Eileen picked up the phone and started dialling. I took the opportunity to turn to Jess, needing to verify that we had both actually heard the same thing. Granted, Mr Crawford might have been a bit rude, but he had committed no offence. There was nothing to arrest him for. I could see that my fellow officer was finding it desperately hard to believe that Eileen had called us out for no other reason than some spoilt potatoes.
Our ruminations were interrupted by Eileen jerking the phone in our direction. “They want to speak to you.”
“Who does?” I queried.
“The police,” she replied.
I tentatively took the receiver. It was the police. I couldn’t quite believe it: Eileen had called the police on the police! An awkward conversation ensued. Eileen had rung, demanding different officers be sent to the address to do what those already present were refusing to do. This was a first for me. The call handler at the other end was also just as confused as I was, and it was agreed that it was best for all concerned if we just carried on with the task at hand ourselves.
“Have you been drinking, Eileen?” I enquired as I handed back the phone.
“It’s Mrs Crawford to you, and, yes, of course, you know I have! One has had a bottle and a half of Cabernet Sauvignon. One is allowed to drink in one’s own residence. We’ve both been drinking. We work hard and we play hard.”
“I thought you weren’t actually working at the moment,” I added, seeking clarification.
“We just play hard then,” she corrected herself. “And dispense with the semantics!” She was out of bed now and steadying herself. “Look, she’s clearly incompetent,” asserted Eileen, waving towards Jess, “but I know you. I’ve dealt with you before. You’re a sensible officer. You’ll lock him up, won’t you?”
Ten minutes ago I was being marginalised; now I was being buttered up.
“Well, are you going to arrest the old fool or not?” she asked expectantly.
“I agree with my colleague. Lumpy mashed potato doesn’t warrant me arresting him, Mrs Crawford. I don’t take depriving someone of their liberty lightly.”
It had been my intention to try and bring some perspective to the whole affair; maybe agree that whilst the altercation with her husband might not have been very pleasant, it wasn’t exactly a matter of life or death. At this very moment, somewhere in the world there could be a turtle on its back that couldn’t flip itself upright again, not to mention that it’s thought that an octopus eats itself when it’s stressed… so best not to get too wound up over a few King Edwards, although I personally would have recommended the red-skinned Desiree for mashing. However, before I could deliver my sermon, Eileen came and stood directly in front of me, hands on hips. I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere, perhaps on the other side of Sandford, there were people who might actually need our assistance yet here we were wasting our time on some spuds. I wanted to tell Eileen Crawford that enough was enough and then leave, but I suspected that she would have anticipated this and would have something up her sleeve to detain us.
“So you’re taking his side!” It wasn’t a question: it was an accusation.
Before I could explain that I wasn’t taking anyone’s side, Eileen barged past us both and strode out onto the landing. “Now I know how Blanche felt about Baby Jane,” she muttered.
Jess and I once again exchanged confused looks. We were doing it far too often today.
“Well, if you’re not going to do anything…” Eileen shouted before bounding down the stairs. We were both startled by the sudden turn of events, but quickly rallied ourselves and darted after her, suspecting that she was off to confront the mild-mannered Geoffrey. To our surprise – and his, she ran through the lounge, straight past her startled spouse and into the dining room. As we reached the doorway, we were just in time to see her kneel down next to the sideboard. Both Jess and I stood looking down at her, wondering what had possessed the woman.
“What the bally hell?” Geoffrey added his own contribution to the proceedings.
“Oh, shut up, you old halfwit!” Eileen shouted through to her confused spouse. “You sound more like some confused old major every day. All you’re missing is a toy dog on wheels to push around!”
“‘Til death do us part,” mused Geoffrey. “Does that mean in heaven I’m single?” he enquired of no one in particular.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I interjected, trying to bring some sanity back to the proceedings.
“So,” Eileen continued, turning her attention back to Jess and me. “For one last time, are you going to lock the old duffer up?”
“For one last time: NO!” I replied emphatically.
Suddenly, Eileen swung open the cabinet door and pulled out a large carving knife from within. In one swift, fluid movement, she raised it above her head, holding the handle with both hands. “THEN I’LL KILL MYSELF!” she shrieked, bringing the knife down in a dramatic arc towards her stomach.
The next couple of seconds were a blur as Jess instinctively turned and pushed Geoffrey away from the danger, whilst I dived towards our she-devil. There wasn’t time to draw my spray or press the emergency button or to even think – I just had to get the weapon out of her grasp. My outstretched hands grabbed her wrists, the momentum sending us both crashing into the sideboard. I heard the knife clatter as it fell to the floor. In an instant Jess was by my side, kicking it out of harm’s way.
It had all happened so fast. In a matter of minutes events had escalated from a conversation in bed to an attempted suicide – and all because of a few potatoes. I could barely believe what had occurred.
As I lay across Eileen, sweat forming on my brow and with my mouth dry from the exertion, she broke the silence. “Oh, you silly man! I wasn’t really going to kill myself. That was a John Lewis own brand carving knife. If I was going to kill myself I would have used my classic Henckels gourmet knife. I do have standards, you know.”
“Never knowingly undersold,” was all I could think of to say.
