by Pete Adams
Jack pricked his balloon. ‘Sid, I haven’t got time to watch telly,’ the bluebottle cab arrived, and Jack headed out.
‘It can wait, Jane.’
‘Don’t wait on my account, Sid,’ last word, very important. A disinterested observer would call that a draw, but Jack got the impression Sid thought he’d won; amateurs!
Twenty
The squad car dropped Jack outside Bazaar Bikes. ‘Thanks, I’ll walk to the kerb.’ Smiles and hand gestures were exchanged, the officers drove off, and Jack went into the well-known second-hand bike shop he’d been patronising for years. They even did his punctures, Jack tried himself but would create more holes, and Kate would remark upon the still deflated tyre, Jack’s deflated ego, and refer him to the spoons and forks in the house that would be bent; he never saw the need for tyre levers. He was the same at DIY, “destroy it yourself” Kate used to say. He hated work around the house, especially decorating. Some nights he would come home looking forward to a well-earned sit down in his favourite armchair, an evening of not communicating, and a wall that was perfectly okay the night before, had sample paint splotches; horror.
‘Landlord, a crocodile bike and make it snappy,’ Jack was in Bazaar Bikes.
Ron Wheelslie, as Jack called Brian Masters the owner of Bazaar Bikes, jumped up from a bike he was working on, ‘Bugger me Jane, you made me jump.’ Like everyone Jack nicknamed, Brian Masters was known by all as Ron, his shop as Hogwarts, and frequently get jibes like, “How’s Hermione”; pronounced “herm-eee-own”, as Jack pronounced it.
Ron was a good-humoured man, about Jack’s age, had been there, done that, and his face showed it. A former boiler maker in the dockyard, he was stooped, which Jack put down to either bending over bikes all day or going into the navy ship's boilers to clean them out. Five-foot-nothing, skinny as a rake, he paled like a shadow against Jack, but unlike the elongated Pugwash, this man, despite his diminutive appearance, had presence, and Jack liked him.
‘What happened to your bike?’
‘Half inched, Ron, probably a student getting home from the pub. So, pray guide me through the wonders of this 'ere emporium of second-hand cycling pleasures, my man. Wouldn’t mind some gears that work, tried some this morning and they were brilliant, although the bike was not particularly sturdy. What about these, Ron?’
Ron swung his gaze to a group of three bikes leaning against a wall. ‘Just prepped and ready to go, what colour d’you want?’
‘Red, Ron, preferably with Scooby Doos on the handle bars, two-tone horn, I am a copper, how much?’
‘To you, a hundred nicker.’
‘How much? How Much!’ traditional response, even for punctures. ‘I’ll take it now, I’m back to work. I’ll drop by next week sometime to get the pannier supports, and if you can find an orange box for Martin in the meantime?’
Ron was reeling from the impact of Jack’s visit, ‘Back to work, bit late for you?’
‘Big show on, watch the news tonight, Pumps is doing the press conference, but I’ll be in C&A’s later, you up for a bit of sedition?’
Ron shook his head, ‘Nah, heard you did alright last night, not so much sedition as seduction, is what I heard.’
‘Undercover, Ron.’
‘Red anorak, wasn’t it?’
Jack smiled, picked up the bike, and helped himself to a padlock. ‘Add this on, Ron, I’ll settle up next week.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll be straight onto the police.’
‘Let me know what they say,’ and Jack disappeared out of the door running over the foot of Chas, Ron’s only employed help in the shop, least that’s what Ron said, but to Jack it looked like the lad ran the show and Ron was the salad dressing.
‘Hi, Mr Austin, what you got there?’ Chas said, rubbing his foot.
Brimming with the pride of new ownership, ‘New wheels, Chas, and I’m eager to make like the wind, little gear changers on the 'andlebars, start knitting the Scooby Doos, I’ll be back in next week.’
Chas looked worried, a nice-looking kid, polite and respectful, goes a long way, Jack always thought, slight build, about five-ten, reasonably well-dressed when you think he worked in a bike shop. He never got any of Jack’s jokes, and obviously had not a clue what a Scooby Doo was, but you can’t hold that against anybody can you? ‘But sir, that bike’s sold. You can’t take it.’
‘I can, and I have, okay, Ron?’
