Where's the Detective E-Book

Gary Knox

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 354

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The lives of a young junior customer service assistant, an old lady, and a middle-aged man are changed forever when three masked males break into the bank in Roundley, wielding a machete and a large sledgehammer. This becomes a case for officer Steve Welland and new recruit PC Phillipa Walters at Roundley Police Station. Inspector Vincent Parr, known as Faux Pas because of his constant errors in judgement, has missed out on a recent promotion, so he is determined to put this right – whatever the cost to justice, protocol, or the reputation of others. When Steve Welland is suspended from duty, obsessively hardworking Ged Pearson determines to ensure his friend is reinstated. What repercussions will arise from his efforts? And will Steve weather the storm?

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99130-471-5

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99130-472-2

Editor: Gillian Fisher

Cover photo: Volodymyr Melnyk | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Prologue

Roundley was by far the largest town in the area. It was bordering on being a city. In fact, most of the local councillors had been arguing about this point for over a decade, mostly because of the massive influx of monies from the Government that would come with the title.

As the urban conurbation had expanded over the years, mainly due to a rise in hopeful immigrant workers to the grimy former mill town, so too had the crime levels. It was what most of the long-term residents now referred to as a shithole. Probably the very reason the various governments had consistently refused their application to raise the status of the drug-ridden territory. It hardly promoted the image of the hard-working blue-collar workers that had once been the pride of British industrialisation which had taken the world by storm.

Once the pride of northern work ethics, it had become a socially deprived, drug-strewn mixture of run-down houses and disused former business premises whose very roots were rotten to the core. All sense of neighbourliness and camaraderie had long since dissipated, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness and isolation.

Housing estates, once proudly heralded by the town’s chiefs as the future of the British economy, were now little more than war zones, with rival gangs marking their territory like medieval warriors. Elderly residents peered through net curtains, afraid to venture out into a nightmare scenario they thought had finished with the demise of Hitler. In fact, it had been safer in those days, as you could count both on your neighbours and the early warning siren of an oncoming blitz attack. No such luck these days!

Mills and factories that once employed the majority of the population either stood derelict (decaying monstrosities blighting the already unsightly landscape) or had been turned into designer flats. The problem with the latter being, this wasn’t Chelsea and the clientele showed their disapproval by way of the half-empty properties where developers ambitious proposals had fallen by the wayside, leaving the few frustrated buyers in limbo. Those who had ventured their life savings on buying one of these ‘dream homes’ as they were always advertised, had found they were now worth half the value, as the recession had set in and either the flats that hadn’t been bought remained empty or, worse still, those people who had taken the chance found it was one repayment too far and succumbed to the ever-growing rank of the unemployed. Grandiose ideas were shelved and the watershed had been met, as it was clear the town had been given over to decay. The white flag had been raised and anyone who held out any hopes of raising the town’s status had seen the warning signs and fled to greener pastures.

A few proud members still raised the battle flag, preening their gardens in the midst of rusting heaps of metal on their neighbours’ drives. It was a forlorn effort. For every one of these stalwarts who maintained that true British grit that had been fought for over two world wars, there were a dozen or so who had never heard of Gardeners’ World or indeed knew what a fuchsia was. Most likely they probably thought Hitler was a hero. If, that is, they had attended school long enough to take the odd history lesson.

This demise, understandably, left the owners who had worked all their lives, to achieve a degree of attainment, frustrated and angry at a system that meant their neighbours, who partied through the night and slept through the day, had climbed the same rung on the economic ladder with none of the effort. Whilst they had to climb groggy eyed, out of their beds every morning, waiting for the bus in the shelter – if that was what it could be called. Bearing in mind the protective glass had long been shattered one time too many for repair beyond the council’s overstretched budget. To return home worrying if their property would still be intact and what delights awaited them from their neighbours’ nightly escapades.

