His ironic smile scarcely warped the shape of his mouth, as he shared the inside joke with her. ‘I know his mother, Mrs Hilda Calder, for a start …’
Clearing the tea things from the table, she saw Freddy hovering in the doorway wearing his dark coat, obviously coming to inform her that she was going to be home all alone for hours again tonight while he ran out to play. Just like his father.
‘Got to be going, Ma. Duty calls.’
Parade duty perhaps. Or maybe something else entirely that had nothing to do with duty, and his cover story was just a ruse to escape from home to play some other game every night. ‘You’re hardly in the door when you’re going out again. You’d think you were in charge of every investigation in Birmingham.’ Her son, like his father before him, often exaggerated his own status and prestige.
‘If only we were that important. No,’ he protested. ‘We’re the ones who wipe noses and help old ladies across the street.’
She knew exactly what he was insinuating with that kind of talk, and he might as well be disabused of that notion right that minute. ‘You’ll never need to do that for me, Freddy Calder.’
Palpably impatient to leave, and leave her behind, he seemed happy, for some unknown reason. ‘Humph … Sometimes I wonder if it is the police station you’re off to in such a rush?’
As if to prove his adolescent manhood, as well as paramilitary pedigree, Freddy began to unbutton his coat so that, once again, he could show off his uniform underneath.
‘That’s supposed to make it gospel, is it? Huh!’ Anybody could wear a mail order uniform. He had a guilty conscience, she could see it written all over his face.
‘I’ve got to go, Ma.’
She swept him away with an imaginary broom. ‘Go, go. Who’s stopping you?’
He hesitated before leaving. Now, she thought, now he remembered what he had said to hurt his mother’s feelings, now that it was too late. She couldn’t wait for the day he would come to her for love and protection, begging to stay rather than leave, and she would remember each and every one of these petty humiliations.
In the end, he did leave, abandoning her again to this shabby prison. Slowly she crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain. She saw Freddy reach his precious car, then turn and notice her in the window. He gave her a small wave. She sniffed indifferently, dropping the curtain back in place.
With the Specials gathered in the Division ‘S’ Parade room, Bob Loach was between Freddy Calder, John Redwood and Tom Fields as they listened to SDO Rob Barker taking the parade. Probably a little rusty, Loach figured. Barker began by clearing his throat with a dry laugh.
‘Got your pencils sharpened?’
Surveying the faces in the parade room, he must have noted that his heavy attempt at humour raised but a few wan smiles. ‘Because you’ve been invited to put your names down for a “special” cause, I advise only the physically fit to apply.’ He tried another dry laugh, then gave it up. ‘But to more serious matters …’
His tone and expression indeed became more serious, as he frowned at the face he was holding in his hand. ‘The Inspector has given me an identikit picture, which I’ll pass around. It’s a man in his mid-thirties who drives a light-coloured car whose registration number includes a five, a six and a three.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, that’s all we’ve got to go on. He has sexually assaulted three women to date. His method is to force them into his car. He’s dangerous, so do not approach him.’
As Barker was moving on to more mundane matters, Fields tapped Loach on the shoulder. ‘Been demoted again, have we?’
‘Very funny, Tom.’ Barker’s words became indistinct.
‘Looks like Barker’s back, doesn’t it?’
Loach didn’t take his eyes away from watching Sub-Divisional Officer Barker. ‘Don’t count his chickens.’
‘Oh,’ Fields wondered aloud, ‘something I should know?’
‘When the time comes …’
Barker’s voice faded back into Loach’s consciousness. ‘Right … As far as the tours of duty are concerned … Special Constable Redwood? You’ll be out in the panda with WPC Morrow.’
Some feral hound in the pack gave her a wolf whistle.
‘Now, now,’ Barker scolded, ‘let’s show more respect for WPC Morrow.’
The wolf howled.
Another anonymous wag agreed with the wolf. ‘Can’t get more respect than that!’
‘That’s the drill for tonight. Good luck, everyone …’ As the Specials filed out, he picked out a face in the crowd. ‘Ah, Special Constable Redwood …?’
Redwood nodded, waiting for Barker to join him. In the background, Loach watched with a speculative eye.
‘Can I have a word?’ Again Redwood nodded, remaining behind the others. Rob spoke to him in a lower, confidential voice. ‘It’s rather noisy here. Perhaps we can go up to the Club. It’ll be quiet at this time of the evening, and Loach can manage the store.’ He signalled to Loach to stay and take care of business while he was gone, then turned to escort John Redwood from the parade room.
Freddy looked for Loach’s reaction. ‘The new boy’s getting a lot of attention?’
Loach shrugged. ‘You on your own, tonight?’
‘Looks like it,’ Freddy affirmed, not looking forward to pounding the beat by himself.
‘Is it Viv’s night off?’
Equivocating, Freddy scratched his chin. ‘That’s debatable, if I know Viv …’
Her bedroom looked like a boudoir straight out of Cosmopolitan, and that was just what Viv wanted. Standing in front of the make-up mirror in her fluffy, comfy robe, she was generally pleased with what she saw while slowly applying another layer of eye-shadow. She would do.
A buzz on the door-intercom startled her, and she frowned, smearing some of the eye-shadow. She wasn’t expecting a certain visitor … not just yet anyway. Walking into the small sitting room, she went to the door and lifted the intercom telephone.
‘Hello?… Ginger? But I thought …’ Didn’t he remember the time they set? ‘Of course you can come up. It’s just I didn’t expect you for another hour. I’m not decent …’
Neither was his response.
‘Ginger, you’ve got a dirty, horrible mind …’ she half-smiled.
‘I know it’s a bit late in the day, but congratulations,’ Barker declared, once they were settled at a table in the Pub on 4th and Briggsy had served him a mug of brew, which he offered in solitary toast.
‘Thank you,’ nodded the modest John Redwood. He had declined having to drink.
‘It’s good to see professional people like yourself joining the service,’ Barker began. ‘When I became a Special, more moons ago than I care to remember …’ he winked, ‘… well, the quality of intake was, shall we say, lower down the scale. Conversation was on a par with the corner pub.’ He took a sip of the brew.
Redwood raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s more important, surely, is if a man or a woman can do the job well? I don’t believe their background makes any difference.’
Barker wasn’t about to argue if Redwood were going to make an egalitarian issue out of an innocent pleasantry. Already he could see the man’s tenacity in defending a moot point, which was, after all, an