Chortling, Ron answered, 'Chas don’t worry, we got another couple just like it in the back. See you next week, Jane.’
‘Not if I see you first, to the kitchen and put the kettle on,’ and Jack shaped like Buzz Lightyear, laughed at his adaptation of the catch phrase, and teetered off on his new, old bike.
‘Oi, Monsieur Hulot,’ Ron called out.
‘Call me Buzz, and tell your mum thanks for the rabbit.’
Ron and Chas watched him bump down the kerb and onto the road, cars swerving to miss him. ‘I’m not sure you should have done that, Mr Masters, and what’s this about a rabbit?’
Jack peddled rapidly, never noted for baby steps, Jack was full on, or as Mandy would say, “fall off.” He weaved in and out of the traffic and went through the lights where it was clear, a humble Portsmouth cyclist, and took the insults and angry gestures in good heart; people liked a laugh. He whizzed along, but inexplicably was overtaken by a girl; black spandex leggings, lime green Lycra top, goggles, eight hundred flashing lights, a million gears and a beautiful arse. Jack chased her down wondering, pervert or tour-de-France, Jacques Austin? The decision was made for him when she got caught at lights. Jack slowed, and pedalled for all he was worth on amber and flashed past her at green with a sense that as he got older, he was more interested in beating her as opposed to looking at her backside. “A sad old man,” Mandy would say, and so would Jack, but not thinking what Mandy was thinking.
As Jack zoomed into the police station car park, he noticed the loop on the bollard by the Commander’s car had been nobbled. ‘The foot’s a game, Watson,’ Jack said, invigorated, cycling into the secure compound as if this was his intention all along, and not to park by the Commander’s car; pride? He thought of PP, who was proud and who prejudiced? He supposed if he read the book, he might understand, but Jack was a purist, it was the BBC TV version for him; Jennifer Ehle, a sexy woman, and when her eyes are brightened by exercise, she outshone arsy D’Arcy. Jack was only marginally jealous because Kate thought Colin Firth, especially when he dived into the lake, was "sex on legs." Jack used to say, “Come and watch me down the swimming baths, I’ll dive in with me shirt on.” “That would be more like whale watching,” she would retort; a kidder his Kate, and he missed her.
Ego intact, a little residual melancholia; was that getting better? Jack locked his bike in the cycle store, and through reception, ‘Sid, get your CCTV onto my new bike in case that tea leaf comes back.’ Sid looked open mouthed, had no response; amateur, you see. ‘Close your mouth, we are not a codfish,’ and Jack doubled up in pantomime mock laughter, dived through the doors and up the stairs at a jaunty jog before Sid could respond. ‘Who’s the daddy?’ he said to nobody, which made him think of the little girl; guilt, a touch of Catholicism creeping in there, better watch out, backs to the wall chaps.
Along the corridor, whistling, he bashed through the door to the CP room and was faced by Dolly, hands full of sprays, dusters and mops. ‘Shush, Mandy’s on.’
Jack wobbled his head and chortled, he was in a good mood. ‘I think not, Dolly, menopause is my guess, and I’m not sure you get PMT then, hope not.’ Dolly stifled a giggle.
‘Shut-up, Jane, we’re about to watch the press conference,’ Paolo snapped.
‘Oooooooh, scratch your eyes out,’ and Jack minced around the room to his desk, flicked a cursory look at his notes, shuffled them, and pushed to the front for a prime seat in front of the telly; his seat there waiting for him. The natural order of things, he always said, ‘Thought you were doing this, Paolo?’
‘
The Commander’s doing it with Mandy, shush.’
Jack raised his eyebrow, BBC not internal CCTV, relieved he didn’t do it, but they hadn’t let Jack do one since he called the ITV reporter an insensitive wanker and walked out. On screen they watched Mandy, then the Commander enter, followed by a youth, not spotty, but as Jack had said before, all youths are spotty, it’s the only thing older blokes have on them. Stone me, Jack thought, Mandy was gorgeous. Everyone turned. ‘Did I just say that out loud?’ rolled eyes and a few hand gestures not for the faint-hearted. ‘Anyone mind if I see what’s on the other side, might be Countdown.’ Jack’s standard joke received the usual groan, but he still said it; he was a tickler for tradition. The spotty youth was talking, and Jack asked who he was.
