What an amateur, thought Kent. Weren’t getaway drivers supposedto keep the engine running? Strangely enough, in all his years of policing thiswas the first time he had ever seen a getaway car anywhere other than on the TV.He flung open the driver’s door and grabbed hold of the keys.
“Out,” he barked. He had never seen the man before but heknew a villain when he saw one, even if he wasn’t very good at catching them.This one was about fifty, scruffy and unshaven with grey hair, and he had ashifty look about him. He didn’t recognise him as a local. What he did recognisewas the car’s registration number. He had checked it at the station thatmorning, leaving no doubt in his mind whatsoever that for once he was about toarrest the right person.
“What’s this all about?” protested the man in a cockneyaccent, as Kent manhandled him out of the car. “I’m here to make a delivery,guv.”
“Don’t give me that,” replied Kent. “This car has beenreported stolen and we’ve had a tip-off about what you’re up to. Consider yourselfwell and truly nicked, mate.”
Kent had longed for years to say something like that. It wasanother phrase he’d heard uttered countless times on TV but never found asuitable opportunity to utter himself.
The man didn’t seem to have any sort of weapon and with Adrianand Hannah right on Kent’s tail, he had no chance of getting away. They had himout of the car, spreadeagled across the bonnet and cuffed in seconds.
Right on cue, the white police Transit van he had requested pulledinto the car park. This was going to be so easy, thought Kent. The gang didn’teven have their getaway car anymore and they were about to deliver themselvesto him on a plate.
“Get this one in the van,” ordered Kent. “And get ready: theothers will be out any second.”
Sure enough, the remaining three men burst out of the backof the shop brandishing their guns, carrying two large bags of loot. Theystopped in shock at the unexpected scene in front of them, but quickly registeredthe lack of weaponry among the assembled officers.
The lead robber, who was wearing a rubber mask of the Chancellorof the Exchequer, raised his weapon, a very convincing-looking shotgun. Hepointed it squarely at Kent who was standing at the front of the policevanguard, barely two yards in front of him.
“Back off! Get out of our way right now, or someone’s going toget hurt!” he shouted, also in a cockney accent. In support, his co-conspirators,disguised as the Prime Minister and Mayor of London, raised their weaponsthreateningly.
Kent took a deep breath, offered a silent prayer that he hadn’tgot this all catastrophically wrong, stepped forward and reached out to grabthe gun. Although he was 99.9% certain they were fakes, he still couldn’t helpfeeling more than a little scared, staring down the barrel at point-blankrange.
“I mean it!” screamed the man. “Get back!”
“I don’t think so, George,” replied Kent, sarcastically. “You’verobbed your last penny.” Banishing his fears, he coolly reached forward, grabbedhold of the gun and twisted it around, causing the villain to lose balance.
“Come on, lads!” shouted Kent. “They’re fakes, just like Isaid. Grab ’em.”
The three robbers had no chance against the assembledofficers. The one at the back managed to turn around and run back through theshop, but was tripped over by a pensioner who stuck his walking stick out at anopportune moment. When he tried to pick himself up off the floor he found himselfface-to-face with two officers who had just come in through the front door.
Kent’s plan couldn’t have gone better. This had been a gloriousmoment for his career and now he intended to make the most of it. Within anhour the local news crews were all over the crime scene, and Kent made sure hegot his face on all the TV cameras and in front of as many photographers as possible.He was revelling in all the attention he was getting. Before long, he hadroving reporter, Seema Mistry, interviewing him for the local TV news.
Having already described his heroic role in disarming therobbers, the pretty, young Asian reporter was throwing more questions at him.
“So how did you know the guns were fake?” asked Seema. Shewas a rising star of the local news scene with a reputation for not taking anyprisoners. She had made Kent feel extremely uncomfortable with some of the hard-hittingquestions she had thrown at him over the years, making little attempt todisguise her contempt for him. On this occasion, back in 2013, all of thoseinterviews still lay in the future. Historically, this was the first time theyhad ever met.
Things had got off to a bad start with Seema when thisinterview had taken place in the original timeline. That time the robbers hadescaped scot free and she had asked him some very uncomfortable questions. Thatset the tone for all their future encounters which invariably took place aftersome policing mishap or other. It had reached the point where he couldn’t evenbear to watch the TV news if he had been interviewed, because Seema had this uncannyknack of making him appear like a buffoon.
This time was different. He didn’t feel like he was on theback foot and she wasn’t trying to expose his incompetence in front of thousandsof viewers. Perhaps it would make a difference to future interviews. She mighttreat him with a bit more respect now he had proved his worth.
“Oh, it was pretty straightforward really,” remarked Kent. “I’vedone a lot of research into firearms and have learnt how to spot the differencebetween a fake and the genuine article. I thought it might come in handy oneday, perhaps even save a life.”
He was milking this for all it was worth. The bit aboutsaving a life was a masterstroke. They’d have to give him a bravery award atthe very least after this.
“Well, that day certainly came around today,” concludedSeema, turning to face the camera. “Detective Inspector Richard Kent there, whobrilliantly masterminded the operation to foil an armed