All the town’s entrepreneurs and with it the hopes of the town itself had long gone. All that was left was a conglomerate of unemployed, drug- and alcohol-induced people, with no hopes or aspirations for themselves or their children. The reducing population of honest, law-abiding citizens were caught in the trap. They would leave, but for the fact no one else would exchange vistas. There weren’t many selling points to a mid-terraced, well-kept property that was flanked by a scene from the Gaza Strip on either side. That was what the town was like.

As you extended out from the centre, the outskirts brought an element of relief. Poverty gave way to a modicum of middle-class achievement. Even here, however, it could be seen that the deprivation of the town had taken hold. Once sought-after areas had been dotted with rented accommodation where people were packed into houses that had been renovated into flats and then leased to the council to fill with drug dealers, alcoholics and general criminals who could no longer fit onto the inner estates. People who thought they were going to live out their days in peace and harmony found that the house next door had been bought by disreputable landlords who made it into as many apartments as possible. Building and safety regulations didn’t exist and seemed to be overlooked as more and more of society’s lower echelons were hidden away as a statistic who had been found housing. Thus, the homeless figures had been quelled. However, the downside was houses were then filled with the dregs of society, who had their rent paid for by the state – and their alcohol and their drugs!

So it seemed while resentful neighbours grew ever more despondent at what his and her endeavours had all been for – to bring their children up in a society they could add to and prosper in – peace and harmony had been exchanged for crack pipes and domestic violence!

Chapter 1

The town centre streets were wet and slippery. The blustery, cold northerly breeze had brought a particularly strong shower with it, which blew the rubbish in mini cyclones around the many disused shop doorways.

The few hardy members of the public who battled the elements pushed their multi-coloured umbrellas into the stiffening wind. Their minds concentrated on avoiding the greasy debris underfoot, and youthful skateboarders and mountain bikers mounted pavements at will, regardless of the pedestrian’s right of way.

It seemed the norm for a mundane Monday afternoon and the bored counter staff member was studiously eyeing the clock in the centre of the voluminous stone architecture of the central bank. It was a beautiful Georgian construction that stood out against the dismal arena of boarded up businesses that had once flourished in the town. All that was left of the once flourishing town centre were takeaways and pound shops: the only things that seemed to keep the economy going in Roundley. Apart from the pubs that still seemed to flow with the usual array of drunkards and general has-beens, that is. Oh, and the sudden influx of pawnshops. Amazing how the majority of those people with a mass of items to sell carried them into the shop in a black bin liner and a hood covering their face. Strictly legitimate of course! It was just surprising how many laptops and mobile phones found their way through this gateway. Especially as it corresponded quite closely to the number of robberies, burglaries, or thefts from motor vehicles where similar items had been removed from their previous owners. It was even more amazing how the same person managed to have acquired a further laptop to sell the week after. Also, their ability to sign their name in the shop’s ledger seemed to waver as dyslexia kicked in.

An evening in Roundley was no longer the dream date. The town centre nightlife certainly wasn’t somewhere to take a girl out to impress her. The idea of wining and dining a girl on a first date in this arena was to dodge a few glasses in the local bars and end the night with a kebab in the multitude of misnamed takeaways, such as The Persian Paradise. If ever a place was misnamed, this was it. It was an idea to ensure your latest romance had more than a sniff of the barmaid’s apron before being presented with the ankle-deep layers of discarded polystyrene cartons and smashed bottles lining the pavement as you exited the shop with your cuisine. Hardly a candlelit meal for two to impress your new date!

In the bank, the cashier, a young, attractive, blonde girl, was still finding her feet having only been employed at the branch for a few weeks. She was one of the lucky ones who’d found employment almost straight from leaving school, albeit on a pittance of a wage. It was hardly enough to give her mum a few quid to help with the rent, but she’d made the effort and was proud of her role. Especially when she looked around at most of her mates who were still unemployed or even worse unemployed and pregnant already. She was speaking to an elderly customer. The lady was a regular, and the routine of her life wasn’t going to be broken by the onset of internet banking. The cashier had soon got the hang of how things worked and made small talk with the lady about the weather and how her pets were keeping as she put the weekly £10 donation into her savings account.

