'Stationary. The car's in someone's garden. It wasn't too bad, though. Standing by.'
'India Romeo, where are you?'
'Approaching; we can see the chopper.'
'Zulu Bravo, where are you?'
'About half a mile away. We can see the chopper. Should be with them in a few seconds.'
'India Romeo; don't approach the suspect; he's believed to be armed.
Wait for the ARV.'
'Right, skip.'
I needed a cup of tea. I walked over to the little boiler on the wall, filled it to the MAX mark and pressed the ON button. It was a struggle stopping myself giving advice to the men in the cars, telling them to stay well out of trouble. They were big boys; they'd had the training.
Let them get on with it. Gilbert didn't look any happier than I felt.
'Wonder how the kid on the bike is?' he said, when I arrived back at the console. I just shook my head. Making enquiries about his health might make us feel better but wouldn't help him; sadly, we had other priorities.
'India Romeo to Control; we're there. He's standing outside the car.
He looks shell-shocked.'
'Control to Romeo, keep your distance and wait for the ARV.'
'The passengers are getting off the bus. A woman's giving him a bollocking.'
'Does he look armed?'
'No. Now he's walking towards us.'
'Tell him to lie on the ground,' I said to the sergeant.
'Control to Romeo; order him to lie on the ground.'
Silence.
'Control to Romeo; what's happening?'
'He's lying on the ground.' More silence, then: 'India Romeo to Heckley Control, have arrested and handcuffed suspect.' We could hear the ARV's siren in the background. He went on: 'Here comes the cavalry, too late as usual.'
The boiler on the wall started to whistle. Jenny and I made everybody tea while they tied up the loose ends.
We were passing the cups round when Lima Tango came back on the air.
'Victim despatched in ambulance. Two other children were the only witnesses. Have them in the car and taking their details. We'll, er, need the FatAcc Investigation boys over here. Will you arrange it, please.'
They were referring to the standard procedure that swings into action after a fatal accident.
'Understood, will do,' replied the sergeant, gravely. 'Do you know his identity?'
'Yes, from these other two.'
'How old was he?'
'Thirteen.'
'Do his parents live nearby?'
'Yes, in the maisonettes.'
'Sorry to ask you this, lads; but how do you feel about…'
'No!' Gilbert held his hand out and interrupted the sergeant. 'Tell them to stand by. I'll be there in a few minutes. It's about time I made myself useful.'
None of us said anything. We were all afraid he'd ask us to go with him.
The heroes of the chase began filtering back to the station. The India Romeo crew were from City, so they were doubly pleased at making a good arrest on our territory. Their euphoria soon subsided when news of the young boy was given to them. We handed out tea and thank yous and wondered what Gilbert was finding to say. A constable brought me a big handgun in a plastic bag, found in the offender's car. It was at least a foot long. I held it up to feel the weight; its lightness told me it was obviously a replica. The others gathered round to gawp at it it was a fearsome looking brute. You could almost hear 'The Call of the Faraway Hills' welling up in the background. I looked at a constable who I knew to be an authority on such things.
'What do you reckon, Buntline Special?' I asked him.
He examined it through the plastic bag. 'Navy Colt,' he declared.
'Worth a fortune if it'd been real.'
'I bet the poor girl in the bank wet her pants when he stuck it under her nose,' someone said. 'It scares me just lying there.'
The villain was called Shawn Crabb, with a couple of other, fancy names in the middle. I stood in the doorway of the charge room as he was being processed. The custody sergeant read him his rights, emptied his pockets and made him sign for the contents, then charged him with armed robbery. He complained that he was ill; said he had 'flu and needed a doctor.
'Were you injured in the crash?' asked the sergeant.
He shook his head.
'I'll ring for the doc,' I said, and phoned Sam Evans. He could buy me a drink out of his call-out fee.
The press were soon on the phone and I found myself fending them off with the standard platitudes. 'Further charges may follow' usually satisfies their readers. When Sam arrived I went down to the cells with him. Crabb, wearing one of our neat paper one-piece overalls, was sitting on the bunk, wrapped in a blanket. He said he was cold. Sam gave him a comprehensive examination, mainly to ensure he hadn't been hurt when he rammed the bus. The true cause of his sickness was plain to see: both arms were covered in needle scars and new sores.
'You've got to give me something, Doc,' he moaned.
Sam pointed to the scars. 'What are you injecting?' he demanded.
'Smack,' Crabb replied, his head lolling forward.
'Heroin?'
He nodded.
'How much? Do you know?'
He shook his head. 'No, all I can get. It's all shit nowadays.'
'I'll leave some pills with the sergeant,' Sam told him. 'They'll make you feel better.' Upstairs he rummaged in his bag and put a few white tablets in a container. 'Give him two of these every four hours,' he instructed.
I picked them up. 'What are they?' I asked.
'Aspirin,' he answered, with a bleak smile.
Cold turkey is not regarded as the ogre that it once was. It's not pleasant, but it's no worse than many everyday illnesses. At one time methadone was prescribed to ease devotees away from heroin, but the latest thinking is that this is a more addictive drug, with even more evil side-effects. Crabb was expecting methadone but he was in for a disappointment. I volunteered to take him his first dose.
'These are the pills the doctor left for you,' I told him, after I'd been let into his cell again. He reached out for them, but I clenched my fist around the bottle and pulled back from him.
'First of all, I want some information from you. Who do you get your drugs from? A name for a tablet; that's a fair exchange.'
He begged, pleaded and cried, but he wouldn't give me a name. He bought them from a bloke in a pub. He wasn't sure which pub. I thought about wiring his testicles to the pelican crossing outside, but I doubt if it would have helped.
'Does the name Cakebread mean anything to you?' He swore he'd never heard of him. 'Okay,' I said, pocketing the tablets, 'have it your way,' and shouted for the jailer to let me out. Upstairs I placed the unopened bottle on the custody sergeant's desk. 'Give him another couple in four hours,' I told him.
Chapter Twenty
It was after dark when I arrived home. It had been a long day. I had a tin of soup, then showered and shaved
