by Millie Gray
“Olympic Torch?” asked Sam, wondering if everyone in the Leith Division had a nickname. Later on he found that, in fact, they did.
“Aye, he’s called Olympic Torch because, if he can help it, he never goes out – especially if it’s raining. And as for Misty, well…he’s not quite as thick as fog but no bright enough to find his own way back at the end of his shift.”
“So it’s to be Pimpernel Pete then?”
“Aye, ‘cause out of the three of them, he’ll moan the least when you have to take time off for your football.”
“Just disappear, will he?”
“Uh, huh.” The sergeant looked Sam straight in the eye before adding, “But you’re a bright enough lad and I’m counting on you to just pick up from him only what you need to learn.”
From the very start there was a kind of chemistry between Sam and Pete. They seemed to understand each other and automatically covered the other’s back. Sam would never forget the first time they walked 8 Beat together. Pete had asked Sam all about his family and it turned out he’d known Gabby, Sam’s alcoholic grandfather. Couldn’t remember how often he’d picked him up drunk and incapable off the broad pavement.
“And how did you deal with him?” asked Sam, who was aware that Gabby hadn’t appeared in court all that often.
“Just flung him in a cell and let him sleep it off. Never saw the point of having him transferred to the central charge office,” he confided. “Ye see, son, the court would just have fined him – money he either didn’t have or needed so he could get blotto again.”
Sam chuckled. That had been Gabby, right enough. Oh aye, Sam could never remember his grandfather ever being sober…or indeed washed. And what with the drink and him being a failed gambler, Gabby had been yet another financial drain on his daughter, Rachel.
By the time they had exhausted their mutual Gabby stories, the pair had reached the Craighall Road crossroads in Newhaven where Pete halted sharply and bundled Sam into the doorway of a tenement. Two speeding cars, approaching from different directions, held both officers’ attention. A collision was inevitable and as they smashed into one another the bang reverberated like a clap of thunder. Sam was first to recover from the shock and immediately unbuttoned his top pocket to take out his notebook but found himself being restrained by Pete as he geared himself up to run to the scene.
“Steady, laddie. Steady. Don’t be over-enthusiastic,” cautioned Pete calmly. “Let’s just take our time and assess the situation before we go charging in.”
“But…”
“No buts. Just look.”
Sam looked towards the two drivers who were now out of their cars and seemingly uninjured. Both were staring directly at Sam and Pete, clearly expecting them to intervene. But as the seconds ticked by they realised that no intervention was forthcoming; so names and address were exchanged before they climbed back into their respective cars and drove off.
“Now,” said Pete, “you’ve just had your first lesson in time-management! Should we have got overzealous and involved, we’d have had to make out a whole VAR – that’s a Vehicular Accident Report. And that would have curtailed my community policing at yon bar over there because I’d have had to charge them both with speeding or careless driving. And, sure as hell, they’d have taken umbrage; and neither would have had their documents on them and that would have meant two HORT1s.”
Sam looked puzzled. “HORT1s?”
“A Home Office Road Traffic One, laddie! Another bureaucratic waste of our valuable time and a further delay to me quenching my thirst.”
Pete could see that Sam thought his approach was misguided at the least so he decided to explain how corners should be cut as and when they could. “Look, Sam,” he said. “Never take the public’s initiative away. They like to sort things out for themselves and as long as there’s no fisticuffs they should definitely be allowed to do so! Now, let’s go over and see that there’s no illegal drinking being done in Drouthie’s.” Pete nudged Sam and winked. “Well, that’s after we’ve downed a pint.”
What with the car crash and the barman’s promptitude in pulling two pints as soon as they entered the bar, Sam felt quite unsettled. And although Pete quickly emptied both glasses when he discovered Sam was teetotal, his pupil was positively bewildered by the time they reached the boundary between B Division and Leith.
