William stared at number 23 but was none the wiser.
‘What do you see, Choirboy?’
‘Two empty cardboard boxes.’
‘And what does that tell you?’
William tried to think like a thief catcher, an accolade only given to those who, like Fred, could smell a crime even before it took place.
Fred let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Mrs. Perkins’s insurance company must have paid up, so she’s now the proud owner of a new television and VCR. But what she doesn’t know is that a burglar often returns to the scene of the crime a few weeks later, well aware there will probably be a brand-new TV set for them to steal. And in her case, she’s actually advertising the fact. All the villain has to do is wait until she goes out one evening to visit her friend Mrs. Cassidy at number ninety-one, then pop back in and rob her a second time.’
‘So what should we do?’ asked William.
‘Have a quiet word with her, and suggest she destroys the evidence,’ said Fred as he knocked on the door of number 23. Mrs. Perkins answered almost immediately, and once Fred had explained why two policemen were standing on her doorstep, she hastily removed the boxes, thanked him, and offered them a cup of tea.
‘That’s good of you, Mrs. Perkins, but I’d better get on.’ He touched the rim of his helmet before they continued on their round.
‘When do you start your new job?’ Fred asked after they’d walked a few more yards.
‘I’m taking a couple of weeks’ holiday in Italy before reporting to Scotland Yard on the first of October.’
‘Lots of pretty girls in Italy, I’m told.’
‘Most of them framed.’
‘Framed?’
‘In gold.’
Fred laughed. ‘I’ve never been to Italy, or even Scotland Yard for that matter, but I’m told they’ve got the finest snooker room in the Met.’
‘I’ll come back and tell you what it’s like...’
‘You’ll never come back, Choirboy. Lambeth has just been the first rung on what I expect will be a very long ladder. But be warned, on your way up you’ll come across plenty of snakes who’ll be only too happy to send you back down a ladder, and some of them will be wearing blue uniforms,’ he said, rattling a shop door to make sure it was locked.
William chuckled. Never a shift went by when he didn’t learn something from Fred.
‘Evenin’, Jacob.’
‘Hello, Fred.’
William looked down at a man who was sitting cross-legged on the pavement, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey. When he was first on the beat, Fred had taught him that there were four types of drunks: the sleepers, who fall into a drunken stupor, and when they eventually wake up, go home; the harmless, who are usually drowning their sorrows and are rarely any trouble; the lovers, who want to take you home and try on your uniform; and the aggressive ones, who are looking for a fight and consider a policeman fair game. Fred could identify each category at a dozen paces, especially those looking for a fight, who regularly ended up spending the night in a cell, and were often a completely different person the following morning. William had come across all four types over the past couple of years, and thanks to Fred’s common sense and strong right arm, he only had one or two bruises to show for it.
‘Which category?’ asked William.
‘Drowning his sorrows. Spurs must have lost this afternoon.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Jacob’s as good as gold when they win, but if they lose, he’s a lost cause.’
They turned into Luscombe Road to see a few locals making their way home from the Marlborough Arms.
‘Disappointing,’ said Fred. ‘Luscombe Road isn’t what it used to be since the council cleaned it up. I was hoping we might come across a drug dealer, or even Lenny the Snitch, so you’d have something to remember from your last night on the beat.’
‘We could always arrest her,’ said William, pointing to a girl in a short black leather skirt who was chatting to a man through an open car window.
‘What’s the point? She’ll only spend the night in a cell, pay a fine in the morning, and be back on the game tomorrow evening. It’s not the girls I’d like to nick, but the pimps who live off them. And one in particular,’ Fred added.
The car sped away when the driver spotted two policemen in his rearview mirror. They ambled on toward the town center, Fred regaling William with stories, some of which he’d heard before but were worth a second outing, and others that he wasn’t sure hadn’t been embellished with the passing of the years.
William was going to ask Fred about his retirement plans when his mentor grabbed his arm and pulled him into the nearest doorway, suddenly no longer the friendly neighborhood bobby but transformed into a policeman who’d spotted a real criminal.
‘It’s our lucky night,’ said Fred, nodding in the direction of a giant of a man clutching a terrified girl by the neck. ‘I’ve been after that bastard for years. Don’t bother reading him his rights. That can wait until he’s banged up in a cell.’
Fred drew his truncheon, leaped out from the shadows, and began running toward the assailant, causing several other girls to scatter like pigeons in every direction the moment they saw him. William followed and quickly overtook the old-timer, who was not only thirty years older, but hadn’t won the 100 yards in his last year at school.
The thug looked around and, seeing William heading toward him, let go of the girl, who fell on her knees, whimpering. That was when William saw the knife, but he was only a couple of strides away and committed to the tackle. He dived low, hitting the man just below the knees, causing them both to crash onto the pavement. By the time William had recovered, the man was already back on his feet. William instinctively raised an arm to protect himself as the knife was thrust down. The last thing he remembered was the shock of the blade entering his chest.
‘Officer down, officer down! Urgent assistance required in Luscombe Road!’ shouted Fred over his radio, as he leaped on the assailant.
His eyes opened. He blinked and looked around the unfamiliar room. His parents and sister were standing by the side of the bed, and a senior officer he didn’t recognize was stationed by the door. Three pips on each epaulette indicated that he was a chief inspector.
William gave his family a weak smile as he tried to sit up, but he could only manage a few inches, suddenly aware that his chest was heavily bandaged. He slumped back down.
‘How’s Fred?’ were his first faltering words.
None of them seemed willing to answer the question. Finally the police officer stepped forward and said, ‘I’m Chief Inspector Cuthbert, and I’m sorry about this Constable Warwick, but I have to ask you some questions about what happened on Saturday night, because as you well know, we can’t hold a suspect for more than twenty-four hours unless we have enough evidence to charge them.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said William, once again trying to sit up.
The chief inspector opened a large brown envelope and extracted several black-and-white photos of different men, one of whom William would never forget.
‘Is that the man you attempted to arrest on Saturday night?’ asked Cuthbert.
William nodded. ‘But why do you need to ask me, when Fred could identify him in person?’
Chief Inspector Cuthbert remained silent as he placed the photographs back in the envelope.
The parish church of St. Michael and St. George was rarely full, even for the mayor’s annual carol concert, but on this occasion the pews were packed long before the choir had entered the nave. PC Fred Yates QGM had been granted a full police service funeral, while a uniformed guard of honor lined the approach to the church.
The funeral cortege was escorted by mounted officers, and Fred’s coffin was draped in the blue and silver colors of the Metropolitan Police, along with the Queen’s Gallantry Medal and a silver trophy resting on top. Inside the church, senior officers were seated at the front, while those who couldn’t find a seat had to be satisfied with standing at the back. William, seated in a wheelchair, was pushed down the aisle by his father, and the congregation rose to acknowledge him. A church warden guided them to reserved places in the front row.