She had already decided that she would have to make something more of her life than being a cashier for the next half a century. Some of the other staff had been doing it forever and she couldn’t see it being her life. She had some ambition and wanted to travel, not be stuck in a two-up two-down with two kids and no father – which seemed to be the sum outlook for her friends. But, for now, she was grateful she had a job and could look forward to her future.

There were several other customers at the other tills and just one more person to serve. The cashier, while making the relevant small talk and assuring the lady that her savings were in the best place, was pondering over whether to spend the last of her monthly wages on a Monday night out with the girls or to get a bottle of wine on her way home as a surprise for her hard-working mum. She was still too young and naive to be peeved about the fact that the majority of the girls she turned out with managed to do so without holding down a job and even worse not having a job and somebody else looking after their young child. Invariably, this was not the father! He had usually long left the scene.

It was a second or so before she realised what was happening as she daydreamed her way through the last few minutes of her day.

‘Get the fuck down and stay on the floor!’

Three masked males had appeared from nowhere. One had stayed at the door while the remaining two had run to the till area. The elderly lady had spun round with amazing agility for her advancing years. She turned straight into the first attacker, who promptly gripped her arm and flung her across the room. Even in the shock of what was happening, there was a bewildered gasp from the terrified audience. One of the queuing customers, a similarly elderly male with a handlebar moustache, perfectly groomed – a remnant from his war years – made to assist her.

The offending male had a red-handled machete in his other gloved hand, which he swung around the room in order to put any wannabe heroes off. He gestured ferociously at the elderly male to desist with his bravado. Nonetheless, undeterred, he bravely went to her aid. Kneeling down at one side, he gently cradled her head while showing the attackers he had no intentions of going to interrupt their criminality.

The other assailant had a large sledgehammer, which he launched at the central till window with both hands. The young female behind was still frozen to her seat, unable to move. The security screen seemed to change colour as the thousands of splinters of glass held for a brief second, creating a rainbow effect against the glow of the interior lighting, before cascading onto the floor. She squealed in terror as her face turned red where shards of the glass had decorated her face. They were minimal injuries, but the sight of blood on her delicately made-up features caused fear and trepidation amongst her fellow cashiers and customers alike. This was exactly the response the robbers had desired in their efforts to buy them a few precious seconds and stall or deter any efforts by an overzealous hero.

The middle-aged male customer who had been patiently waiting in the queue, mesmerised by the sudden activity, lifted his arms at the same time. It was a movement of anguish and protection rather than anger or retaliation. The machete-wielding male, however, took this as a sign of dissension and whirled round. The bladed weapon struck the slightly built gent in the centre of his bicep. There was a sickening, grinding sound as the blade ploughed through bone and gristle. The male fell back to the ground, groaning as people all around screamed from their prone positions.

‘Now fucking stay down,’ the axe man repeated.

The sledgehammer had dropped to the floor after achieving its target as its owner hurtled over the counter into the staff area.

‘Open the safe, you soft bitch, or else you won’t be going home tonight!’ he screamed at the bloodstained blonde, as if reading her mind.

‘I can’t, I’m only a junior,’ she squeaked, all thoughts of her evening’s escapades ejected from her mind.

There was a standoff for what seemed like an eternity to the young blonde, but which was in reality just a few seconds. She looked briefly at the malevolent stare through the eyeholes and quickly looked away, fearing the worst. The silence was thankfully broken by the third male at the door, who appeared to be holding a handgun of some kind in his left hand.

‘Just get the cash from the tills, you fucking pricks,’ he bellowed in an increasingly tremulous voice at his accomplices. His was the first sign of panic within the group and caused the victims more anguish, as they feared an upturn in the already savage levels of violence.

His reason for the sudden concern were the distant sirens of the emergency services, who had been alerted by the panic alarms which had been set off from within the bank.