They were just approaching Victoria Park, which marks an invisible dividing line between the two Divisions, when they became aware of a bundle lying just inside the Leith sector. Pete was first to discover that the bundle was a dead tramp. Rolling him over, he ascertained that this was probably a sudden death with no suspicious circumstances – no suspicious circumstances, that is, so far as the actual death was concerned. However, Pete recognised the tramp and knew the body was that of Johnny Bundles who lived and drank in B Division. Leith had been anathema to Johnny ever since he’d been barred from the most notorious pub there – the Jungle. That slight had been too much for Johnny, an educated man who had long since forsaken life in the upper echelons of society for the freedom of the open road; and he had vowed never to patronise Leith again. And he had never broken that vow. So why was the old gent lying on their Leith patch? Pete looked at his watch and pronounced, “Nearly finishing time and if we ring this one in we’ll be late getting off.”
“So?”
“Well, Sam, that would mean you’d be short of your beauty sleep before your afternoon training session. Besides, this body has already been moved. Feel it – rigor mortis has set in; it’s wet underneath him and the rain only came on half an hour ago. See that B Division? Honestly, you can’t keep up with them! So let’s play them at their own game and help me put Johnny back to where he wants to be.”
Pete began to roll the body resolutely back into B Division’s Drylaw area. Sam, however, couldn’t bear not following correct police procedure.
“Okay,” said Pete patiently. Don’t help me move him. But you go round now to the box and call in that there’s a dead body lying in the street at Victoria Park. Oh, and be sure to tell them that we have ascertained that life is extinct due to natural causes – until a post mortem tells us otherwise. But, most importantly, advise Sergeant Duff that, as the body is lying ten feet inside the Drylaw area, B Division officers should attend and arrange for an ambulance – and write the report!
Within three minutes of Sam ringing in, two Drylaw officers were on the scene. The younger of the pair exclaimed loudly: “See this? That body’s been moved too far into our area. We only shifted it four feet to get it into Leith!”
6
HOUSING AFFAIRS
Seated at her kitchen table, Rachel felt a sense of contentment for the first time in weeks. The main reason for her disquiet had been the spiralling cost of Carrie’s wedding. She wanted to do her best by Carrie, but Will’s parents – who apparently never had to wonder where the next meal was coming from – were making such grandiose demands. They’d even invited people from as far afield as Muir of Ord, the Black Isle, and Sutherland – so a boiled ham sandwich, a treacle scone or a fairy cake in Rachel’s kitchen certainly wasn’t going to be adequate, was it? But here she was today with one real plus from this fiasco – Hannah, her precious Hannah, along with her two children, had arrived to attend the wedding in a week’s time. This meant that tonight Rachel would have all her children around her. She’d already dished up the evening meal. Those who were at home were now tucking into their mince, tatties and dough-balls, while Sam and Carrie’s helpings had been plated up and were sitting over two pots of simmering water on the stove.
Rachel chuckled to herself when she recalled the look of horror on Hannah’s face the moment she’d stepped off the afternoon train – naturally she’d expected her mother to meet her but not holding on to a pram borrowed from one of the neighbours. “Oh, Mum,” Hannah had exclaimed, “surely you don’t expect me to walk all the way to Learig Close from Princes Street!”
“It’s only a good stretch of the le
gs,” Rachel had replied, taking hold of Fergus and tucking him in at the top of the pram. Turning to dainty Morag, she swung her up and deposited her at the bottom, snuggling a blanket around her. Then she looked down at the two suitcases that a helpful fellow-passenger had dumped on the platform for Hannah. “I suppose, right enough,” she continued, pointing to the luggage, “you wouldn’t manage to carry these all that way.” Hannah shook her head. “Tell you what! You get the bus, Hannah, and I’ll walk with the bairns.”
