by Ford,P. F.
Biddeford had visions of what was about to happen if there was anything coming along the road towards them. He closed his eyes and held his breath. But instead of the crash he expected to hear, all he heard was an almost maniacal laugh from his driver. He opened his mouth to order her to slow down, but before he could speak she was shouting to him.
“There’s the old pervert,” she yelled. “We’ve got the bugger!”
Up ahead, about 50 yards away, Mickey Mouse was hobbling in their direction. His dark blue dressing gown flapped open to reveal a scrawny white body and skinny white legs. His crown jewels would have been on display, but his clutching hands hid them from view. He skidded to a halt and headed back the way he had come as soon as he realised it was a police car that was heading in his direction.
Flight was homing in on him like a lion after its prey. Biddeford felt like a spectator as Flight skidded to halt, jumped from the car and leapt onto Mickey Mouse’s back, sending him crashing to the ground. It all happened in one seamless, fluid, motion, almost as if it had been choreographed for a movie. It was over so quickly; Biddeford had hardly climbed from the car before Flight was hauling the villain to his feet and preparing to handcuff him.
“For God’s sake, do up that dressing gown and cover him up before you handcuff him,” Biddeford said, trying not to get an eyeful.
Flight’s face darkened as she tidied up her prisoner, handcuffed him, and then clumsily bundled him into the back of the car. She didn’t say another word all the way back to the station. Biddeford could see she was brooding about something, but he was more concerned with the way she had approached the chase.
Driving at high speed is a skill that requires specialist training, and after her display earlier, he was pretty sure she’d never been on such a training course. To say her driving had been reckless would be an understatement. She had turned into some sort of maniacal risk-taker who could easily have killed an innocent bystander.
By the time they got back to the station and booked the old man in, they still hadn’t spoken, but at least now they had the old guy in an interview room.
“What’s your name?” Biddeford asked him.
“Mickey Mouse.”
“Yeah, but what about when you’re not in costume?” said Biddeford patiently.
“Bollocks,” said the old man, defiantly.
Biddeford wrote down the word “bollocks”.
“Is that Mister Bollocks?” he asked.
“Did you arrest that woman?” asked the old man. “I mean, you were quick enough to grab and beat up an innocent old man walking up the road, minding his own business. So what about the woman who assaulted me? Did you arrest her?”
Biddeford sighed heavily.
“Innocent old man? Really?” he said. “And where did this assault take place?”
“In the changing rooms.”
“And what were you doing in the changing rooms?”
“I was minding my own business.”
“According to the lady’s statement,” said Biddeford, wearily, “you were sticking your todger through a hole in the wall. It was poking into her cubicle. That’s called indecent exposure.”
“I was just resting it. It gets tiring walking around with a stalk on all the time. When you’ve got one this big it gets heavy, you see.”
“Please,” said Biddeford. “Spare me the details. I’m really not interested.”
“Yes, but-”
“No,” said Biddeford. “Just shut up while I decide what to do with you.”
He thought that maybe the old man would be a bit more co-operative if he had to spend the night in a cell. Perhaps, then, he would stop pissing about and they could get on with something worthwhile. Besides, he needed to talk to Flight. They had a date arranged tonight, and right now it seemed she didn’t even want to talk to him.
While Biddeford was thinking about what to do next, the old man had turned his attention to PC Flight. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Flight looked down her nose at him. She was already red-faced with anger, as she had been since the arrest.
“I don’t think so, granddad,” she said in a snarl.
“I’m terrible with names but good with faces,” he said, staring at her. “I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”
“No,” she said, very deliberately. “You do not know my face.”
“Oh, I do,” he said. “It’ll come to me eventually.”
“Well,” said Biddeford. “You’ll have plenty of time to think about it. If you won’t talk to us, I’m going to lock you up in one of our cold, draughty, cells for the night.”
“What do you want to know?” asked the old man.
“Your name would be a start.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You mean you won’t tell me,” corrected Biddeford. “So how about telling me why you feel the need to wave your donger at people.”
“It’s the Viagra.”
“Viagra?” asked Biddeford.
“I’m addicted to it,” explained the old man. “But, of course, that means I’ve got a permanent hard-on. It’s been years since I could manage a couple of minutes. Now I’ve got one all the time, it seems a shame to waste it, you know?”
“And you seriously expect me to believe this?” asked Biddeford.
“I don’t always wave it at people. Sometimes I just watch through their windows and, well, you know.”
“No. I don’t know. Tell me,” Biddeford said, pretty sure he wasn’t going to enjoy the answer.
“What he means is, he’s a peeping tom and he likes to wank himself stupid while he watches women undress,” snapped Flight.
“Oh yes,” sighed the old man, dreamily. “I do enjoy that. Best of all though, is watching the doggers up at the Haunted Copse.”
He went into a silent reverie at the memory.
“Talking of which,” he said suddenly, turning to Biddeford. “When are you lot going to finish up there? All the time you’ve got all those people up there, the doggers stay away.”