A mad scramble then ensued where the professional edge they had originally shown began to unravel in their haste to obtain their goal. Sledgehammer man rummaged through the eagerly opened tills and salvaged the wads of notes on show and crammed them into a red drawstring cotton bag that he pulled out of his camouflage jacket. The second accomplice prowled around the bank floor like a hungry hyena. His machete was raised above his head. Gloating in this heady feeling of power, he stalked the tiles while innocent, helpless victims lay cowering in fear on the floor. They offered no challenge and no resistance, but just to satisfy his own lustings, he swung the weapon perilously close to a particularly vulnerable veteran to ensure no thoughts of heroism entered his or anyone else’s head.

It was a matter of a few seconds more before they fled the building, leaving carnage and shattered lives behind. What had seemed like an eternity for these people going about their everyday lives had in fact been less than four minutes in total. A grand total of less than two hundred and forty precious seconds to a number of lives that, in some cases, would never recover from the trauma that had been presented to them. It was yet a further day of horror in their very own cesspit of a town they were obliged to call their home.

Chapter 2

It was even more than ever a particularly miserable, uninviting night. That swirling northerly wind had picked up as the evening had gone on and was whipping around the desolate-looking town. It was cold and that sort of damp that seeped into your every joint. A fine mist of rain that soaked you without you realising it pervaded through the musty air. It was that kind of spray, mixed with that artic feeling wind, that caused you to squint and lean forward as you tried to make headway into it, at the same time instinctively pulling any head coverings closer around the face in a protective manner. The few late shift workers battled their way home for their evening supper, intent on nothing but the bastions of a warm house.

It was strange how the cold, wet weather seemed to have got worse with the demise of the town. Was it that a shithole just looked that much worse in the rain, or that global warming was a reality? Whichever way it was, it didn’t much matter to the police officer just approaching his local nick.

Steve Welland was just starting the first one of his set of night shifts at Roundley police station. Oh! How he hated nights. Even the thought of them now made him weary. There was a time that he’d looked forward to them with relish. He’d sleep all through the day, getting up only to feed his face and then go back to sleep again, waking only to have a quick snack and get ready to start his shift again. On the odd day he’d even spend an hour down the local gym before replenishing his batteries with another hour or two’s kip prior to starting his shift. He’d been single then, and he could sleep the clock round. Now he was lucky if he could manage just five hours of fitful napping. The onset of old age, or middle age – it depended on your viewpoint – didn’t really help with this either. His now weakened bladder seemed to mean several regular visits to the loo just as he was in his deepest slumber. Two kids getting ready for school and his wife preening herself for work had also meant he didn’t sleep like he used to. The fact that he was grouchy about their necessity to prepare themselves for their day, just as his had finished, summed up his demeanour in general when he was on nights. The days of coming home and diving into bed without a care in the world had long gone. Now it was a good two hours plus before he’d have the serenity of the house to himself for a few short hours.

That said, he felt sorry for his long-suffering wife. She’d put up with his shift work for a good portion of his twenty plus years’ service. He knew he was a grumpy old sod. When he was on nights, it was even more so than usual. She tried to make token excuses to their kids and they accepted his moods with a knowing smile, but he felt guilty all the same. It wasn’t fair to them to be on the end of his bad-tempered moods, but it became harder and harder to be cheerful in front of them when he had a night shift to face. It wasn’t easy being Mr Happy when his eyes permanently felt as if he’d been standing in a Saharan sandstorm.

Still, eight more years and he’d be done with all this. No more shifts! Ever! He contemplated the bliss of never having to leave his wife and family at home on their own at night again. The comfort of it was overwhelming. He thought about his retirement more than he’d ever done, even though he tried his best not to. Not that he didn’t enjoy his job anymore. He still loved what he did and was proud that he was still as keen as ever, but as that golden chalice of his retirement, and with it his pension, drew ever nearer, he found himself counting down the days with relish. It was crazy really, because he didn’t even know what he wanted to do when, or even if come to that, he actually left this job. Yes, it was nice the thought that he could retire at a relatively young age and that he would have the security of a pension to go with it. In fact, he often thought that the idea of having the option to retire was better than the reality. He started to think what he would do with it, but then he often mused about the fact there were Premiership footballers who would draw more than its total value for one week’s efforts. Yet he’d have spent thirty years being sworn at, spat at, punched, kicked, scratched, bitten, and on one occasion stabbed.