As Rachel hurried past the Duke of Wellington’s statue, she glanced up at the Register House clock and thought how lucky she was that she’d had more backbone than that old lady (another Rachel) who had waited there, day in and day out, year in and year out, hoping that the man who had promised to marry her would some day turn up between noon and three o’clock when the registry office was open. Without a word of recrimination, she would have slipped her arm through his and scurried off to the registrar’s office in Queen Street where at long last they’d be married. “Register Rachel” the people of Edinburgh had called the old woman, though that wasn’t her real name. No one knew what she was called because, from the very first day that she had turned up dressed in all her wedding finery to the day she had suddenly disappeared fifteen years later, she had never spoken to a soul. As the years went by, her clothes had become ever more worn and tattered, her skeletal fingers protruding through the frayed gloves. The bunch of artificial violets that were to be pinned on her wedding hat were by then colourless and bedraggled. Yet every day without fail she had arrived to hold her vigil – even when she was so crippled with arthritis that she had to bring a three-legged stool to sit on. What a pity, thought Rachel, that the poor soul hadn’t been brought up in Leith or known Eugenie, her own suffragette mistress who so many years ago had instilled into Rachel the wisdom that no man was worth waiting fifteen minutes for –– never mind fifteen years! Looking back at the Register House clock, Rachel shivered involuntarily. Yes, she had noticed last week that the blooming clock had stopped. Indeed, it remained exactly at noon – the appointed hour that Register Rachel had arranged to meet her lover!
By the time Rachel had stopped reminiscing, she was cheerfully pushing the pram along the garden footpaths at London Road. Inevitably her thoughts turned back to Carrie – another dreamer not all that unlike Register Rachel. Was it really only three weeks ago that Will had come home? Carrie’s excitement had been bubbling over as she prepared to meet the Liverpool train he was on. “Mum,” she’d exclaimed, “what if we don’t recognise each other? I mean, how long do you think it will take for us to get to know each other again?”
Rachel could only chuckle at that. How on earth, she wondered, could anyone who kissed a photograph at least ten times a day forget what the person looked like? And as for getting to know each other again…well, it had only taken five seconds before Carrie had sprinted up the platform and flung herself into Will’s outstretched arms. Ever since then Carrie, just like Register Rachel, had been living in that blissful state of romantic illusion where it all ends up happy ever after. Rachel laughed again to herself as she remembered eavesdropping while Carrie described to her sister Alice what she thought her first night of married life would be like. “I just know,” Carrie had croaked in a whisper, “that it’ll be exactly like it is in the films – with waves crashing on the shore and classical music reaching a crescendo while seabirds swoop, dive and cry out in ecstasy.” Rachel had been tempted to interrupt and tell Carrie she was living in a fantasy world. And if she expected to hear an orchestral climax – well, she was in for a shock. The only sound would be… Rachel grimaced and her cheeks flamed: best not to go on. No, that memory of hers was to be closed forever.
The outside door opened and Carrie and Sam barged in together. “Wherever have you two been?” demanded their mother, rising to turn off the gas from under the pots before adding, more pleasantly, “But sit you both down.” Lifting the covers from the plates, she scowled. “Well, these dough-boys were light and fluffy when you should have been here to eat them – but if you’re hungry enough you maybe won’t notice you could heel your boots with them now.”
Before sitting down, Sam went over and hugged Hannah. “Just seeing you has cheered me up.” Turning to little Morag, he laughed. “Well, are ye no just dandy? Perfection in miniature, is she no?”
Hannah, who was now being cuddled by Carrie, called out over her sister’s shoulder, “And why should you be needing cheered up, Sam? You suit the uniform. Don’t tell me the job doesn’t suit you?”
They all turned to look at Sam, who was now vigorously attacking his meal. He stopped briefly to reply, “Och, I do like the job. Hate a day like this one though. A ten to six shift because I had to report to the court and the blinking lawyers had done a last-minute plea deal. That meant I wasn’t needed as a witness. Total waste of resources, that is. But see, Mum, when I got back to the station – there’d been a murder in the Leith Links last night.”
“So I hear. Some woman, they say, who’d been slashed real bad by an American sailor.”
Sam gulped. “My first involvement with a murder – and it had to be…”
“You knew her?” asked Carrie.
“Not her – him! Och, what am I going to say to Chalky? It was his cousin from the Dumbiedykes – the transvestite. But ken something? His family loved him. They just adored him.”
Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth. “You’re right there, Sam,” she agreed. “And no mother should have to bury her own bairn.”
Hannah was more philosophical. “Yes,” she remarked, “he was just a harmless, mixed-up young lad who’d been born a he when all he ever wanted was to be was a she. And no way should anyone have butchered him for that.”
