“You sound like my father, sir, and he couldn’t put me off.”
The commander stood up. “Then so be it, Warwick. See you in two years’ time.” They shook hands again; the obligatory interview over.
“Thank you, sir,” said William. After closing the door quietly behind him he wanted to leap in the air and cry Hallelujah, until he saw three figures standing in the outer office looking directly at him.
“Name and rank?” said the older man he’d seen earlier.
“Warwick, sir. Constable William Warwick.”
“Make sure Constable Warwick doesn’t move, sergeant,” said the older man to the young woman, before knocking on the commander’s door and going in.
“Good morning, Bruce,” said Hawksby. “I hear you’re about to arrest Miles Faulkner. Not a moment too soon.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But that wasn’t why I wanted to see you…” was all William heard before the door closed.
“Who’s he?” William asked the young woman.
“Detective Chief Inspector Lamont. He heads up the Art and Antiques unit and reports directly to Commander Hawksby.”
“Do you also work for the art squad?”
“Yes. I’m DS Roycroft, and the chief’s my gaffer.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Up to your neck, constable. Let’s just say I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”
“But I was only trying to help…”
“And thanks to your help, you’ve single-handedly managed to scupper a six-month undercover operation.”
“But how?”
“I suspect you’re about to find out,” said DS Roycroft as the door swung open and Detective Chief Inspector Lamont reappeared, glaring at William.
“Come in, Warwick,” he said. “The commander wants another word with you.”
William walked tentatively into Hawksby’s office, assuming he was about to be told that he was back on the beat. The commander’s smile had been replaced by a grim look, and this time he didn’t bother to shake hands with PC 565LD.
“You’re a nuisance, Warwick,” he said, “and I can tell you now, you won’t be going to Peckham.”
5
“Your last day in uniform,” said Fred as they left the nick and set out on their evening patrol.
“Unless I’m not cut out to be a detective,” said William. “In which case, I’ll be back on the beat in no time.”
“Balls. You’ll make a name for yourself, and everyone knows it.”
“Only thanks to you, Fred. You’ve taught me more about the real world than I ever learned at university.”
“Only because you’ve led such a sheltered life, Choirboy. Unlike me. So which unit will you be attached to?”
“Art and Antiques.”
“I thought that was just a hobby for people with too much time and money on their hands, not a crime.”
“It can be a very lucrative crime for those who’ve worked out how to find a way around the law.”
“Enlighten me.”
“There’s a scam going on at the moment,” said William, “where professional criminals steal paintings without any intention of selling them.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Fred. “Why steal something you don’t intend to sell or pass on to a fence?”
“Insurance companies are sometimes willing to make a deal with a go-between rather than pay out the full amount on a policy.”
“A fence in an Armani suit?” said Fred. “So how do you nick ’em?”
“You have to wait until they get too greedy, and the insurance company refuses to pay up.”
“Sounds like a lot of paperwork to me, so I’d never have made a detective.”
“Where are we patrolling tonight?” asked William, well aware that Fred didn’t always follow daily orders to the letter.
“Saturday night. Better check the Barton estate and make sure the Suttons and Tuckers aren’t spoiling for a fight. Then we’ll head back to Luscombe Road before the pubs close. Might even find a drunk and disorderly for you to arrest on your last night on the beat.”
Although William had spent two years on probation with Fred, he knew almost nothing about his private life. He could hardly complain, because he himself was just as secretive, but as it would be their final patrol together, he decided to ask Fred something that had often puzzled him.
“What made you join the force in the first place?”
Fred didn’t answer for some time, almost as if he was ignoring the question. “As I’m never going to see you again, Choirboy,” he eventually replied, “I’ll tell you. To start with, it wasn’t in the first place. And was more by accident than design.”
William remained silent as they turned into an alley that led to the back of the Barton estate.
“I was born in a tenement block in Glasgow. My father spent most of his life on the dole, so my mother was our only source of income.”
“What did she do?”
“She was a barmaid, who learned soon enough that she could earn a damn sight more doing favors on the side. Trouble is, I’m still not sure if I was the result of one of those favors.”
William didn’t comment.
“But the cash dried up when she began to lose her looks, and it didn’t help that my father gave her a regular black eye if she didn’t come home on a Saturday night with enough cash to pay for his next bottle of whiskey and the chance to back another fourth-place nag.”
Fred fell silent, while William thought about his own parents, who usually went out to dinner and the theater on a Saturday night. He still found it difficult to comprehend the tyranny of domestic violence. He’d never once heard his father raise his voice in front of his mother.
“London’s a long way from Glasgow,” prompted William, hoping to learn more.
“It wasn’t far enough for me,” said Fred, flashing his torch down an alley and grinning when a young couple scurried away. “I was fourteen when I left home. I jumped on the first tramp steamer that would have me. I’d seen half the world by the time I was eighteen and landed up in London.”
“Is that when you joined the force?”
“No. I still looked on them as the enemy. I spent a few months stacking supermarket shelves before becoming a bus conductor. Soon got bored with that, so decided to join either the army or the police. If the police hadn’t interviewed me first, I might be a general by now.”
“Or dead,” said William, as they walked onto the estate.
“You’re just as likely to be killed in this job as you are in the modern army,” said Fred. “I’ve lost seven colleagues in the past twenty years, and far too many others, injured and invalided out of the force. And at least in the army you know who the enemy is, and you’re allowed to kill them. We’re expected to handle drug dealers, knife crime, and gang warfare, while most of the public prefer not to know.”
“So why did you stick at it when you could have chosen a far easier life?”
“We may have come from opposite sides of the tracks, Choirboy,” said Fred, “but we do have one thing in common—we’re both a bit bonkers, but at least we’re doing the job we were destined for. And let’s face it, I’ve never had a job that’s half as exciting or rewarding as being a Met copper.”