there week nights, either.’ He sucks in a breath through an exaggerated O and drops back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘Fit in your pocket, she would.’
A hand comes down hard on Peghead’s shoulder and he jumps an inch off the seat.
‘Sure she’s legal, Peg?’
PC John Russell cackles as Peghead bats him off. Russell isn’t much younger than me, but he has a young head on his old shoulders. A good copper most of the time. Bit of a
n arse, the rest.
‘Dickhead,’ Peghead mutters under his breath when Russell’s far enough out of earshot.
It’s just approaching eight as Dalston calls for everyone’s attention and begins the briefing. He reels off items of note from the day shift, before confirming who’s working which beat and with who for the shift ahead. When my name’s called alongside Sacha’s, she gives me the thumbs up from across the room, and I nod back.
PC Sacha Sanderson trained to become an officer after giving birth to her son when she was only twenty-one and feeling that her life was stopped dead in its tracks. She’s only been in the job for three years, but has shown more commitment than half the officers in this place put together. Sacha is a rare breed – she listens. Half of them don’t. The other half think they already know.
Expecting the briefing to be over, everyone raises another collective groan when Dalston hands out some photocopies of an escapee from Usk Prison who hotfooted it to freedom earlier in the day. While Usk belongs to the Monmouthshire part of our Force, the escapee’s last known address before HMP Usk was here in the Pill area of Newport. Our particular ward is central to the city, but all officers across all wards are required to be vigilant. And also cautious on approaching, Dalston emphasises.
‘Maxime Boucher.’ Russell pronounces it Bowtcher while holding the paper close to his rat-like eyes. ‘What kind of a name is that? One of them queens, is he?’
‘God,’ someone mumbles under their breath. Not sure who.
‘Boucher.’ Dalston enunciates it as Boo-shay. ‘Français, mon enfant.’
Russell folds the paper and tucks it into his trouser pocket. ‘Pushover, then.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it, PC Russell. Boucher dunked his wife’s head in a pan of hot oil and then stabbed her in the eye with a steak knife.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Jonesy says, his jaw hitting the floor. He’s still the new kid on the block.
‘Send the bastard back to France,’ Russell says, with a wave of his hand. ‘Let them deal with him. Au revoir, mi amigo.’
Tuts and eye rolls follow Russell’s usual apeish nonsense. He’s what the word Neanderthal was invented for.
‘Won’t he go after the wife, Sarge?’ Jonesy asks, face three shades lighter than pale and still going.
‘Ex-wife, Jonesy, lad. And she’ll have been made aware of what’s happened and will receive protection until he’s back in custody. Besides, she’s no longer living in the area.’
‘Course not,’ Russell announced, with a slap of his hand to the desk. ‘She’d have to have been quackers to stay. Don’t you think, Jaffa?’
Russell is treated to a few sniggers for his efforts, but Jaffa stares through the photo of Boucher he holds in one hand as if right now he’d happily dig a six-foot hole in the ground and bury Russell in it.
Dalston’s reassurance, however, doesn’t seem to have done anything to appease Jonesy all that much, who is also staring at the photo, but more like he’s committing it to memory – God forbid he should be on shift tonight and walk right past the violent wife abuser. He looks as though he might be sick by the time he folds the paper and pushes it down into his hi-vis vest pocket. Maybe he’s thinking about how a man can possibly do something like that to another human being, let alone his wife. He’s still too fresh in his career to brush it off without a second thought, like the rest of us. There’s no place in this job for considering what violence is and what it isn’t. No time for philosophising over where it comes from and how to stop it. It just is. It exists. It’s a social disease, one that can’t be stopped. That’s why we’re here, to protect those who get caught up in it, and to pick up the pieces afterwards. That will be one of Jonesy’s first lessons.
‘Brody French, eh, Steve?’ Dalston says with a wink when he gets to me with the photocopies.
‘Christ, forgot about her,’ I say, looking at our man on the run. Skinny face. Bad hair. Mean eyes. Scar an inch long through his left eyebrow. The text beneath his mugshot reads, ‘Violent Offender, Approach With Caution, Possibly Armed.’ They like their capital letters in SEWP.
Dalston lets out a slow whistle, still reminiscing about our old French teacher.
‘Oh aye, what’s all this? What’ve I missed?’ Smithy leans back in his chair to look at us, the front two legs lifting inches off the floor. He likes to imagine he’s a bit of a ladies’ man. Claims the women like to run their fingers through his thick dark mop while gazing into his ‘melting chocolate’ eyes. We humour him for now, but in this job the chances are there’ll be little left for them to run their fingers through by the time he hits thirty, and the eyes will be all but melted.
