I left the station at five thirty that night, having got the feeling that under Capper I was going to be pushed to one side of things, and that my time at the station really was coming to an end. I fancied a drink, if only to get rid of the dry, sour taste in my mouth and the worries constantly surfacing in my head, but decided instead to go and visit DI Welland in hospital. It was duty, really. I don’t like going to hospitals (who does?), but Welland needed some moral support. When I’d been put in one three years ago, having received an enthusiastic tap on the head with an iron bar when an arrest went wrong, he’d visited me three times in the six days I’d been in there. The least I could do now was return the favour.
He was being treated at St Thomas’s, and it was five past six when I got there, armed with a jumbo box of wine gums, which were always his favourite, and a couple of American true crime magazines.
Hospitals always smell so uninviting and, in England at least, they usually look it too. Being a copper, I’ve had to spend more than my fair share of time in them. Aside from the many visits I’d made to interview victims and sometimes the perpetrators of crime, I’d ended up being on the receiving end of treatment on three separate occasions, all work-related. There’d been the iron bar incident; the time during my probationary period when a mob of rampaging Chelsea fans had used me for kicking practice; and an incident early on in the Poll Tax riot when a huge crop-headed dyke had whacked me over the back of the head with a four by four while I’d been trying to resuscitate some old granny who’d just fainted. In that case my assailant had been arrested on the spot and, ironically enough, had turned out to be a nurse.
Welland was in a ward at the back of the hospital and they’d got him a private room. He was sitting up in bed in his pyjamas reading the Evening Standard when I knocked and went in. He was much paler than usual, as if he was a bit seasick, but he didn’t appear to have lost any weight, and all in all he didn’t look quite as rough as I’d expected.
He looked up and managed a smile when he saw me. ‘Hello, Dennis.’
‘How are you, boss?’
‘I’m sure I’ve been worse, but I can’t honestly remember when.’
‘Well, you look all right for it. Have they started the treatment yet?’
‘No, it’s been postponed until tomorrow. Lack of specialist staff, something like that.’
‘That’s the NHS for you. They make the Met look over-manned. Here, I brought you these.’ I put the wine gums and magazines down by the side of the bed. He thanked me, and with a quick gesture offered me a seat.
I sat down in a threadbare chair next to him and said something else to the effect that he looked remarkably healthy given the circumstances, which is the sort of inane bullshit you have to come out with at times like this, even though no-one ever believes it. I once remember telling a girl whose face had been partially melted by acid thrown at her by an ex-boyfriend that she’d be all right in time. Of course she wouldn’t and neither would Welland.
‘It’s good of you to come, Dennis. Thanks.’ He sat back further into the pillows, looking tired, and I noticed that he sounded short of breath when he spoke.
‘Well I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure, sir, because visiting a hospital never is, but I wanted you to know we hadn’t forgotten about you or anything.’
‘How is work? I miss it, you know. Never really thought I would, but I do.’
‘It’s the same as ever,’ I told him. ‘Too many criminals, not enough coppers. Plenty to keep us busy.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a hiding to nothing sometimes, isn’t it?’
‘It sure is that,’ I agreed, wondering where this conversation was going.
‘You know something, Dennis. I’ve always thought you were a good copper. You know the job, you know what it’s all about.’
He turned his head and looked at me just a little bit too closely for my liking. I had the feeling this was going to turn into one of those deep conversations about life and policework I could really do without.
‘I’ve always done my best, sir.’
‘We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?’
‘Yeah, we have. Eight years you’ve been my boss now.’
‘Eight years … Christ, is it that long? Time just goes, doesn’t it? One minute you’re a young copper with it all in front of you, and before you know it … before you know it, you’re this … Sat in a hospital bed waiting to begin the treatment that could save your life.’ He was no longer looking at me, but was staring up at the ceiling, seemingly lost in his thoughts. ‘Funny how things go, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it is.’ It was. ‘Eight years.’ I shook my head. ‘Shit.’
‘You know, these days they’ve got so many new faces. All these graduates who’ve come in with their new ideas. A lot of them are good blokes, don’t get me wrong, and women … but they don’t really understand the fundamentals of policework. Not like you and me. We’re old school, Dennis. That’s what we are. Old school.’
‘I think we’re a dying breed, sir. In a few years’ time we’ll be gone altogether.’
‘And you know what? They’ll miss us. They don’t like us, they think we’re dinosaurs, but when we’re gone they’ll miss us.’
‘People never get appreciated until they’re gone,’ I said.
‘That’s exactly it. These new people – these men and women with their degrees – they just don’t understand policework. Not like you and me, Dennis. They don’t know that sometimes you’ve got to bend the rules to get