“You’ll be pleased to know, we’re moving out right this very afternoon,” said Biddeford. “Not that you’ll be going up there to watch again.”
“Oh, that is good news,” said the old man. “They’ll be up there tonight, then. You should try it some time. There’s one blonde girl up there-”
“Yes. Well we don’t want to hear any more of your dirty talk today, you old pervert,” interrupted Flight, her voice a little shaky. “My colleague’s right. You need a night in the cells.”
Biddeford looked at Flight in surprise. Since when was she in charge here? At least the red face of rage had faded now. In fact, she looked a bit peaky. He hoped she wasn’t going to call off their date.
“Could I have a word outside?” he asked her.
“You,” he said, turning back to the old man. “Wait here. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Flight climbed to her feet and followed Biddeford from the room.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Biddeford once they were out in the corridor.
“What’s the matter with me?” she said, bristling. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. What happened to ‘well done, Phil, good catch’? What happened to being a team? I arrest the old fart while you’re still sat on your arse in the car, and suddenly you start ordering me around like I’m some moron who doesn’t know what they’re doing.”
“You were driving recklessly, and you know it,” he replied. “You could have killed someone.”
“Oh bullshit!” she snapped, turning her back on him and storming off.
“Wait a minute,” called Biddeford. “You can’t just walk off like that. Where d’you think you’re going?” He began to follow her down the corridor and around the corner. Then he continued, up the stairs and into the locker room, where he finally cornered her.
“Phillipa, wait,” he said. “You were happy enough earlier. What’s really wrong? Come on, talk to me.”
And so she did, for half an hour.
It was 5pm. Down in the interview room, Danny Bradford wondered how much longer they were going to be. They’d been gone for nearly 10 minutes already. He stood up and paced up and down. He pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn’t hear anyone outside. He tried turning the door handle. To his great surprise, it opened.
Gently, quietly, he opened the door just enough to peer out. There was no one outside. He poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. Not a soul in sight. He stood and listened. He couldn’t hear a thing.
For a moment he thought about staying where he was, but then the thought of being cooped up in a cell all night reminded him why he had opened that door in the first place. He stepped into the corridor, quietly closed the door behind him, and headed off to the right. Eventually he came to a door with a small window, and looked carefully through it. He was looking out onto the main reception area. The desk was unmanned.
On the other side of the reception area, he could see the door that would lead him outside and to freedom. Surely, he thought, it couldn’t be this easy, could it? He’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t he? And anyway, what did he have to lose?
He turned the handle and pushed the door open, fearing it would squeak or make some noise that would bring someone running, but the door made no sound as he passed through and then gently closed it behind him. There was a raincoat hanging up just inside the outside door, and as he passed, Danny took the coat and slipped it on. It was a little on the large size but it would do to hide his dressing gown. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through the outside door. He was free, and, as luck would have it, it had just started to drizzle.
Now, he thought, a man in a raincoat in drizzle was going to blend in just perfectly.
Chapter Nineteen
In the end, Biddeford had sent Flight home. Much as he would have liked to spend the evening with her down the pub, he had decided she was just a bit too upset today. And that episode this afternoon when she had been driving like some sort of maniac had unsettled him. He now realised he knew virtually nothing about her, and what he had seen so far today was ringing alarm bells in his head. He could do without getting involved with an adrenaline junkie who just wanted to take risks all the time.
By the time he got back down to the interview room, he was happy he had done the right thing.
“Right,” he said as he entered the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”
And then he stopped. The room was empty. He stepped back out into the corridor and checked the other rooms. They were all empty. So where was his prisoner? Maybe someone had put him in a cell for safekeeping. He made his way back to the duty sergeant.
“Have you seen my prisoner?” he asked.
“You mean the Phantom Flasher with the bent light sabre?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“No. Not set eyes on him. I thought you were interviewing him.”
“Yes. I was. But I took a time out, and now he’s gone,” said Biddeford, the colour draining from his face as he realised the enormity of what he’d done.
“Oh bloody hell,” said the sergeant, scrambling to his feet. “Well don’t just stand there. Help me search for the old bugger. He can’t have got far, can he? We’ll both be in the shit if he’s escaped.”
As if stung by an electric shock, Biddeford suddenly sprang into life, but after 10 minutes of frantic searching, they both knew it. Dick Waver, the Phantom Flasher, was on the loose.
It was approaching 6pm. Slater sat at his desk and looked around the empty incident room. As it was Saturday, he had stood everyone down, except for a lone PC up at the far end of the room, manning the phones. They were unlikely to achieve much more now it was this late into the day, so he didn’t see any point in making everyone hang around for the sake of it. Better to give them the rest of the weekend off and have them all fresh for Monday morning.
Norman was just finishing off a report before heading off to try out a new takeaway place that had just opened. Slater was only waiting for Steve Biddeford and Phillipa Flight to report in and he would be able to head off home himself.