‘Mademoiselle Brody,’ Dalston explains, the ring on his left hand catching the overhead strip light as he clutches the papers to his chest, his eyes going heavenward and the lines around them crinkling. ‘She was the most erotic French teacher that ever existed.’
Smithy lets out a low growl and rocks the chair. ‘Tell me more.’
‘The way she’d roll her r’s. “Fred-er-ique. What time do you call zis, Fred-er-ique?” I used to be late just to have her say my name.’ Dalston sighs and hands the rest of the papers to Peghead for him to pass on, Boucher abandoned for more pressing matters. ‘A wet dream for many a pupil in Caerleon Comprehensive right up until she left. And for many years since, no doubt.’
‘Lucky bastard. What did she look like?’
Smithy is close to salivating, so I jump in with a reply before he gets his hopes up.
‘Like Nana Mouskouri on a bad day.’
Smithy’s chair freezes mid-rock. ‘Who the fuck is that?’
Dalston softly laughs and points an accusing finger at me. ‘Nana Mouskouri is an exquisite woman. But she’s Greek, not French.’
‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ I say, folding Boucher in half. ‘Google her later, Smithy.’
‘Come on, Fuller, even you can admit Brody had something going for her?’ Dalston says, weaving back to the front of the room to retrieve his folder.
‘What do you mean, even me?’
The noise picks up as everyone leaves their seats and random conversations spark. The door opens and tonight’s crew make their way out. Someone quacks. Hard to tell who, but Jaffa’s already gone.
I’m pushing my chair under the desk when Smithy approaches, chocolate eyes a long way from sweet. ‘Go on, Fuller, what was she like? Really?’
‘Too much for you to handle, Smith, my boy.’
‘You mean...?’ He cups his hands under imaginary breasts, flicks his eyebrows and smiles coyly, as if this is a pose that might jog my memory. ‘Or do you mean...?’ He turns, sticks out his arse, which strains against the tight black polyester enough that I can see the lines of cotton barely holding the two cheeks together. He peers at me over his shoulder, hooking his hand on his hip.
‘That is not the image I wanted to start the shift with,’ I say, heading towards the door where Sacha’s waiting.
‘Come on, Steve. It was the boobs, wasn’t it?’ Smithy goes on prodding. ‘Bet she had a lovely rack on her.’
I’m about to put an end to this conversation before we reach the women officers and Smithy gets reported for acting like a dick, when Dalston saves me the trouble.
‘Quick word, Steve,’ he calls out behind me.
Smithy takes the hint and hurries after his partner, who’s waving him on while checking his watch at the same time. I gesture two minutes to Sacha and she nods, mimes driving the car, meaning she’ll do the prelim checks while she’s waiting. I give her the thumbs up and step back to where the skipper, my old schoolmate, is now sitting on the edge of a desk in the middle of the room, the light above picking up all the silver in his hair so its original fairness is nothing but a distant memory. I perch on the desk opposite.
‘Right, Stevie boy. Looks like that inspector position will open up for me soon,’ he says, with his voice lowered even though it’s quiet out in the corridor now everyone has gone. ‘
Clarke’s off to North Wales as we suspected. Back to the homeland, so to speak. And I want you to be the one filling these shoes of mine, got it?’
‘Timescale?’
Freddie clicks out of the side of his mouth, the same thing he always does when he’s frustrated with something he can’t do anything about. He’s done it all his life, but a lot more since he made sergeant.
‘I’ve not been made party to that information yet, but I’m staying positive for once and assuming imminent. Which means being ready to step up.’
His blue eyes look as grey as his hair under the artificial light. He waits, as if he’s asked a question, so I nod once.
‘You could do this job with your eyes closed, Steve. It would be a fucking doddle for you, no question. But the thing is, I know what this lot are like.’
And I don’t?
‘They’ll want proactive, someone they don’t have to nurse. Which is you all over,’ he hurries to add, a hand shooting up and chopping the air for emphasis. ‘No problems there. You’re proactive, but at the same time you stay in your lane. Superb. Perfect. They’ll also want someone who can inspire the team, fill them with the desire to do the job, or at least to keep on top of things, you know? Keep their heads on straight, that sort of thing. Know what I mean?’
He nods in response to his own question, but offers nothing more on this point. I wonder if this talk is actually for his own benefit and his own much desired promotion. He thinks long and hard, then points at me when the words come to him. ‘Passion and diligence, Steve. If you’ve got those, you’re laughing. I mean, I know you have, mate. But you’ll need to demonstrate that. You see? You understand what I’m saying?’
In many, many ways, Fred.
‘Because I really want you to get this job, Steve. It’s been a long time coming.’
This time we both nod when he pauses, like a couple of Churchill dogs in the back window of a motor.