Well, he supposed the Premiership prima donnas went through all of the above, apart from the last one! Along with this was the grizzly part of having pulled numerous dead bodies out of untold locations in various states of decomposition and covered in their own excrement. How many people had partaken of that joyous experience? The list of unseemly scenarios was endless, which was what kept him motivated. Yet it didn’t seem right that ninety minutes’ efforts on a football pitch from some fat cat footballer was equivalent to thirty years of abuse. Still, he was one of the lucky ones. There were plenty of hard-working people who’d grafted for much longer than he had, for a pittance of a pension. Or even worse, to be told all their hard-earned payments were worthless as Boards of Directors sat back milking the profits of their miscalculations.

He knew of some of his friends in industry who had gone on holiday with their family only to return home and be told they’d no job and all that hard-earned money they’d paid into their pension pot had been whittled away by the incompetence of a management group who were sunning it up somewhere. So, all in all, he was a very lucky guy.

What did gall him was that there was a minority of people who made millions from the working man and woman while seemingly doing very little for it. These people he detested more than the criminals he had spent his life putting behind bars. The majority of them had a reason, not a very good reason, but a reason nonetheless, for their criminality, other than sheer greed. Drugs, alcohol, and poverty he could grasp. He didn’t feel sorry for these people, but he could understand their predicament, whether it be down to lack of self-control or otherwise. What he couldn’t excuse were those greedy bastards who already had the lot and wanted more, much more. Well, in his eyes, they should be thrown to the lions. There was no excuse for their behaviour, especially when it was at the expense of the very people who lined their pockets in the first place.

Without realising it, he had arrived at work, still daydreaming! He often went into a trance, trying to put the world to rights in his own head. He thought of himself as a good cop. Cop! He hated that word! It reminded him of some American gun-toting drama series. That was so far removed from the reality of it. Where the stunning female detective bends down in an instant of inspiration and picks up a strand of hair from the middle of an industrial estate and declares it to be the killer’s! As if!

He forced himself out of his reverie.

Oh shit! he thought to himself. He’d just remembered he had a new trainee with him today. A policewoman.

Great! he thought sarcastically. It wasn’t that he was a sexist. Or so he thought in his own mind, trying to convince himself. It was just that he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of decent policewomen he’d dealt with in his career. It all sounded so exciting and grand to them when they first joined the job. They liked the idea of showing off their new uniform and fancy badge, but as soon as they were introduced to a pub fight or a maggoty body, the enthusiasm waned. He liked to introduce his new recruits to a dead body and a post-mortem as soon as possible, no matter which sex they were. It brought a quick sense of reality to the new career path they were about to tread. A smelly, rotten body didn’t quite exude the same sense of drama as a clinical-looking corpse on TV.

He guessed that less than ten percent of the policewomen completed their full service and of those only a fraction worked on the streets for any considerable time. Most found nice little office jobs after just a few years of meeting the reality of the less friendly side of society. Usually, they ended up far away from any sort of confrontation or stresses and strains that accompanied the foul-mouthed, drug- or alcohol-abusing bastards that were the Friday and Saturday night norm. What he did respect were those few policewomen who did confront these scumbags and gave their hearts and souls to the job. Not that he’d like to be married to one. That would make for a far too temperamental relationship to say the least! No, that was one step beyond for him.

He walked into the parade room, even more disgruntled than normal, for the beginning of his night shift. He had shaved and showered just before leaving for work, but it was strange how it didn’t invoke the same feeling of freshness that it did when you were going for a night out. Not that that happened very often these days!

