I looked back, eyes wide, lips schtum.
‘Ash?’
‘Well, I’m here, sarge. Might as well call the troops back,’ I said.
I saw him look at my shoes. Then at my skirt covered in grubby brick dust.
I turned my back and mooched around my in-tray, hoping he wouldn’t press it further.
He didn’t.
He called the lads to tell them I was in the station and the caller must have been confused, a bit of night-time eyes.
In true back-covering protective fashion, he never mentioned it again. And neither did I, until today.
I was minding my own business as I walked past Mile End tube station on my way to a briefing for a plain-clothes task I was involved in when a call came out that an intruder alarm had gone off at the chemist’s. I was directly outside. I knew there had been three false calls at the pharmacy recently because they’d had a new system installed and staff had accidentally pressed the button. I also knew how busy it was at work, with people off sick, on leave and in court, so rather than tie up a patrol car, and even though I was in plain clothes, I said I would see what the problem was, fully expecting it to be another false alarm.
I was wrong.
I entered the shop and it was empty but for an assistant, a pretty Asian girl. She was crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her.
‘You have to leave, quick, the police are coming,’ she whispered.
I showed her my warrant card and said, ‘I am the police, what’s up?’
‘Are you on your own?’ she whispered as she pointed to the back of the shop. ‘He’s in there with Mr Simon, the chemist. He’s got a knife.’
I looked through the open hatch into the small back store. Every shelf was packed with boxes and tubes and medicines teetering on top of each other. I saw Mr Simon standing in the corner and a tall man facing him with his back to me. The man had something in his hand but I couldn’t see what.
I turned to the assistant. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Maia,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s after drugs. He’s called Robert something and he comes in every day. He’s on a script.’
‘Maia, please call 999.’
‘I can’t. The phone’s out the back. That’s why I pressed the alarm button.’
I handed her my radio. ‘Go out onto the street and use this. Press that button and tell them who you are and what’s going on. Tell them an officer is here and I’m on my own and that the man has a knife.’
She took my radio, sniffled a bit and nodded.
I went behind the counter and picked up a foot aerosol, the only thing I could think of to arm myself with as I walked into the medicine store.
‘Hello?’ I said.
The man turned, thrusting a large knife. It was a horrible-looking thing that flashed silver in the sharp strip light, six or seven inches with a serrated edge.
‘Get out!’ he roared at me.
‘I’m a police officer. I’m on my own. Please put the knife down.’
‘I want the drugs in his cabinet. I know where he keeps them. It’s locked. If he gives them to me you can both go. Right? Right?’
Mr Simon shook his head. The room was strangely silent, no sounds from outside at all; it was like being cocooned in an egg box.
‘I’ll tell you one more time, open the cabinet,’ Robert said sweating, his pupils tiny pinpricks, his face a waxy pallor with a look that matched the desperation in his voice.
I hoped the troops would arrive soon. I tried to reason with him. ‘We’ll talk about the drugs but you don’t need the knife.’
The chemist stepped forward.
I shook my head at him and turned back to Robert. ‘You really don’t want to hold up a police officer, do you? It’s only going to make things worse. Put the knife down. Do you have a regular script?’
‘Yeah, yeah I do. But I need more and he won’t give it to me.’ He wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. He was agitated.
‘You don’t look very well,’ I said.
Time stood still. Nobody said anything; the air was tense, the mood sharp. No one wanted to make the first move.
He stepped towards Mr Simon. ‘I need the drugs. Now. Just get me the drugs.’
The chemist said, ‘Robert comes here every morning and I give him his prescription. He was late today and he didn’t come yesterday and he missed a few days last week. I know he’s been getting it from the chemist in Poplar. I wasn’t going to give him it again.’
Robert swung the knife up towards Mr Simons’ chin. ‘Shut up. Shut up!’
I stepped forward at the same time as Mr Simon. We both bumped Robert and the knife clattered to the ground. I kicked it away and it slid beneath a cabinet. Between us we wrestled Robert, who was more than a bit uncoordinated, and we made him lie face down on the floor. Just at that moment half a dozen uniformed officers hurtled into the tiny room.
‘What kept you, boys?’ I said, my heart pounding in the well of my throat.
Robert Miscow came from a well-to-do family. He’d dropped out of university and got into drugs. He received a six-year prison sentence for armed robbery. Mr Simon and I received commendations. I can’t help thinking it was all a bit mad, a bit sad and a bit dangerous.
And that’s just what I loved about my work.
Unfortunately for him, PC Jim McBean was often posted with me. I say unfortunately not because I didn’t work hard, or that I was difficult to work with, or that we didn’t get on. We did. I say it because when we worked together, we attracted trouble.
Sergeant Flint posted us together one Sunday night duty. ‘Keep out of mischief, you two. You know what I mean.’
Everyone laughed.
It was about two thirty in the morning when we were called to a domestic on the eighth floor of a tower block. We were the only unit able to attend as half the shift were on their meal break (usually known as ‘refs’ for refreshments), and those that had the earlier slot were busy dealing with prisoners.
As is the way when you are in a hurry, both lifts were out of order and so we had to take the stairs. After climbing sixteen flights of stairs in a rush, I was exhausted. I could hardly breathe, never mind speak.
There were four flats to each landing. The door to the one we were called to, number 803, was open. It led into a hallway that turned left, I presumed into another part of a hall with doors off it to the other rooms, including the sitting room. All was quiet, not a sound.
‘Hello!’ I shouted. ‘It’s the police.’
‘Anyone home?’ shouted Jim behind me.
Silence when you arrive at a domestic could mean a number of things. It might mean it was a false call. Or maybe one half of the domestic has left. Rarely, there might be a dead body, or even two. The mind runs wild for a moment and then calms down as you realise they’ve probably made up