by Oliver Tidy
*
The tide of Romney’s benevolence towards the station chief had risen a little higher owing to their agreeable consultation regarding the details of Operation Scrap – Boudicca had not batted an eyelash at the double-meaning of the word. Romney wondered if she just didn’t get it. His goodwill and good mood had encouraged him to offer her more than the olive bough he already had – Romney had asked Superintendent Vine if she would like to address the troops when they gathered that evening for the final briefing. Boudicca had accepted graciously. In any case, she’d already decided that she’d be doing that but it was nice to be asked for a change.
The meeting room was congested with bodies, buzzing with anticipation, the air heavy with testosterone and ambition. Mindful that the troops needed to be released into the wild and not held captive longer than absolutely necessary Romney and Blanchett briefly recapped the salient points before Romney indicated that Superintendent Vine would like to say a few words.
Boudicca, who had been standing to one side, took centre stage and a respectful hush descended on the gathering. She looked about them and nodded her approval.
‘Operation Scrap is an important event in this station’s history,’ she said. ‘and it’s important for all of us. We have duties to perform and our actions tonight will inevitably come under Area’s spotlight at a later date. Please bear that in mind. I expect every officer to act with professionalism and restraint.
‘I’m fully aware that many of you were not rostered tonight and are here voluntarily. And I know why. As the head of this station it gives me enormous pleasure to know that such comradeship exists here. I wish each of you a safe and successful evening. Good hunting.’
*
The teams were in position. Two liveried minibuses crammed with officers were parked on the outskirts of the town, well away from any of the main approach roads. Romney and Marsh were in Romney’s car in a lay-by on the main road that ran along the back of the wooded area to the west of the settlement. They were the only ones with a view of the Holloways’ empire – and only then if they used binoculars. Grimes and Spicer were in a vehicle hidden up on the A2, the main road that the gang should be coming in on. The dog unit was with the two minibuses. With the Chatham contingent, the Holloways and allowing for a potential few unknowns, the police were confident that they would outnumber the opposition two-to-one at least.
Romney had not heard from Martin since a call earlier in the evening when he reported that things were still on. Romney had told him to find a way of getting in touch when he had some news. Martin had said football was supposed to finish at nine.
Because of Martin’s projected time-frames it was assumed that if the Chatham boys went straight to wherever they had hidden the lead, loaded it and then trundled the forty odd miles down the M2 and A2 to Aylesham they wouldn’t arrive before ten o’clock. But the possibility that they might choose to go earlier encouraged the police to be in their positions by eight. Just to be on the safe side.
By the time the hands of the clock had dragged around to ten-thirty people were becoming increasingly restless at all locations and Romney was beginning to worry and wonder whether Martin had made a fool of him.
Superintendent Vine called Romney’s mobile again. And again he told her they were still waiting.
‘I do wish she’d go home,’ said Romney.
‘Not a chance,’ said Marsh, stifling another yawn. ‘Too much at stake. What did you make of her little speech?’
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly St Crispin’s Day, but then I suppose short and sweet was about right. At least she sounded positive.’
Romney’s phone rang. It was Zara. He got out to answer it.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘Work. Sorry. Didn’t you find the note I left?’
‘No. Where?’
‘Fridge door.’
‘Oh. So what time will you be finished?’
‘I have no idea. We’re on a stakeout.’ He hoped that sounded impressive.
Zara yawned loudly down the phone. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Romney felt a little guilty. ‘Fancy a pub meal tomorrow night?’
‘Can’t. Working lates.’
‘Let me know when then.’
‘Sure. Night.’
She’d rung off before he could wish her a goodnight. While he was out of the car he decided to have another cigarette and call the others. Everyone he spoke to sounded edgy.
He put his phone in his pocket just as a text message came through. Martin. ‘On way.’ As Romney released the breath, he realised he was a lot more wound up with the delay and the not knowing than he’d realised. He told Marsh and rang around with the news, thought about it and rang Boudicca. She thanked him for the update. He checked his watch – coming to eleven.
Using the binoculars, Romney scanned what he could see of the scrap metal yard again. There were some outside lights, which illuminated parts of it. Two cars had been parked up outside the site office ever since they’d arrived. He hadn’t seen anyone walking around.
He took out another cigarette and lit it off the dying embers of the other. Marsh stepped out of the car to join him.
‘At least we know they’re coming,’ she said.
Romney grunted. ‘I forgot to ask: you done many of these?’
‘A couple. First one they all put up their hands without a fight. Second one was a no show.’
‘I’ll be happy with option ‘a’, but I have a feeling that this lot won’t be coming particularly quietly. Too many places to run and it’s conveniently dark for them.’
‘What about the Holloways?’
‘Depends. They might be a pair of thieving scrotes but they’re not stupid.’
Romney’s phone rang. It was Grimes. ‘They might have just passed us, guv. A lorry sign-written with a Chatham construction outfit.’
They waited and watched. The night was quiet and calm and very dark away from the light pollution of the town. Somewhere in the undergrowth ahead of them a creature of the night was snuffling around, foraging for an evening meal, perhaps.