‘Press Liaison Officer,’ Jo answered.
Recognition dawned, ‘The little tow-rag whose been trying to get hold of me?’
Jo struck, ‘Yes, now shut-up, or we’ll tell him where you are.’
Jack harrumphed, ‘Deal,’ and settled to watch the telly.
Mandy spent a little time introducing the events of the morning, ‘Acting on information drawn from an ongoing enquiry, police officers went to an address in Paulsgrove,’ she pointed to a picture behind her. ‘Recognising a suspect from an assault on a police officer the previous evening, officers pursued the suspect into the house, eventually apprehending him. Another suspect produced a knife and slashed a policeman, threatened a second, who eventually disarmed him, a short chase ensued and that suspect was also apprehended.’ She paused, lowered her eyes and introduced a subdued note, ‘At the scene, we recovered the body of Detective Sergeant Smith. We also rescued a number of women and children, one of the women was dead. A mother and her baby remain in a serious condition, the remaining women and children are in hospital and are as comfortable as can be expected. A terrace of four houses is undergoing detailed forensic examination.’ Energetic shouts, clicks and whirrs ensued, and pressure to answer questions, which Mandy expertly deflected, ‘I ask the public to come forward if they have any information about the comings and goings from these properties.’
The Press Liaison Officer jumped in, ‘The Commander and Detective Superintendent Bruce will take questions.’ Mandy sighed at the enthusiasm of youth, but nodded.
‘Superintendent, is it true the police officer was shot?’
‘I can’t answer that now.’
‘Can you tell us if anyone else was shot?’
‘We cannot answer that now.’
‘Did you recover a gun?’
‘I cannot answer that now.’
‘Is it true the second suspect was run over by a car driven by a child?’
She halted the quick fire replies to think. ‘I’m not sure where you are getting your information, but if someone has evidence, we ask they contact us.’
‘Is it true the suspect was about to cycle off on a police bike?’
She leaned back in her chair. ‘The bike has disappeared, and we ask the public for information on this also.’
Sid in reception mumbled to himself, ‘I know where it bloody is.’
‘Superintendent, was the officer leading the operation Inspector Austin?’
‘Yes.’
The reporter followed up, ‘The news programmes have pictures of Inspector Austin carrying out a little girl from the scene and he’s crying, can you comment on that?’
A warm smile radiated how she felt, ‘Inspector Austin regularly says to his team they should empathise with the victims of crime. Police work can be emotional at times, and this is a human response. He does not encourage black humour, he asks his officers to feel the emotion, connect with the victim, deal with it, and then, I quote, “Get the bastards.” It is not unknown for the Inspector to cry at a scene, we are used to it, and we are proud of him.’
‘Commander,’ it was the BBC. ‘Is Inspector Austin to attend a disciplinary hearing for threatening the chairman of the Police Committee, Captain Littleman, whom the local paper is reporting is known to the police as Captain Pugwash?’ There was giggling and scribbling notes to research Pugwash.
Mandy raised her hand for silence, ‘A policeman is dead. He had a wife and two small children. A woman died, we found women and children in very poor health and have reason to suspect they have been subject to systematic abuse. What I am saying is, let’s keep our eye on the ball, please.’ She rose and left, the Commander and the press officer jumped up at the unexpected departure and followed, the combined press corp shouting questions.
Jack leapt from his chair, ‘She’s our gal. Not sure about Spotty, the little tyke,’ confusion as to who Spotty was. ‘Okay, men, back to it, anything to report?’ Mostly with everyone it was active stuff, not ready to open up, so Jack pushed Frankie and Confucius.
‘We have a programme running on the ferry traffic, we’ll have something soon.’
‘Can we expand that search to types of traffic?’
Frankie spoke, ‘Anything in mind?’
‘Not sure, but if the drugs are coming in as small amounts, we're looking at something that would ordinarily be anonymous, can’t say much more until it focuses in my own mind.’
‘Connie and I are working on tonight. I know what you think, but I don’t have much of a private life going anyway,’ Frankie said matter-of-factly.
Jack thought, Connie, eh? No private life? ‘Well, dead copper, fiddled kids, trumps all, and it’s about time you got a private life, Frankie.’