“As for you,” she hissed over my shoulder at a bewildered Geoffrey, “this is all your doing, you old buffoon.”
“Charming!” he muttered back.
“And you can let go of my wrists now,” she snapped, turning to me. “This is police brutality, you utter moron!”
I extracted myself from my prone position and pushed myself up, not sure whether I had actually witnessed a genuine suicide attempt or if I was just part of some elaborate play-acting.
“Come on, Eileen,” said Jess, reaching out her hand. “I’ll help you up.”
Eileen grasped my colleague’s hand and pulled her floorwards towards her before delivering a stinging slap across Jess’ face with her free hand. “It’s Mrs Crawford to you!”
Jessica reeled from the blow. “Well, Mrs Crawford, you are now under arrest for assault on a police constable,” my colleague curtly informed her as I grabbed her wrists again and started to apply the handcuffs. “You do not have to say anything but…” The rest of her words were lost in the commotion as the situation descended into a frenzied tangle of arms and legs. Trying to cuff a drunken woman is like trying to cuff an octopus.
Finally, when Eileen had exhausted herself and the cuffs had been applied, she realised the game was up and her demeanour changed as she slumped to the ground.
Appeals to our better nature then began: pleas for sympathy and general begging not to be taken away were interspersed with requests for Geoffrey to intercede on her behalf. Eventually, her husband came over and knelt down beside her. Everything went quiet for about thirty seconds before the silence gave way to a series of noises not dissimilar to the sound of whales communicating with one another in the depths of the ocean. Jess and I exchanged bewildered looks on realising that the noises were coming from both Mr and Mrs Crawford. Slowly, Geoffrey raised his right hand and offered it to his wife. In response, Eileen raised her cuffed left hand and slowly stretched it towards her husband. The little fingers on each of their hands were the
n extended until they were touching… and then entwined.
“Pinkie promise?” beseeched Geoffrey in a hushed tone.
“Pinkie promise,” came the barely audible reply from Eileen.
With the bizarre ritual now complete and the solemn oath undertaken, Geoffrey rose to his feet, cleared his throat and informed us that he had reached an agreement with his wife. Apparently, there would be no further need for any police involvement and, if we could just release her from her manacles, from this point on he would take full responsibility for her welfare.
“I think it’s a bit late for that now,” I remarked to Geoffrey, and told him that his wife would be coming with us, pinkie promise or no pinkie promise. “She’s just assaulted my colleague.”
“Please. I’ll be good now,” intoned our sorrowful prisoner, adopting a childlike voice for best effect. “It’s the drink that does it,” she conceded.
“Maybe alcohol doesn’t love you back,” I suggested to her. I decided to leave out the bit about going to Alchi-traz.
“But we’ve got the vicar coming over for tea,” voiced Geoffrey, as though willing me to provide him with a solution to his afternoon dilemma.
“Well, I hardly think Mrs Crawford is in a very Jesus-y mood,” I concluded. I toyed with suggesting that he inform the vicar that the Karma had just run over the Dogma, but decided to save it for another day.
As we brought her to her feet, Eileen decided to summarise what she thought of us. “Oh, you bunch of cu…”
“Can we stop that, please?” Jess interjected just in time. “If you can’t be nice, at least have the decency to be vague.”
The Queen of False Alarms was then led out into the police car and conveyed the short journey back to custody. En route we had to explain over and over again to our charge why she’d been arrested as clearly, in her mind, she’d done nothing wrong. When we reached the station she asserted this belief again, in no uncertain terms, to the custody sergeant, before informing him that she had a doctorate in Fine Arts and that there was no way on earth that she was going into a cell like a common criminal. Demands were also made to see someone with ‘real’ authority who would sort this issue out once and for all; and once she had spoken to her friends in high places heads would roll, and they would have her out of this place ‘in a flash’. Indeed, according to Eileen Crawford, hell would freeze over before she was incarcerated in Sandford Police Station.
Five minutes later, I opened the viewing flap to the cell.
“Hello, Mrs Crawford.”
“And why are you here again?” she replied contemptuously.
“Because apparently stone smashes scissors.” It was true – I had lost out to Jess in the deciding game. I was going to choose paper, but had changed my mind on the second shake. I can appreciate the animosity between scissors and paper, but rock? Clearly, he was just coming over for a fight!
“I’ve come to ask if you’d like a cup of tea or coffee?”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself!” was her reply.
I took that as a no.
Chapter 5
Indecent Proposal
“Report of a male sitting in a car outside Sugar Rush Primary School ‘furiously masturbating’ according to the headmistress.”
As soon as I heard the call, I tipped my cup of tea into the sink and raced into the parade room to see if any vehicle keys were hanging up on the board. Gwen had obviously had the same idea and was already reaching for a set. We had arrived for the late shift and had been making a brew in preparation for the briefing when the message had halted us in our tracks. The school day was nearly at an end and the area would soon be awash with children. The last thing we needed was a paedophile in their midst. The police station was just around the corner from the school and in all probability we would get there before any of the day shift could respond. Within seconds, we were in the car and pulling out of the yard, lights on but no sirens; we didn’t want to spook our predator. Ideally, if we could catch him in the act, we would have a decent, albeit indecent, case with which to bring him before the courts.
