often here, at this time?’
‘Where else have they got to go on a Sunday evening?’
Simms was going to say Home , then thought better of it. Scrutinizing the yobs through the shopfront more closely, he was pretty certain he recognized two of the more boisterous boys: Kevin Jones, a skinny little sod with spiky, peroxide-blond hair, and Sean Haynes, a short, fat thug with a babyface. They were always in trouble, yet too young to be prosecuted. It meant a ton of paperwork, and the heavy hand of Social Services breathing down the division’s neck at every stage. And everyone knew it.
One of the smaller boys had a BMX and kept shooting off into the middle of the wet, dimly lit road, pulling wheelies.
‘Give me a couple of bags of chips, will you?’ Simms said, searching his pockets for loose change.
Clutching the hot bundles he stepped back outside. All quiet – the gang had suddenly disappeared. Or so he thought.
Just before he reached the panda he felt something hit him in the back. Swiftly turning, and dropping the chips in the process, he faced a barrage of missiles: balls of newspaper, sauce sachets and empty Coke cans.
PC Baker was out of the car in a flash, hand on his truncheon, but before the constables could give chase, the kids had streaked off, laughter echoing around the dark corners of the rotten estate.
Back in the car, with the remains of the chips, Simms said, ‘I think I know who two of them are. Time for a couple of house calls?’
‘What’s the point?’ said Baker, relaxing into his seat.
‘We could take them down a dark alley and rub their faces in a bag of cold chips – something like that,’ said Simms.
‘And then get the boot for our troubles? Everyone saw you in the chip shop.’
‘Can’t wait to get out of this uniform,’ Simms was desperate to become a detective.
‘You’ll be lucky, with this new chap Mullett in charge. I hear he does everything by the book. What’s more, I hear there’s been a freeze on promotions – cost-cutting, apparently.’
Sunday (8)
Bert Williams felt very cold. Night had fallen once again, thick and wet and freezing. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.
The tall hedge the other side of the ditch had become an impenetrable brick wall. A prison wall. He was now a prisoner. The metallic smell, the clanking noise. The cramped spaces. The bars and uniforms and pasty, blank faces. The tables had finally turned.
All the scum he’d once put away were on the outside, in the warm sunshine, with their wives and families, their dolly birds and little bastards, drinking and laughing. Living it up on the Costa del Sol. The world was upside down.
Bert tried to clench his fingers, tried to pull himself back to the present. But all he kept thinking was that the wrong people were always one step ahead. That he’d been playing a game of catch-up all his life.
Yet Betty, bless her, had stood by him, hadn’t she, through thick and thin. His mind wandered back to when they first met. He was on leave after Dunkirk, a welcome-home dance. There she was across the hall, blonde hair shimmering …
His body was numb. The pain had all but gone, leaving just this terrible chill.
He’d tried his best to keep Betty happy, to keep Denton safe. There was just too much evil in the world.
There … Williams thought he could make out a light in the distance, moving his way, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to focus. Was it a flashlight, car headlamps?
No, there was no one. No one was coming to his aid. He was going to die here, and very soon. He should have been more flaming organized. But he only had himself to blame.
Why he’d become so hooked on smashing this gang, all by himself, he really didn’t know. Because he’d been handed a lead on a plate … maybe? Because all along he hadn’t known quite who to trust …
Also, he supposed, he hadn’t been sure whether he was on to something at last, whether he was about to crack the case
‘Where else have they got to go on a Sunday evening?’
Simms was going to say Home , then thought better of it. Scrutinizing the yobs through the shopfront more closely, he was pretty certain he recognized two of the more boisterous boys: Kevin Jones, a skinny little sod with spiky, peroxide-blond hair, and Sean Haynes, a short, fat thug with a babyface. They were always in trouble, yet too young to be prosecuted. It meant a ton of paperwork, and the heavy hand of Social Services breathing down the division’s neck at every stage. And everyone knew it.
One of the smaller boys had a BMX and kept shooting off into the middle of the wet, dimly lit road, pulling wheelies.
‘Give me a couple of bags of chips, will you?’ Simms said, searching his pockets for loose change.
Clutching the hot bundles he stepped back outside. All quiet – the gang had suddenly disappeared. Or so he thought.
Just before he reached the panda he felt something hit him in the back. Swiftly turning, and dropping the chips in the process, he faced a barrage of missiles: balls of newspaper, sauce sachets and empty Coke cans.
PC Baker was out of the car in a flash, hand on his truncheon, but before the constables could give chase, the kids had streaked off, laughter echoing around the dark corners of the rotten estate.
Back in the car, with the remains of the chips, Simms said, ‘I think I know who two of them are. Time for a couple of house calls?’
‘What’s the point?’ said Baker, relaxing into his seat.
‘We could take them down a dark alley and rub their faces in a bag of cold chips – something like that,’ said Simms.
‘And then get the boot for our troubles? Everyone saw you in the chip shop.’
‘Can’t wait to get out of this uniform,’ Simms was desperate to become a detective.
‘You’ll be lucky, with this new chap Mullett in charge. I hear he does everything by the book. What’s more, I hear there’s been a freeze on promotions – cost-cutting, apparently.’
Sunday (8)
Bert Williams felt very cold. Night had fallen once again, thick and wet and freezing. He was drifting in and out of consciousness.
The tall hedge the other side of the ditch had become an impenetrable brick wall. A prison wall. He was now a prisoner. The metallic smell, the clanking noise. The cramped spaces. The bars and uniforms and pasty, blank faces. The tables had finally turned.
All the scum he’d once put away were on the outside, in the warm sunshine, with their wives and families, their dolly birds and little bastards, drinking and laughing. Living it up on the Costa del Sol. The world was upside down.
Bert tried to clench his fingers, tried to pull himself back to the present. But all he kept thinking was that the wrong people were always one step ahead. That he’d been playing a game of catch-up all his life.
Yet Betty, bless her, had stood by him, hadn’t she, through thick and thin. His mind wandered back to when they first met. He was on leave after Dunkirk, a welcome-home dance. There she was across the hall, blonde hair shimmering …
His body was numb. The pain had all but gone, leaving just this terrible chill.
He’d tried his best to keep Betty happy, to keep Denton safe. There was just too much evil in the world.
There … Williams thought he could make out a light in the distance, moving his way, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to focus. Was it a flashlight, car headlamps?
No, there was no one. No one was coming to his aid. He was going to die here, and very soon. He should have been more flaming organized. But he only had himself to blame.
Why he’d become so hooked on smashing this gang, all by himself, he really didn’t know. Because he’d been handed a lead on a plate … maybe? Because all along he hadn’t known quite who to trust …
Also, he supposed, he hadn’t been sure whether he was on to something at last, whether he was about to crack the case
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