Or in some cases, the wrong time.
PC Rik Dean was one such officer. He had three and a half years’ service, but at the age of thirty-two, had another eight years’ experience behind him as a Customs and Excise officer.
Blackpool Central had been his first posting as a cop and he loved the place. The work was hectic — Blackpool never stood still — and the social life was even better now that he was divorced.
He was one of those policemen who just seem to fall over villains. He didn’t know why — it just happened. When he stopped a car, odds could be laid he’d find a hoard of stolen goods; if he pulled a person, he’d find heroin. And he didn’t know why. He’d look at someone, or a car, his brow would furrow, his head would tilt to one side and he’d say, ‘Let’s have a look at that.’
Which is what he did that Sunday afternoon.
He was working the 2-10 p.m. shift. When he paraded on duty he was given a thick wodge of arrest warrants, mainly for people who had failed to appear at court, and was told to go and execute a few of them. The warrants, that is.
He was partnered with a policewoman called Nina. She was nineteen years old, had only recently finished her initial training and joined the shift, and was still wet behind the ears, slightly hesitant and shy in everything she did. Rik had decided she could execute the warrants to build up her confidence in dealing with people. At ten o’clock when the tour of duty finished, he might suggest a drink in the bar. And who knew where that could lead…
Apart from being a cracking thief-taker, Rik was also a serial policewoman seducer, with five so far to his credit. He couldn’t resist a woman in uniform, and they seemed unable to resist him with his trousers down.
Again, he did not know how he did it. Just happened. If he could have distilled, bottled and sold his policing and womanising skills he would have made a fortune. Or so he thought and often joked.
The afternoon had been fruitless and frustrating, made more so by the way the station was buzzing frenetically with chatter about last night’s massacre at the newsagents and this morning’s murder on the beach. Detectives were everywhere, suffused with their own importance, carrying bits of paper, looking serious, talking in whispers, attending briefings.
And Rik was envious. He wanted to become a detective and get involved in jobs like those.
‘ No reply,’ Nina said wearily. She climbed back into the passenger seat of the Maestro and dropped the warrant onto the pile in the footwell. ‘That’s eight we’ve tried with no luck,’ she complained. ‘I’m getting bored with this.’
‘ Me too.’ He started up the engine and the less then elegant police car moved off. It was 4.30 p.m. and they’d been pounding on doors solidly since the start of the tour. ‘Let’s kick it in the head for a while and cruise.’
‘ Yeah, good idea.’
‘ If you see anything you fancy stopping, just give me a nudge, will you?’
‘ Yeah, will do.’
Rik was not really in the mood to do much. His thoughts were on enquiries, arresting murderers and big-time crims.
Nina sat back, removed her hat and ran her hand through her cropped, spiky blonde hair. She heaved a deep sigh which pushed her bust tightly up against her tunic. Rik saw the rise of the material out of the corner of his eye and gulped. Nina smiled. She had ideas for ten o’clock too.
Unfortunately for both, their thoughts of a future liaison would soon get put on indefinite hold.
Rik drove down the Promenade, coming onto it from the north at Gynn Square, travelling slowly south. There was a huge amount of traffic about, as well as pedestrians. From a sluggish beginning, the brightness of this January day had attracted many day-trippers into town.
The evening was drawing in now and many were planning to leave. He drove little faster than walking pace, content to watch.
‘ We’ll mosey down south, come up by Squires Gate and work back round to Marton. There’s a couple of warrants for up there,’ he said.
‘ Suits me fine.’
Rik’s mind was coasting in neutral. He was not interested in working hard that afternoon. His thoughts were a mixture of how best to word his application for CID, what might happen between him and Nina, and how great it would feel to be a detective.
He saw the vehicle for the first time as he reached the junction with Talbot Square and stopped at the traffic lights at the head of the queue. From this point southwards, Blackpool’s Promenade is basically a dual carriageway, two lanes in either direction.
Rik had pulled up on the inside lane.
He was looking around aimlessly, eyes flitting about between the task of driving, glancing at female pedestrians and gazing out to sea.
Policework was way down the list.
The fact that the vehicle which pulled alongside him at the lights was a Range Rover 4.6 HSE, green with a grey flash down the side and bull-bars wrapped around the grill, did little to arouse his curiosity. He cast his eyes over it but thought nothing.
Nor did he pay much attention to the passenger, a male, early twenties, who happened to look down at him and catch his eye ever so briefly. The man turned quickly away and said something to the driver whom Rik could not see from his lowdown position in the Maestro.
The lights went to green.
The Range Rover surged ahead of the police car. Rik was not concerned about that. He was happy enough to let other cars overtake and speed along as they wished. Catching speeders was the job of the traffic department, not his.
He did notice that the vehicle had been registered in Liverpool, the last two letters of the index number being KB.
That was enough for him to ask Nina to radio in and ask for a PNC check. With the high volume of cars stolen from that area he had no qualms in checking any vehicle registered there.
The reply was that it was not stolen, but the current owner was not listed on the computer. The previous owner had notified DVLA of the sale of the vehicle two months before. Even that did not have much effect on Rik — not consciously. Thousands of vehicles were without current owners. It usually meant they had recently changed hands and the paperwork was still going through.
He drew in behind the Range Rover which had stopped at the next but one set of traffic lights on the Promenade at the junction with Chapel Street. Tussaud’s Waxworks were on their left.
Now Rik could see the driver’s face reflected in the door mirror. The man continually checked the mirror, looking back at Rik whilst speaking animatedly to the passenger.
That was probably what swung it for Rik. He hardly knew any drivers who checked their side mirrors as often as this one.
The lights went to green.
Once again the Range Rover accelerated away.
The Maestro, not built for speed or agility (what exactly was it built for, some officers had been known to ask) had a problem keeping up, but the volume of traffic held the bigger car back. By the time they reached the next set of lights, Rik was behind it again.
Now Nina was sitting up, taking notice. ‘Something wrong?’
Somehow the atmosphere had changed. She could sense Rik’s new alertness, like a charge of static.
He played it down, shrugged. ‘Just gonna pull this guy. D’you fancy issuing him with a producer?’ He was referring to the form HORT1 issued by police to drivers for them to take their documents into a police station to be checked within seven days.
‘ Sure.’ She peered at the Range Rover but failed to see anything wrong with it. She believed the PNC check she’d done had been simply routine, nothing else. ‘But why, what’s he done?’
‘ Nothing… probably nothing,’ said Rik. ‘We’ll stop them after they’ve gone through the lights.’ His head was at a slight tilt, his brow furrowed.
The Range Rover was indicating a left turn at the lights which would take it onto Lytham Road.
