As he launched a passionate defence for keeping the toffee in Rolos soft – thus, unfridged – I realised that the drama of the last twenty-four hours had made me desperate to make the jump to murder squad. I’d grown frustrated wasting time mooching about in a comedy uniform, not quite knowing what we were trying to achieve. ‘Catching baddies,’ I’d initially assumed, ‘gangsters, rapists and people who mug old ladies.’ If only it were like that …
The training at Hendon College should have given me a clue. I spent most of the six-week course learning about multiculturalism, hate crimes, best practices, paperwork and adopting multi-agency strategies. There was nothing about gathering evidence, hoofing down doors or bitch-slapping villains – surely the job’s only real attractions.
Since then, I’d spent lots of time taking statements from battered wives who later withdrew them and from gang members who didn’t show up for court. I spent even more time taking statements from victims of vandalism / theft / assault whose complaints against known perpetrators never even made it to court. But I spent the vast majority of my time filling in a mountain of mandatory paperwork that accompanied every single recorded crime, no matter how petty. In other words, I was a uniformed response officer who spent eighty per cent of my time at a desk.
Occasionally, we’d be knee-jerked into an initiative on the back of media pressure. Last year’s big campaign: Nike Crime. There’d been a worrying spate of young trendies getting mugged at knifepoint for their £120 Nike Air Jordan trainers. Of course, the more the media publicised Nike Crime, the worse it got, which in turn gave the media and politicians licence to grow ever more hysterical. It was a vicious cycle, or a self-fulfilling prophecy, depending on how you made your living. Before long, teenagers began to actually get knifed for their Nikes, vindicating the media frenzy and turning the spotlight directly onto the police’s failure to prevent it. The Commissioner ordered every beat officer in the capital to attend a day-long seminar on how to identify Nike-wearing trendies and defend them from knife-wielding envy. The majority of cops who turned up looked too bloated to catch a pensioner wearing flippers, let alone a lithe young shoe-jacker enhanced by recently acquired air-cushioned soles.
I resented being dragged away from my soothing, pointless paperwork to protect spoiled teenagers. As far as I was concerned, anyone dumb enough to wear £120 trainers had it coming. I wanted to solve proper crimes, like who murdered Marion Ryan.
After I caught Marion’s killer, I wanted to ask him: why? Why did you savagely take the life of a completely innocent woman? Look me in the eye and explain it to me. I need to understand.
‘Well?’ said Clive.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Have you ever actually seen someone eating a Milky Way? You know, on the tube, or the bus?’
I was racking my brains when the disembodied fuzz of the radio buzzed in. It was a T call to a house on Salcott Road. A suspected intruder. I realised right away – Salcott was just a stone’s throw from Sangora. Maybe Fintan was right. What if there was a maniac on the loose?
‘Fuck, it’s him,’ I said.
‘You what?’
‘Marion’s killer. I bet that’s him.’
‘Don’t be soft. Probably some kids …’
‘We’re three streets away.’
Clive sagged petulantly, so I took off. But I kept it to a jog: I’d need some puff left if I was going to disarm any deranged psycho.
Images of Marion flashed through my mind: the shock in her cold, dead eyes, her partially ripped-off fingernail.
As I turned into Salcott I checked back. Good old Clive was trundling along fifty feet behind, his head bowed, nodding like a knackered pit pony.
I looked for number 16 and clenched my fists, ready for anything. I gave the brass knocker three manly raps, shouted: ‘Police, open the door.’
A voice from the other side said: ‘Oh, thank God.’
The bright yellow door opened quickly to a pair of big, scared, brown eyes.
‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ she panted, as I stepped into the hallway.
‘Are you okay?’
She nodded.
‘Winona Ryder,’ I gasped. The resemblance was uncanny.
‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Where is he, er, right now?’ I blurted, hoping she’d assume that’s what I’d said the first time.
‘He was looking through my patio door. Now he’s in the alley behind the garden, looking through a gap,’ she explained, shutting the door behind me.
‘Oh God, he’s never done anything like this before.’
‘You know him?’
She nodded rapidly, scared. Just then, the knocker went again. She jumped.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. When I opened it, Clive nearly tumbled inside.
‘I’ve called for back-up,’ he panted.
I turned and strode through the house until I got to the patio door. I slid it open and stepped into the garden, totally calm. I’d waited three years for this.
‘I’m coming, Eve,’ I thought to myself, ‘this time, I’m coming.’
I strode to the back of the garden, focusing on the only gap in the six-foot fence.
‘Wait for back-up,’ protested Clive from the patio.
Why give him the chance to escape? I thought to myself, deciding there and then to leap the fence, confront the fucker head on. I took out my standard-issue wooden truncheon, ran three strides, mounted, threw one leg over and braced myself.
I looked left, right. Nothing.
I didn’t need to throw my second leg over: this narrow alleyway had no hiding places. He was gone.
I jumped back into the garden and sensed Clive’s shaking head.
As I walked back to the house he grabbed my upper arm, hard.
‘Get one thing straight, pal, I don’t want to be a hero. If I say wait for back-up, I’m waiting for back-up, whether you wait or not. I’m not risking my neck for you or anyone else.’
‘Gotcha,’ I said, yanking my arm from his surprisingly firm grip.
I marched on into the house.
Winona had backed up against a neutral sitting room wall to keep an eye on all doors. I realised she was half-expecting her tormentor to outfox us and come through the front. That’s what real terror does: it bestows superpowers upon the aggressor. I loathed bullies, especially men picking on women. I’d spent years watching Dad chip away at Mum until she became what he loathed most: a timid, meek, frightened wreck.
Winona’s big brown eyes seemed so embarrassed, yet grateful.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her soft voice oozing exhausted relief.
‘I’m PC Lynch by the way, that’s PC Hunt. And your name is?’
‘Gabby. Look, I hate calling you but he was trying to open the patio door. I’m really scared he’ll do something stupid.’
‘You know him?’ Clive harrumphed.
She took a deep breath, clearly summoning the energy to go through it all, yet again.
‘He’s my ex. We split up just after Easter, and he won’t accept that it’s over.’
‘He’s still bothering you after, what, four months?’ I said.
‘It’s