The noise of a vehicle approaching broke the spell. It was going fast, too fast for the narrow, tree-lined meandering lane. The full beam lit up everything and them. With a thump, thump, thump of a distorted bass note it shot past the police, making the parked car sway. ‘Dickhead,’ said Romney. The car arrived at the junction that joined the lane to the wider highway and it was evident from the drop in gear, the note of the engine and the sliding of the tyres that the driver had not bothered to follow the Highway Code or the traffic sign or allow for the possibility of other road users.
As the police listened to the increasing pitch of that car’s engine trailing off as it sped on its way the distinctive noise of a heavier diesel engine carried on the otherwise still night air to where they stood vigil. Romney lifted the binoculars again to see a lorry heading along the far country lane in the direction of the scrapyard. He watched it and watched it, willing it to turn off on to the track that led to the Holloways’ place. And then it did.
‘That’s them,’ he said.
As Romney slid in behind the steering wheel he told Marsh to summon the cavalry – they were about to put the scrap into Operation Scrap, he said.
*
Romney’s phone rang as they headed towards their rendezvous with trouble. He snatched it off the dashboard and glanced at the screen. Julie Carpenter. He put it back unanswered. A little way short of the turning he pulled into the verge, holding back so that the troops could pass them and lead the charge. He had no desire to be early, exposed and with only Marsh for company. That could be expected to end badly for the police. And the shock for their targets of seeing a couple of police vans crammed with officers of the law bumping up the approach track should be something, if not to scatter them to the four corners of the scrap yard, to have an adverse effect on their self-confidence. It wasn’t Operation Desert Storm but there would undoubtedly be an element of �
�shock and awe’ that the authorities would be able to count upon.
When the two vans and the dog car had shot past, Romney pulled out into the road to bring up the rear. A nerve-jangling shriek of rubber on tarmac was followed by the sounds of crunching metal, shattering plastic and the tinkling of light fittings falling on the road as Grimes ploughed into the back of him.
Romney had not put his seat belt back on. Out of habit, Marsh had. The collision was not high speed but Romney found himself thrown forwards on to the steering wheel.
Romney, predictably, exploded. He was out of the car shouting at Grimes’ driving when Marsh was sure he hadn’t checked his mirror, let alone signalled his intention to rejoin the highway. It wasted only seconds. Romney’s professional priorities overwhelmed his road rage. Holding his handkerchief to his mouth, he jumped back in his vehicle and, still swearing loudly, accelerated after the vans. Over the screaming of his engine Marsh thought she could detect the noise of a bit of the car dragging on the surface of the road behind them.
Marsh looked over her shoulder to see that Grimes’ car was not following.
‘Peter isn’t following,’ she said over Romney’s grinding of the gears. ‘Maybe he was hurt.’
‘Serves him bloody well right,’ said Romney, trying to stem the bleeding from his top lip. ‘He should watch where he’s bloody well going.’
With little choice, Marsh turned her attention back to the darkness in front of them. They were soon coming up behind the police vehicles that were now stationary in the turning area in front of the scrapyard entrance. Back doors were open and the police were spilling out in one dark, fluid mass, falling over each other in their desperation to break out of the claustrophobic confinement, to taste the fresh air, to get their hands on the men who beat up the station talisman, to make an arrest for their individual stats. None of them wanted to be one of those who didn’t feel a collar on this historic night for Dover police.
Romney skidded to a halt. As they got out to join the action, Marsh cast a quick glance over her shoulder into the night to where Grimes had rammed them. Only one of his headlights was working and the car still hadn’t moved. She frowned and groaned. She really hoped neither of them was hurt.
As soon as those the wrong side of the law understood what was happening and that they were heavily outnumbered, they ran. Police officers sprinted off in pairs in pursuit in all directions and were soon lost to sight, swallowed up in darkness or obscured behind the muddle of temporary structures, rusting debris and assorted obstacles. The excited shouting of men competed with the excited barking of dogs.
Romney trotted off in the direction of the site office. Marsh followed. They were just in time to see both of the Holloway brothers darting inside and slamming the door behind them. The lights that had been on were extinguished, plunging the converted container and the space around it into an inky darkness. Romney commandeered a couple of big uniform constables who had been slow out of the blocks.
The four of them walked the last few yards. Romney thumped on the door with his fist. There was no answer. He tried the handle. It was locked. ‘Elvis? Buddy? Come on out. I know you’re in there. This is Detective Inspector Romney.’
There was the noise of movement inside, some low level talking and then a light came on.
‘We’re coming out,’ said Elvis. ‘We are not armed and we are not going to make any trouble.’
The door opened and out they stepped. The police tensed for trouble because they were the Holloways and therefore no strangers to lying. Buddy, in particular, was not expected to come quietly. He hadn’t before. But he did now. In fact both brothers seemed worryingly relaxed about the way their evenings had turned out.
Romney arrested them both. They were read their rights and handcuffed.
‘Anything to say?’ said Romney.
‘You’re making a mistake, Mr Romney,’ said Elvis. ‘What stolen goods?’
Romney snorted. ‘What are you talking about, Elvis?’