I radioed Comms, telling them that we were on our way, but had to cut the dispatcher off mid-sentence as only moments later we were at the school. There was a long line of cars outside as parents waited patiently for their children to finish class. A quick glance at the entrance to the building revealed the head and her receptionist peeking out through the blinds and feverishly pointing over towards the car in question. I switched on the body-mounted camcorder that we had all now been issued with; although I didn’t relish the prospect of having footage of a male pleasuring himself, this would provide irrefutable evidence. I checked my watch: it was almost half past three; the place would soon be swarming with small children and I didn’t want them seeing this. I jumped out of the car and ran, crouching along the line of parked cars so as not to alert our quarry. Gwen, meanwhile, accelerated our vehicle, driving alongside the suspect’s car in order to block any potential escape route. Just as the panda braked into position, I reached the target vehicle and whipped open the driver’s door before he had time to react. The suspect was so engrossed in his occupation that his hand was still a virtual blur. I quickly took the keys out of the ignition to further ensure that he couldn’t get away and then stood back to get a clearer view of him…
“Oh, I am sorry, sir.” The man stared up at me in shock. I quickly waved over at Gwen, indicating that she should stay in the car, but it was already too late; before I had a chance to stop her, Gwen had thrown open his passenger door, and triumphantly shouted: “You filthy beast!”
As the male turned towards her, a bewildered expression on his face, all my colleague could do was mumble, “Oh, dear!” as the horrible realisation swept over her. She slowly withdrew, closed the door gently and went and sat back in the car. I curtly waved her off, signalling for her to park elsewhere, and then carefully reinserted the gentleman’s keys back in his ignition. I apologised once more, explaining that there had been a terrible mistake, before slowly clicking his door shut and going in search of the caller.
As I made my way up the path to the school, I glanced over at our police car and saw Gwen inside, attempting to make herself look as inconspicuous as possible. But I wasn’t going to let her get away with it that easily! I gave her a shout over the radio, insistent that she should come and join me. She reluctantly got out of the car and slowly walked over to the school entrance, her hands in her pockets, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. We were buzzed in and made our way to the head’s office where the reception committee was eagerly waiting for us.
“Did you catch the pervert?” they queried in unison. “Can I let the children out now? Is it safe?”
“I think you can let the kids out now,” I ventured. “And I think it best that we don’t refer to him as a pervert any more either.”
From their expressions, I could see some further explanation was required.
“He wasn’t masturbating – furiously or otherwise,” I told them. “He was actually rubbing away at a lottery scratch card. There was a small pile of them on the passenger seat next to him. He was just filling in time until his son came out of school. We surprised him mid-scratch.”
“Oh, dear God!” spluttered the head. “He must have been mortified when you accused him?”
“Thankfully, I managed to avoid that particular embarrassment,” I informed her. “I diverted the conversation by pretending that I was just really keen to see if he’d had any winners.”
It had been obvious to me that the poor man was still in shock when he had spoken to me; after all, it’s not every day that you are sitting in your car, minding your own business, when two police officers violently yank open the door – one of whom accuses you of being a filthy beast, while the other politely enquires if you’ve had any luck on the instant wins! I stared hard at Gwen, but she would do anything but meet my gaze.
“And did he have any luck?” enquired the receptionist hesitantly, keen to
salvage some sort of positive ending to this sorry incident.
“He did, actually,” I clarified, “which probably accounts for the reason he kept looking up with a smug grin on his face every now and again between rubbings.”
“Well, that’s what made me think he was doing a selfie,” asserted the head.
“A SELFIE!” declared the receptionist, clearly confused. “Just to clarify here, Alison, what exactly do you think a selfie is?”
“Well, it’s Australian slang for touching yourself, self-abuse… for masturbating,” came the reply from the head, as though she were reading from a thesaurus.
“Oh, my Lord!” sighed her colleague. “So what on earth did you think I was referring to when I came back from my holidays and told you I did a selfie on top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Well, I did wonder why you were being so candid with me,” confessed her boss. “And so proud of the fact, too,” she added in an embarrassed whisper.
“Good grief!” cried the exasperated receptionist. “A selfie is a photograph that you take of yourself!”
“And when you told me you had a selfie stick…”
“Oh, please!” exclaimed the indignant receptionist. “Is that why your husband always gives me such an odd look when he picks you up?”
The head chose to ignore the last comment, and instead tried to change the subject by saying that they really should press on with sending the letters out to parents about the next school trip.
“Would you mind giving me a hand with these?” she asked her assistant.
“Sure,” came the muted response.
“C’mon. Sound a little more enthusiastic!” her boss encouraged, trying to sound upbeat as she grabbed a handful of notices.
“YEAH, DON’T I JUST LOVE STUFFING ENVELOPES!” declared her assistant sarcastically.
“Rachel, a word please – in private.”
As a distinctly frosty atmosphere descended, Gwen and I took the opportunity to quietly slip out of the office, hoping that our own faux pas would soon be forgotten now that the head and her secretary appeared to be reviewing the very foundations of their working relationship.
Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 7