Apparently, the new partnership of Biddeford and Flight had morphed into the dynamic duo and they were having a blinding day. Not only had they made progress on the light aircraft inquiry, but, on top of that, they’d managed to catch the flasher on their way back earlier this afternoon. They were interviewing him right now.
There was a knock at the door and as Slater looked up from his desk it opened just enough for him to see Steve Biddeford peering inside.
“Don’t just stand there. Come in, Steve,” he said.
Biddeford came slowly and nervously into the room, a desperate look on his face.
“I thought, from what you told me on the phone at lunchtime, you were having a good day,” said Slater. “But I take it from the look on your face that’s now changed.”
Biddeford stood in front of Slater’s desk shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Slater watched him for a few seconds.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Or are you demonstrating your Riverdance impression?”
“Err. Well. Yes. No, not Riverdance,” babbled Biddeford.
“Either talk some sense, or go away,” said Slater. “Because I’m bloody tired and I want to go home. If you just stand there like that for much longer I’m going to get seriously pissed off.”
“Dick Waver’s escaped,” said Biddeford.
There was a deathly hush as Slater digested what he had just said.
“What do you mean, he’s escaped?” he asked, after what seemed like an age. “Are you telling me he’s some sort of ninja who fought his way through the station?”
“Err, not exactly no. He didn’t actually have to fight his way out. We left him for a few minutes and he just sort of walked out.”
“He just ‘sort of walked out’?” echoed Slater, but with added sarcasm. “Surely you had someone watching him. Wouldn’t that be PC Flight’s job?”
“It’s not her fault,” said Biddeford, quietly. “I take full responsibility.”
“But he couldn’t have just walked out of the front door for God’s sake. What about the duty sergeant?”
“He was away from his desk, making himself a cup of tea.”
“Where is Flight, anyway?” asked Slater.
“I sent her home,” explained Biddeford. “I need to talk to you about her.”
“I don’t bloody well believe this.” Slater was furious. “He was an old man who’d been whacked in the goolies for God’s sake. How could he be allowed to walk out? And where is everybody who might have stopped him? One of them’s making a cup of bloody tea and the other one’s been told to go home early. Oh, Bob Murray’s gonna bloody love this. I can’t wait to tell him.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” said Biddeford.
“You’re sorry?” said Slater. “We’re all going to be bloody sorry when Murray finds out. He’ll go ballistic.”
In the silence that followed Slater’s outburst, Biddeford stood before Slater’s desk, staring unhappily down at the floor. And then the silence was broken by the sound of giggling.
Slater looked in the direction of the giggles.
“I don’t see anything remotely bloody funny about this, Norm,” he snapped.
“Oh, come on, you mentioned ninjas” said Norman. “I just had this picture in my head of this old guy karate chopping his way through the assembled police force, fighting his way to freedom.”
“Yes. That’s very bloody funny, I’m sure.”
“Oh, get a grip,” said Norman. “It’s not as if it’s Jack the Ripper on the loose is it? The guy’s not going to rape or murder anyone, is he? At best, he’s a public nuisance. The whole town thinks he’s just a big joke. And now we know what he looks like, how hard’s it gonna be to track him down?”
“The local press will have a bloody field day when they find out,” said Slater, sulkily.
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br /> “So let’s see if we can find him before they find out,” said Norman.
“Once we put the word out that he’s gone missing some bigmouth will let the cat out of the bag. You know it, I know it, we all know it.”
“So don’t put the word out,” said Norman. “At least, not yet. My guess is the duty sergeant won’t be in any hurry to tell the world how he let a prisoner walk out the front door, so it should be easy enough to keep him quiet for a few hours.”
“But we don’t know where to start looking,” said Slater.
“Actually we might,” said Biddeford. “He was complaining about the Haunted Copse car park being closed and keeping the doggers away. I told him it would be open tonight.”
“We might just kill two birds with one stone,” said Slater, seeing a glimmer of hope. “I’m supposed to take a team up there and put the wind up the doggers. Murray seems to think scaring them will keep them away. Maybe we should raid them tonight. We might just find our dirty old man up there as well.”
“It looks like it’s gonna be a small team,” said Norman. “I have a hot date with a new takeaway joint, so it’s gonna be just the two of you.”
Slater looked at him with dismay.
“You take anyone else,” said Norman, “and they might just let your little secret out of the bag.”
Biddeford was relieved he had been given a second chance to catch the Phantom Flasher. He had been dreading telling Slater what had happened, and although his boss had been furious, they at least had a plan in mind.
They had a good three hours to kill before they could launch their two-man raid on the doggers, but first, they cornered the duty sergeant to make sure he was on their side. They had no worries on that score. Being exposed as the doorkeeper who let Dick Waver go free wasn’t something he was keen to do.
After that, it was just a question of waiting, but Biddeford’s conscience was playing him up. He knew the old boy had escaped because he had been more interested in Phillipa Flight than in doing his job, and he wasn’t the sort who could live with himself if he didn’t confess.