‘I’m just saying that me and Buddy were up here catching up on some paperwork and this lorry rolls up and the next thing we know so do two vanloads of Old Bill.’
‘You had no idea what’s in the lorry, I suppose?’ said Romney, with a heavy dollop of sarcasm.
‘None.’
‘So why’d you run then?’
‘We panicked. Isn’t that right, Buddy? Make sure someone’s writing all this down, Mr Romney, won’t you? You’ve read us our rights, we understand them and so you have to, don’t you?’
Buddy was smiling when he said, ‘Elvis is right. We don’t know nothing about no stolen lead.’
‘Who said anything about stolen lead?’ said Romney.
Elvis turned to Buddy and said, ‘Shut up, Buddy. I told you – not a word.’
‘Write that down someone then load them up,’ said Romney to the constables.
‘Make sure you leave someone trustable up here, Mr Romney,’ said Elvis over his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t want to have to bring charges against the police if something went missing ‘cos you’ve dragged a couple of innocent legitimate businessmen away from their work.’
Marsh noted that Romney was looking a little less happy than he had been. ‘Maybe we should have waited until they’d unloaded it,’ she said.
‘Too bloody late now,’ he said.
They picked their way back to the vans. Those officers who had been successful were leading their catches back to the transport, receiving pats on the back from those who hadn’t. A few of the prisoners looked like they’d been roughed up. The record would show that they had resisted arrest. Romney had a look at them. He couldn’t see Martin. Maybe he’d got away, for now.
Numbers were quickly tallied and there was some confusion regarding how many there had been in the lorry before they had dispersed. None of the prisoners offered enlightenment. As the police waited for the rest of the searchers to return, a blood-curdling scream pierced the night from the direction of the self-storage field. It was quickly followed by the noise of a dog – big and dangerous by the sound of it.
As the police looked at each other, Romney said, ‘Sounds like someone’s just stumbled across Tiddles.’
‘What’s Tiddles?’ said the uniformed sergeant.
‘The biggest Rottweiler I’ve ever seen. He lives in the field next door.’
A couple of constables were dispatched to investigate. Neither looked happy about going into the night with the words ‘the biggest Rottweiler I’ve ever seen’ ringing in their ears and only torches and regulation batons for protection.
‘He’s a big softie, really,’ called Romney after them. His mood was obviously improving.
‘What happened to you, guv?’ said the same sergeant.
Romney had forgotten about his lip in all the excitement. He fingered it to find that the blood had run down his chin and on to his shirt. He probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue and was just about to lie when Grimes’ car came limping up the track. All interest in Romney’s injury was switched to see what had kept the rest of CID. It was quickly realised that the second CID vehicle had been in a collision. Someone whistled the Laurel and Hardy theme tune, which annoyed and embarrassed Romney.
Grimes and Spicer got out. Spicer had two rolled up bits up tissue stuck up his nostrils and there was blood on his shirt front. Grimes held a hand to his mouth. Both men looked a little shaken.
‘That looks like another fine mess you two have gotten yourselves into,’ said the uniformed sergeant, clearly enjoying the spectacle. ‘Nice of you to turn up.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Spicer, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose. ‘Peter refused to budge until he’d found his teeth.’
After looking in the back of the covered lorry and whistling at what he found, Romney rang Superintendent Vine to let her know that Operation Scrap had been a success. Arrests had been made and a substantial amount of lead recovered. She sounded relieved. She asked whether any officers had sustained
injuries. A little cryptically, Romney said, ‘Nothing in the line of duty,’ and found an excuse to ring off.
*
It was well past midnight by the time all the prisoners had been processed and locked up for the night. There was a strong suspicion that a couple of them had escaped and still none of those in custody were saying. Romney was not particularly worried. Martin had not been apprehended but when Romney next caught up with him he’d be getting the names of all those who’d been involved out of him.
A heady, palpable odour of celebration hung about the place, something to compete with the pong of the drunk and disorderly homeless man.
Officers began drifting off home with suggestions of a good drink soon to commemorate the evening. Boudicca had put in an appearance to congratulate everyone on a job well done. Enquiring after Romney’s swollen lip, she was told he’d banged his face earlier.
As Grimes and Spicer had not ended up being an integral part of Operation Scrap’s climax both had been told they could push off home from the scrapyard. Romney didn’t want their bloody and bruised features spoiling things and creating unwanted attention back at Ladywell.
Out of earshot of everyone else, Romney had had a quiet word with Grimes about the incident on the road. Unable to eavesdrop with any success, Marsh couldn’t wait to hear what he’d said, whether he’d apologised, maybe offered to pay for the damage to Grimes’s dentures and car, as in her opinion he should.
As Romney was leaving the station, his phone beeped with a text message. He noticed that he had three messages in his inbox, all from Julie Carpenter. Each was asking when they would be able to see each other again. Reading between the characters, Romney understood that each message was a little more urgent than the last. He checked the time of the latest and then his watch. He messaged her back: ‘sorry, big operation tonight. Just finished with prisoners. Leaving work now. Look forward to seeing you again soon. X