Rachel nodded and turned again to Sam. “Did you see his Mum?”
“Naw. CID dealt with that – but they’re a load of heartless scum. Honestly, they can’t even spell the word compassion – never mind show any.”
“So what was your involvement, Sam?” Hannah questioned.
“Me? Ah well, because I was back from court early I had to type up some witness statements.”
“You mean you can type?”
“Aye, Carrie,” Sam replied holding up his two index fingers and wiggling them. “You’d be surprised what I can do when I have to.”
Next day Sam had arrived early to ring in at the start of his back shift at Beat 8 police box. The morning constable was pleased to see him and without saying a word, rang headquarters to report his own signing-off and Sam’s return to duty. A few seconds later, Sam was surprised to be handed the phone by PC Paddy Flannigan, better known as “Shadow” because, being a keen amateur boxer, he took every opportunity to shadow-box – even in the confined space of a police box! “They want to talk to you – personally,” said Shadow, ducking and diving with his head.
Reluctantly, Sam took the phone and was somewhat taken aback to be told he had to proceed immediately to Charlotte Street Headquarters.
“Had I no better bide here till the van arrives with the crime reports and then cadge a lift?” suggested Sam, sensibly enough.
“Look, laddie. With the bother your mate’s in,” the station clerk told him, “I think a long walk might be a better idea. You can spend the time getting your side of the story straightened out!”
Taking the clerk’s advice, Sam meandered along to Granton Road by way of Goldenacre and then along Commercial Street before finally reaching Charlotte Street. There, he was sent immediately to see Inspector Johnstone, a fanatical Wee Free from the Western Isles, who not only abstained from alcohol but also demanded that everyone else did likewise. Sam noted that the inspector wasn’t exactly foaming at the mouth – but his eyes were certainly dancing with rage. “Now, Police Constable Campbell, don’t lie to me.”
Sam was silent.
“Are you aware that your mentor, PC Capaldi, frequents liquor establishments and imbibes …” the inspector stopped abruptly and screwed up his fac
e in disgust before spitting the words out “… imbibes alcoholic beverages whilst on duty?”
Sam took some time to consider his reply. He knew he had to satisfy the inspector, whose fingers were now drumming furiously on the desk. “Well, sir, I’ve had a good training from Pim…Peter Capaldi and, as he knows I’m strictly teetotal, he allows me to check out all the empty dwelling houses while he makes sure that the public houses are conducting their business in accordance with the law. And I can assure you I have never seen him the worse for drink.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never seen him drink on duty.”
“No. What I’m saying is I’ve never witnessed him to be the worse of drink.” This statement was absolutely true because Sam knew well that Pimpernel Pete could hold his liquor – in fact, Sam reckoned it was being tanked up that made him function as brilliantly as he did.
“And I suppose you’re also going to tell me that you never witnessed the punch-up at seven o’clock last night between him and the Drylaw officers.”
Sam shook his head.
“You mean you didn’t attend at the scene of a two-car vehicular accident on the boundary line?”
“No, sir.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Because I was at home, eating mince and tatties.”
“You left your shift to go home and eat mince and tatties?” the inspector spluttered.
“No, sir.”
“Are you trying to make a fool of me?”
“No, sir,” replied Sam, who thought the inspector managed that for himself. “I was at home yesterday evening since I’d had to do a ten to six shift because of a court attendance.”
The inspector leant back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Well, for your information, there was a vehicle accident, resulting in one damaged car on the Drylaw side of the road and the other crashing into a fence on our side of the road. The officers who attended, from both Divisions, began to argue as to whose responsibility it was and squared up to each other when they couldn’t agree. Once the ambulance arrived, the two officers who had come off worst in the fisticuffs had to be taken to hospital for treatment. Complaints from several members of the public were directed straight to the Deputy Chief Constable, with the result that Constable Capaldi has been transferred forthwith to the home beat. Mind you, how the Deputy Chief Constable expects me to keep Capaldi out of the Bonds – not to mention the wilder hostelries at every ten yards – I simply don’t know. And you, Sam, since the DCC doesn’t want your future compromised, will also work on the home beats out of here.”