Inspector Vincent Parr commenced the parade. Everyone, but for the inspector himself, who was oblivious to the nickname, knew him as ‘Faux Pas’, due to his constant errors of judgement. How he had achieved the rank he had attained was a mystery to everyone. How he had retained that rank was even more of a conundrum. It was rumoured he knew people in high places and that his elder brother had been a superintendent in another force. A rank that he was determined to at least reach, if not surpass, at any cost, it was rumoured!

‘I’ll start by welcoming to the shift Police Constable Phillipa Walters. PC Welland, you’ll be her tutor, so take it easy with her,’ he stated in a controlled but threatening manner.

It hadn’t been a happy union between the pair. Both the inspector and Steve had been at loggerheads since Parr’s promotion onto the shift some twelve months previously. Steve didn’t begrudge Parr his promotion, despite his incompetence. What he did resent was the fact was that since his promotion Parr had become the font of all knowledge. The problem with this was that it was well known to everyone who’d worked with him that he was in fact an inept, blubbering idiot. They’d even had a head-to-head on the very first day. The fact was that within days of commencing on the shift he had tried to undermine Steve’s prodigious knowledge of the local criminal fraternity by overruling a request by Steve that they carry out a warrant at an address. Steve’s informant had told him that a large quantity of stolen property would be at the address for a limited time before being moved out of the area. Parr had said he didn’t think Steve’s informant was reliable and had refused to endorse the application to go to a magistrate to obtain the necessary warrant, therefore undermining Steve in front of his shift. This certainly hadn’t added to their liking for each other. It was apparent to Steve that Parr just wanted to show to the shift that he was the one calling the shots, regardless of the consequences.

Steve had promptly told the sergeant on the following shift about the information. She had gladly seized on this and in the process received a commendation for recovering over ten thousand pounds’ worth of stolen items from burglaries in the area. A fact that was gleefully plastered all over the local press, and much to Inspector Parr’s chagrin, his desk. He never did find out who had endorsed the local papers headline with ‘NOT PARR taking the thieves out of Roundley’. He had been in a rage for a few days after that and certainly let the shift know he didn’t approve.

Steve nodded at the new recruit. ‘What did he say she was called again?’ he whispered to a colleague next to him. His colleague shrugged, too busy eyeing up the new talent on the block.

‘I’m not sure. But if you want me to train her, I’ll show her the ropes,’ he mouthed back salaciously.

Steve grinned back, replying, ‘Feel free. She’s all yours,’ knowing it wasn’t an option.

The evening brews had been drunk and for once no emergency calls had interrupted the evening’s proceedings. A serene beginning to the night shift. It never lasted, as he knew all too well. Steve gathered together his accoutrements and nodded at his trainee to do the same. It was quite a ceremony these days. He remembered when all he’d carried was little more than a torch, a wooden truncheon, his trusty handcuffs, and a tall hat. The new recruits, as was always the same, accepted the American-style flak jackets and combat gear as the norm. However, to him he thought it was impersonal. A further barrier put between the police and the public they were meant to serve. The probationers seemed to embrace this military-style look with gusto, but to him he had much preferred the smart white shirts – blue when he’d first joined – and tunics, walking the streets. It seemed to make it that much easier with the public being able to converse with you. There was a mutual respect then. Now he felt the police were more of a civil army. Police officers these days could not, or would not, talk to the criminals. These people were the whole reason for the police having employment in the first place. Not to be able to converse with the most important rung in the ladder of law and order was sheer madness, or just plain arrogance.

Equally, they seemed to find it difficult to start up a conversation for that matter with the members of the public who actually paid the police’s wages out of their hard-earned taxes. Communication was the key to everything. Whether it be the little old lady out shopping, or the Jack the Lad burglar, who surprisingly would tell you far more than any of the sprogs – the terminology for the probationary officers on the shift with less than two years’ service – could ever imagine, if you made the effort and treated them like human beings.

