by Roger Busby
The Dinosaur Tweet
By
Roger Busby
Published by
The Dinosaur Tweet
Copyright 2013 by Roger Busby
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For Maureen with love
Table of Contents
Prologue
The Dinosaur Tweet
Mid Point
Other Titles
Authors Web Site
Connect with me online
biography
Prologue
Bob Bishop was scrolling his Twitter feed when the dinosaur tweet popped up. The moment he spotted the author’s name he couldn’t suppress a guffaw. "Rave from the grave,” he said, chuckling, “I can’t believe that old war horse is still alive and kicking.”
The Dinosaur Tweet
Bob Bishop was scrolling his Twitter feed when the dinosaur tweet popped up. The moment he spotted the author’s name he couldn’t suppress a guffaw.
“Something tickled your fancy guv’nor?” Lauren glanced up from the adjacent terminal where she was uploading the latest target package onto Crimefighter.
Bishop pointed at the screen. “Rave from the grave,” he said, chuckling, “I can’t believe that old war horse is still alive and kicking.”
The girl came around and stood behind him, reading the tweet over his shoulder. “Bit strong. Who’s Jack Rivers anyway, bit of a nutter?”
“Job old timer,” Bishop said, “from way back when we were young and keen, Jack was the DI running the Peckham crime squad and I was a mere skipper on the relief.” Bishop wagged his head as the memories stirred, “Long long ago,” he said.
Lauren smiled down at him, “You surprise me guv,” she said, “I always assumed you were a direct entrant on the graduate ticket, you’ll be telling me you walked a beat in a tall hat next.”
“Oh that I did,” Bishop said, the recollection stirring the recesses of his memory, “wooden-top in a blue suit, Commissioner’s cannon fodder, we didn’t know any better.” He glanced at the photo ID dangling from the lanyard around his neck as if seeking confirmation of his ascendancy from the mean streets of South London: Under his mug shot and the crest of the Metropolitan Police his designation read: Robert Bishop, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Directorate of Public Affairs.
“Must’ve had a run-in with the hobby bobbies to get him riled up like that,” Lauren mused reading the vitriolic tweet, “d’you want me to check the system?”
Bishop swung his chair around to face her. Blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, trendy jumper and designer jeans, a thirty-something DCI from the Media Ops Directorate. If Jack Rivers could’ve seen himself outranked by a
girlie-girl he would have had apoplexy.
“No,” he said, “You’ve got enough on your plate as it is, how’s the old man’s baby coming along, he’s bound to want a SITREP at morning prayers.”
“Chip-n-nick?” it was Lauren’s turn to laugh, “Couple of hard men in the guinea pig group cut off their ear lobes with bolt cutters and ditched the implants. We’re going to have to tag ‘em somewhere else guv’nor.” She grinned, “Somewhere they won’t want to cut off.”
Bishop wagged his head. “It’s pretty academic anyway, we ever get it past those bleeding hearts in Strasburg it’ll be a miracle. Infringement of human rights is a capital offence these days, the legal eagles’ll have a field day.”
“Makes sense though,” Lauren said, “chip the villains, link ‘em to the satellite, dial ‘em into the street cameras and CCTV and give ‘em a showing on the cop show. Who needs woodentops anymore now we’ve got Crimefighter up and running.”
Crimefighter, Bishop mused, the new twenty-four-seven, multi platform real crime TV channel, which played like a game-show with prizes for nick of the day. Ever since it launched, Crimefighter had notched up runaway viewing stats covering the old man’s policing-by-media strategy in glory. The patrol reliefs wouldn’t leave the station without strapping on their head cams and there was fierce competition to see who could upload to the show. For cheap reality TV boasting a veneer of public service, Crimefighter ticked all the boxes. Seemed like everyone wanted a piece of the action. Everyone except Jack Rivers.
Lauren turned back to her terminal; she hadn’t noticed the far away look creep into Bob Bishop’s eyes as he re-read the dinosaur tweet and time shifted back to the dark ages.
“Bob – you got a minute,” The Chief Super poked his head around the parade room door just as Bishop finished briefing the two-to-ten. “Step into the office, sergeant” the old man held the door open, grinning. And as Bishop did so, remarked, “That’s the last time I’ll call you that, Bob.” He waved a telex from the Yard. “You just got made up – congratulations Inspector.” He clapped Bishop on the shoulder in an avuncular gesture, “And you’ve got a posting my son, the dream factory.”
As Bishop read the telex with mounting astonishment, the old man began to laugh: “What d’you know, you’re going to be one of the new fangled press officers the Great Communicator’s been banging on about, going to tame the vultures and get us on the front page of the Standard every night of the week.”
Bishop let it sink in for a moment and then he said: “Do I have a choice, boss? To be honest I’d rather stick with the relief.”
The Divisional Commander shook his head: “Came down on a tablet of stone, Bob.” He glanced at his watch, “Oh and you’d better look sharpish; get over to the Yard and report to the fifth floor. Don’t look so shell shocked, your wagon just got hitched to a star.”
Bishop made his way over the river to New Scotland Yard in something of a daze. He’d passed the Inspector’s Board six months ago and was nearing the cut off for promotions, resigning himself to the fact that he had been passed over and jn the next shuffle he’d be back at the bottom of the pack. His sudden reversal of fortunes came like a bolt from the blue. Press Officer? What was that all about?
He found out soon enough. Personnel had rolled the dice and come up with a dozen newly minted inspectors for the Commissioner’s pet project. In the course of the next month Bishop was introduced to the black arts of “communications” by the team of PR gurus the old man had drafted in to spruce up the Met’s image. Focus groups and workshops were the order of the day and lavish “marketing” campaigns under such banners as “Dull it isn’t” and “Wear the badge of courage” extolled the virtues of a police career much to the cringing embarrassment of the wooden-tops and panda jockeys out on the street.
But the chalice, as Bob Bishop soon discovered, was poisoned, for when he returned to the Division (this was before the Met’s chain of command was consolidated into a Borough structure) he was shunned as a pariah, a Jonah, a viper in the nest, ostracised and outcast. For this was the age of “noble cause”, when villains went down, not for the crime they had committed, but for crimes past and crimes future. When their name came out the hat, CID made sure they took the fall and the game was played assiduously and largely without rancour by both sides of the law. More to the point, it was a time when press liaison was the undisputed province of the detectives, conducted in the back bars of the clubs and pubs when crisp tenners would change hands. The old man’s shining vision of “press liaison” had definitely not filtered down to the front line.
At the factory, old friends would veer away as Bishop approached; his former relief gave him a wide berth. It fell to the Chief Super, a veteran with his thirty already in, to mark Bishop’s card. “It’s the canteen mafia, Bob,” the old man told him, puffing on a Hamlet, “they don’t buy any of this minder malarkey, they reckon its just a smoke screen to cover the real reason you were hauled up to the dream factory for an indoctrination; they’ve got you down as an A10 rubber heel, son, on the Dep’s anti corruption crusade. Reckon you’re going to drop ‘em right in it.” The old man gave Bishop a world weary sigh, “Oh and the Federation rep’s laying it on with a trowel too, so you’re going to have to win your spurs all over again, inspector, and the toughest nut to crack will be the heavy mob.” He gave the problem a moment’s contemplation, ruddy face wreathed in a blue halo of cigar smoke, then a wry smile curled the corner of his mouth. “What’s that