The alarm list was next. The Section Sergeant drew their attention to several premises that had faulty alarms: ones which either didn’t work at all or, as was more often the case, went off every time anyone so much as looked at them.
Some officers took notes in their pocketbooks; recording details they felt relevant, while others sat quietly as if it were an effort just to keep their eyes open at such an ungodly hour.
One old sweat, thinking he wouldn’t be spotted in the back row, had the temerity to start flipping through the sports section in a copy of yesterday’s The Sun, which he’d found on his chair. That earned him a right earful from the Section Sergeant and a ‘fine’ of doughnuts from Speed. “And I don’t mean those cheap five-for-a pound stodgy things you get in the supermarket,” he warned the offending officer.
Speed finished the parade with a note on officer safety. Night duty had been called to a spate of robberies in and around Hackney Road, in which the same pair of addicts had cornered their victims and brandished blood-filled syringes, before threatening to inject them unless they handed over their money. Luckily no one had been harmed, but it was only a matter of time before some brave have-a-go-Henry ended up as a pin cushion.
With so many HIV, AIDS, and hepatitis sufferers drifting through the ground, there was a very real risk of infection if anyone was stabbed by a junkie’s needle. Speed emphasised the need for extreme caution if there were any calls like that this morning. “If in doubt, restrain the fuckers first, and ask questions later,” he advised. “But, if you do have to use force, make sure you write it up properly,” he added as an afterthought.
After parade, the drivers went out into the back yard to check over their vehicles while everyone else made their way up to the canteen on the top floor to grab a quick, much needed, cup of coffee. While the kettle was boiling the CAD – an acronym that stood for Computer Aided Dispatch – room started to call up various crews and assign them to outstanding calls. They were all non-urgent and could be delayed for a few minutes while the coffee began to work its magic.
◆◆◆
When PC Nick Bartholomew entered the canteen a few minutes later, having checked over the RT car – or Pursuit Car as it was now known in modern parlance – he was met by his partner, who handed him a chipped mug that was filled to the brim with steaming hot black coffee. They sat down together at an otherwise empty table.
“Thanks, mate,” Nick said gratefully. “Let me get this brew down my neck and we can go out and start playing hunt the bad guy.” Bartholomew hated early turns; he would have preferred to park up somewhere out of the way, snooze for an hour and then find a nice quiet cafe to have a fry up in. Unfortunately, the kid was desperate to impress their boss, and Nick didn’t want to let him down.
Terry Grier, the younger of the two by eight years, had his gangly legs splayed as far under the table as they would go. He beamed at the suggestion.
Inwardly grimacing at the thought of driving around looking for prisoners, when all he really wanted was to be curled up in bed with his nice warm duvet snuggled around him, Nick took a tentative sip of the boiling liquid, and let out a long appreciative sigh. “Thanks, Tel. I really needed that,” he said, and from the look of him, he really did.
“Late night?” Grier asked, tentatively.
Bartholomew shook his head. “I was in bed by eleven,” he half said, half yawned. “Trouble is I don’t sleep well on earlies. I’m always so worried I’ll sleep through the alarm and be late for work that I spend half the night clock watching.” As he spoke, he undid the top button of his shirt and began rubbing at an angry looking shaving rash on his neck.
“I’ve got some moisturiser in my locker if you want something for that,” Grier offered.
Bartholomew shook his head, wearily. “It’ll be fine,” he said, taking another sip of coffee.
“So, where are we gonna get ourselves a decent collar at this time of day?” Grier asked, getting back to the business at hand. He didn’t want another drink drive; they were ten-a-penny.
“Don’t you worry, mate,” Nick assured him, sounding far more optimistic than he felt. “I’ve got a feeling in my water that today is going to be exciting.”
Speed entered the canteen and, after pouring himself a drink, sat down between Bartholomew and Grier. “Late night was it, Nick?” he asked, studying the dishevelled man slumped in the chair before him.
“No, guv, I just didn’t sleep well.”
“I can see that. I reckon my wife could fit her weekly shopping in the bags under your eyes. Not coming down with this flu bug, are you?”
Bartholomew shook his head. “Only thing wrong with me is a dose of early-turn-itus.”
It was at this moment that the first ‘all units’ call of the day came out. The dispatcher informed them that a watchman doing his rounds at the building site next to the railway tracks in Quaker Street had just called in to say he’d found what he thought was a dead body beside the site office.
“Bollocks!” Nick cursed, casting a wistful glance at the coffee