‘Working on it, Jane,’ she winked. Confucius reddened and Jack was shaken by a raised voice.
‘Pugwash, Jack?’
‘Amanda darlin’, you were terrific, we all thought so, didn’t we guys?’ A resounding “Yes, Ma’am,” in support of Jack. ‘It’s generally known, you don’t have to look at me.’
She grinned, ‘Well, everyone across the nation now knows Portsmouth CID calls the head of the police committee Captain Pugwash,’ and she put her hand to her mouth to suppress the laugh. It had been a difficult day; she had to visit Biscuit’s widow and this was taking its toll, sensed a laugh could turn hysterical. ‘I’m guessing, but there may be a little flack coming your way, Jack.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up, Mands, any chance we could lump them altogether, save time?’ That did it for her, she collapsed, giggling like a schoolgirl. Of course, it was infectious, and strangely, it was Confucius who started first amongst the team, and Frankie put her arm around her and joined in. Jack looked to Mandy, raised his one eyebrow knowingly. The whole team in giggling fits, and Dolly came in dancing with her skirts pulled up showing her long drawers, and it was game over. They needed this, Jack thought.
As things calmed, ‘Jack, can I take you up on your offer to come with me to meet Biscuit’s widow please?’
He waved his hand, ‘Hang-on, Mands,’ picked up the phone, dialled, ‘Michael, your family, they are well?’ Silence, his son knew about PP having been made to watch it many times with his dad, who’d argued that he had watched Mary Poppins even more times. ‘Set another plate for Mandy, please, we’ll be there...’ stopped to look at Mandy, she was flustered, looked at her watch and mouthed seven-thirty, ‘...seven-thirtyish, be nice to eat together; a lot happened today.’ He hung-up. ‘He called me a girl’s blouse for crying on telly, now all his mates know his dad’s a wuss.’
Mandy looked on warmly, ‘I think they likely knew that already. Can we go now, please, and thank you for dinner.’ She pecked him on the cheek. “Oooh err matron,” from the assembled officers, and Dolly. Mandy put her hand up and got the attention she wanted, ‘I’m going to boil his arse tomorrow, but today he walks on water, briefing at nine, see you all then.’ She turned and flicked her head, and Jack followed, a little puppy obeying. He realised this halfway down the corridor, but will he be allowed to sleep on her bed?
Twenty-One
In Mandy’s car, she buckled up, laid her head back and sighed, ‘I hate going to meet a colleague’s loved one. Did you know Biscuit?’ Jack remained sil
ent; where women were concerned, he instinctively knew what to do. ‘Why? I accept there are the bad guys and us; why kill, why hurt, why abuse? I saw you on telly with that girl, you’re a good man and you touch me inside.’
‘Touch you inside, Mands? I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that,’ again he always knew what to say and when.
‘Alzheimer’s, Jack,’ moment over, and in silence, she drove to Biscuit’s home. Mandy was thinking through what she would say, whereas Jack normally said what came from his heart, and besides, he couldn’t take his eyes off Mandy’s legs. Her skirt had ridden up and he was mesmerised by a sheen; stockings, and for a dirty old man, it didn’t get much better than this.
They pulled up outside Biscuit’s house. ‘We’re here, you can stop looking at my legs.’ He went to protest, but her smile disarmed him.
The gloom of dusk was reinforced by an overcast sky, the fine weather over. Mandy had gone in and the door was held by the family liaison officer, WPC Forbes.
In the small living room of the terraced house, the widow and her sister sat and hugged; both ravaged with grief. Biscuit's wife was a pleasant-looking woman, would be beautiful in normal circumstances, Jack thought, medium height, as she stood to shake hands, slim, dark mid-length hair, straight, fine and shiny, if she’d been advertising shampoo, she could shake her hair in a carefree manner, but there was nothing carefree this evening. She sobbed into Jack’s shoulder, ‘Biscuit, you called him, he trusted you, always wanted to work with you again.’
Mandy noted, “Wanted to work with you again,” odd?
‘Shall we sit Mrs Biscuit?’ She laughed and hugged him again. Mandy thought, he just knows what to do. To anyone else, that would have been a huge faux pas, or else he’s forgotten her name; I bet he’s forgotten her name.