It was amazing that no matter how big a criminal was, or thought he was, he couldn’t help but engage with you if you actually had the balls to strike up a conversation with him. For all his bravado in front of his mates, if you saw the local villain on the street and enquired as to how life was treating him and was he managing to go straight – even though you knew full well he’d probably broken into a house the night before – he would respond. It was human nature. ‘No comment’ only took place in the interview room after advice from their solicitor. What was the point of this cordiality between the opposite ends of the pole? Well, for one, it made it so much easier when you actually had to arrest them – much less chance of them wanting to fight their way out of the situation. And two, it was amazing just how much information they let slip. There were very few of the criminal fraternity who could challenge Stephen Hawkins’ IQ. Those that could were still out there, as the police very rarely got to find them! As a result, an astute officer could interview a criminal on the street by playing to his ego. Every thief or drug dealer wanted to show off his so-called prowess or success, and by feeding their egos, it was like taking candy from a baby. The number of times he’d left a criminal on so-called good terms, having just received information about Jimmy’s corner shop selling weed to the kids, or that he was taking in knock-off iPhones. That art had sadly passed away with the times. Very few officers felt that was part of their job any longer. To speak to these people was below them. Unfortunately, these people are the very persons we needed to be speaking to, he mused.

He’d trained a number of the new recruits over the years. Each time it had become more and more frustrating. He used to love the challenge of moulding the fresh-out-of-the-box personalities, who each had their own individuality and brought something from their own walk of life to the job. They were equally mesmerised by the shocks and delights of each individual problem. Some took to it and others left a short time later, never to return. It was either a job for you, or it wasn’t. There was no middle ground. You didn’t learn to enjoy the challenges. You were either cut out to be a bobby or you weren’t and the fascination of it was that nobody knew until they actually tried it.

However, as time had gone on and he had tried to explain the rationale of striking up a conversation with anyone, whatever their background, the new recruits increasingly looked at him as if he was mad. It wasn’t a vocation any longer; it was a job! Simple as that. End of the shift and gone. It drove him to despair. Why couldn’t they see that if you put the effort in, this was the most rewarding and diverse job in the world? Frustrating, yes. Stressful, most definitely. Violent, sometimes. But when you went round to that fragile, old lady’s house and told her you had caught the bastard who’d broken into her sanctuary and stolen her late husband’s war medals, and handed them back as she shed a grateful tear, then that was worth all the kicks in the bollocks, both physically and mentally. He’d had the pleasure of doing that once and he’d almost saluted the religiously polished framed photograph of her husband, resplendent in full military regalia.

‘He’d be so proud of you,’ she said gratefully.

‘Not nearly as proud as we should be of him,’ Steve had replied, passing off the praise.

That had been a wonderful moment. They didn’t come along very often, but the cliché was right: they really did make it all worthwhile!

He walked out to the police van, head bowed into the driving wind and rain. It was an accepted principal that the senior PC had the responsibility for driving the van. This wasn’t necessarily the most respected, although it certainly was in Steve’s case. He was the eyes and ears out on the street. The sergeant had the overview, but out and about, the van driver was the man in charge until the sergeant or inspector turned up at a scene. He was the first to back up to any trouble and was a calming influence in the most volatile of situations.

Steve opened his van door and climbed wearily into the driver’s seat. He looked round for the rookie. She was nowhere to be seen. He sighed, a long drawn-out sigh of resignation and near defeat. He didn’t have much patience on nights to start with, but a tardy sprog on her first night was not a good start.

He spotted Dolly Daydream sauntering across the police yard. She’d managed to fold her jacket neatly, and carried her appointments in pristine fashion, balancing her hat with some effort on her coiffured hair, protecting it against the persistent drizzle, which seemed all the worse in the harsh cold wind. As she got to the van, she stood at the passenger door, her arms full, waiting for Steve to reach over and open the door for her. There were several seconds of stalemate before she realised he wasn’t going to oblige. She then attempted to balance her assortment of maps, books, and jacket in one hand while trying to open the van door with the other. The balancing act soon turned into a juggling routine as one by one the books fell onto the mud-stained tarmac. Finally, her jacket was the last to fall foul of her frantic attempts to contain her items and her dignity. She eventually climbed into her seat, dumping her sodden belongings at her side. She glanced sideways at Steve, giving him a frosty glare. Silence descended within the cab.

