‘You’re very useful at getting your thoughts down on paper,’ said Neblett.
I felt a cold lump of disappointment in my stomach. I knew exactly what horrifying assignment the Metropolitan Police had planned for me.
‘We want you to consider the Case Progression Unit,’ said Neblett.
The theory behind the Case Progression Unit is very sound. Police officers, so the established wisdom has it, are drowning in paperwork, suspects have to be logged in, the chain of evidence must never be broken and the politicians and PACE, the Police And Criminal Evidence Act, must be followed to the letter. The role of the Case Progression Unit is to do the paperwork for the hard-pressed constable so he or she can get back out on the street to be abused, spat at and vomited on. Thus will there be a bobby on the beat, and thus shall crime be defeated and the good Daily Mail-reading citizens of our fair nation shall live in peace.
The truth is that the paperwork is not that onerous – any half-competent temp would dispose of it in less than an hour and still have time to do his nails. The problem is that police work is all about ‘face’ and ‘presence’ and remembering what a suspect said one day so you can catch them in a lie on the next. It’s about going towards the scream, staying calm and being the one that opens a suspect package. It’s not that you can’t do both, it’s just that it’s not exactly common. What Neblett was saying to me was that I wasn’t a real copper – not a thief taker – but I might play a valuable role freeing up real coppers. I could tell with a sick certainty that those very words ‘valuable role’ were rushing towards the conversation.
‘I was hoping for something a bit more proactive, sir,’ I said.
‘This would be proactive,’ said Neblett. ‘You’d be performing a valuable role.’
Police officers, as a rule, don’t need an excuse to go to the pub, but one of the many non-excuses they have is the traditional end-of-probation booze-up when members of the shift get the brand new full constables completely hammered. To that end, Lesley and me were dragged across the Strand to the Roosevelt Toad and plied with alcohol until we were horizontal. That was the theory, anyway.
‘How did it go?’ Lesley asked over the roar of the pub.
‘Badly,’ I shouted back. ‘Case Progression Unit.’
Lesley pulled a face.
‘What about you?’
‘I don’t want to tell you,’ she said. ‘It’ll piss you off.’
‘Hit me,’ I said. ‘I can take it.’
‘I’ve been temporarily assigned to the murder team,’ she said.
I’d never heard of that happening before. ‘As a detective?’
‘As a uniformed constable in plain clothes,’ she said. ‘It’s a big case and they need bodies.’
She was right. It did piss me off.
The evening went sour after that. I stuck it out for a couple of hours but I hate self-pity, especially mine, so I went out and did the next best thing to sticking my head in a bucket of cold water.
Unfortunately it had stopped raining while we were in the pub, so I settled for letting the freezing air sober me up.
Lesley caught up with me twenty minutes later.
‘Put your bloody coat on,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘Is it cold?’ I asked.
‘I knew you’d be upset,’ she said.
I put my coat on. ‘Have you told the tribe yet?’ I asked. In addition to her mum, her dad and nan, Lesley had five older sisters, all still resident within a hundred metres of the family home in Brightlingsea. I’d met them once or twice when they’d descended upon London en masse for a shopping expedition. They were loud to the point of constituting a one-family breach of the peace, and would have merited a police escort if they hadn’t already had one, i.e. Lesley and me.
‘This afternoon,’ she said. ‘They were well-pleased. Even Tanya, and she doesn’t even know what it means. Have you told yours yet?’
‘Tell them what?’ I asked. ‘That I work in an office?’
‘Nothing wrong with working in an office.’
‘I just want to be a copper,’ I said.
‘I know,’ said Lesley. ‘But why?’
‘Because I want to help the community,’ I said. ‘Catch bad guys.’
‘Not the shiny buttons, then?’ she asked. ‘Or the chance to slap the cuffs on and say, “You’re nicked, my son”？’
‘Maintain the Queen’s peace,’ I said. ‘Bring order out of chaos.’