Towards the end of your probation you start applying for positions in the various branches, directorates and operational command units that make up the force. Most probationers will continue on as full uniformed constables in one of the borough commands, and the Met hierarchy likes to stress that deciding to remain a uniformed constable doing vital work on the streets of London is a positive choice in and of itself. Somebody has to be abused, spat at and vomited on, and I for one applaud the brave men and women who are willing to step up and serve in that role.
This had been the noble calling of my shift commander, Inspector Francis Neblett. He had joined the Met back in the time of the dinosaurs, had risen rapidly to the rank of Inspector and then spent the next thirty years quite happily in the same position. He was a stolid man with lank brown hair and a face that looked as if it had been struck with the flat end of a shovel. Neblett was old-fashioned enough to wear a uniform tunic over his regulation white shirt, even when out patrolling with ‘his lads’。
I was scheduled to have an interview with him today, at which we would ‘discuss’ my future career prospects. Theoretically this was part of an integrated career development process that would lead to positive outcomes with regards to both the police service and me. After this discussion a final decision as to my future disposition would be made – I strongly suspected that what I wanted to do wouldn’t enter into it.
Lesley, looking unreasonably fresh, met me in the squalid kitchenette shared by all the residents on my floor. There was paracetamol in one of the cupboards; one thing you can always be certain of in a police section house is that there will always be paracetamol. I took a couple and gulped water from the tap.
‘Mr Headless has a name,’ she said, while I made coffee. ‘William Skirmish, media type, lives up in Highgate.’
‘Are they saying anything else?’
‘Just the usual,’ said Lesley. ‘Senseless killing, blah, blah. Inner-city violence, what is London coming to, blah.’
‘Blah,’ I said.
‘What are you doing up before noon?’ she asked.
‘Got my career progression meeting with Neblett at twelve.’
‘Good luck with that,’ she said.
I knew it was all going pear-shaped when Inspector Neblett called me by my first name.
‘Tell me, Peter,’ he said. ‘Where do you see your career going?’
I shifted in my chair.
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I was thinking of CID.’
‘You want to be a detective?’ Neblett was, of course, a career ‘uniform’， and thus regarded plain-clothes police officers in much the same way as civilians regard tax inspectors. You might, if pressed, concede that they were a necessary evil but you wouldn’t actually let your daughter marry one.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why limit yourself to CID?’ he asked. ‘Why not one of the specialist units?’
Because you don’t, not when you’re still on probation, say that you want to be in the Sweeney or a Murder Investigation Team and swan around in a big motor while wearing handmade shoes.
‘I thought I’d start at the beginning and work my way up, sir,’ I said.
‘That’s a very sensible attitude,’ said Neblett.
I suddenly had a horrible thought. What if they were thinking of sending me to Trident? That was the Operational Command Unit charged with tackling gun crime within the black community. Trident was always on the lookout for black officers to do hideously dangerous undercover work, and being mixed race meant that I qualified. It’s not that I don’t think they do a worthwhile job, it’s just that I didn’t think I’d be very good at it. It’s important for a man to know his limitations, and my limitations started at moving to Peckham and hanging around with yardies, postcode wannabes and those weird, skinny white kids who don’t get the irony in Eminem.
‘I don’t like rap music, sir,’ I said.
Neblett nodded slowly. ‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, and I resolved to keep a tighter grip on my mouth.
‘Peter,’ he said, ‘over the last two years I’ve formed a very positive opinion of your intelligence and your capacity for hard work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And then there is your science background.’
I have three C-grade A levels in Maths, Physics and Chemistry. This is only considered a science background outside of the scientific community. It certainly wasn’t enough to get me the university place I wanted.