Wow! What a start! Steve thought. This is going to be fun.

They crawled out of the station yard, the windscreen wipers squealing across the greasy windscreen.

It was a wonder he didn’t need the de-icer, he thought; the temperature was so cold between the newly-weds!

‘Can we call at McDonald’s on the way round?’ she shrilled from nowhere, seemingly forgetting the earlier cold war.

He looked around in shock. Her first words to him had sounded more like a command than a request. He didn’t answer for a few seconds, still trying to get his head around the fact that this sprog had the audacity to come to work on her first tour of duty and her primary concern was not the thrill of her new career, but filling her belly with a Big Mac and fries! His earlier thoughts came back to him. What chance had the public got? The saying was, the public got what the public deserved. It was a chicken or egg scenario. Had the moral decline been down to a weaker more benign approach to policing, or was it the fact that the same moral decline had led to a new breed of police officer that felt they didn’t have a duty to protect life and limb, apart from their own. He considered her words, an anger rising in him.

‘Didn’t you consider eating before you started work?’ he asked, none too kindly.

‘I didn’t have time; I was getting myself ready,’ she returned, not even considering that he was being facetious.

Well, she’d certainly done that, he thought.

She looked like she’d been to a bloody beauty parlour. Blonde hair flowing, made-up like a catwalk model, her talons painted crimson. He suspected her toenails would be the same inside her designer Timberland boots.

‘Hardly made for wrestling with a baying mob,’ he brooded.

He didn’t show any kind of response to her request, but drove slowly over to the edge of the industrial buildings bordering on one of the town’s less hospitable council estates. McDonald’s was set at the junction bordering the two. He pulled into the car parking area, giving her the option to go inside and place her order. He wasn’t going to the drive-through and be a handmaiden for her diet Coke and fries.

As he turned in, he saw a group of six or seven youths kicking the waste bin, causing empty polystyrene cartons to fly around the damp enclosure. A few years ago, the sight of a police van approaching would have caused the group to scarper. No such luck now. Three or four of them looked tentatively at the clearly signed police vehicle, unsure of what to do, trying to brave it out, but not as cocky as their mates. However, the others continued to kick the bin, seemingly oblivious to the officers.

Steve grimaced. He pulled the van to a halt next to them and alighted, dropping his bulky frame onto the grass verge. He looked at the youths, possibly approaching their teenage years and walked purposely towards them. The tentative group had their minds made up for them and fled quite readily at the frontal approach. The remaining youths were made of sterner stuff. They’d ceased their football practice but were now eyeballing Steve. He continued to walk, quickening his pace, staring into the eyes of the most defiant, whom he’d singled out as the leader. This male, older than the rest, stared back, teeth set. Steve continued to walk determinedly. The male faltered for a second, his eyes looked down. In that moment, Steve knew he’d won. The male moved back a step, and with that short change in momentum the others panicked and fled. He didn’t give chase, but felt a pang of relief. It was a small victory, but an important one. It was like a turf war. If he’d ignored it or backed down, the hoodlums had won. Bobbies these days were scared of confrontation and the young thugs knew this. In turn, this gave them some credence and the police’s credibility waned evermore. That small show of strength was valuable, both for the public and Steve. Once he started giving in to them, it was time to hand his warrant card over. He sighed at his hollow victory. It wouldn’t be a tick in anybody’s statistics or even mentioned in the boss’s logs, but it was one of those tiny bricks that stopped the dam from finally bursting through.

He looked over to the van to find Dolly still sitting in the passenger seat. She’d watched the show with fascination, but with no inkling that she was supposed to be alongside her partner, backing him up. He shook his head in bewilderment. What did she think she’d joined the job for? He stormed back to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut, making sure she was aware of his anger. Not a chance!

‘Am I all right to go for a burger now?’ she enquired, seemingly unaware of the proceedings that had unfolded before her.