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Special Constable Anjali Shah waited at the bus stop thinking there was nothing in particular about her appearance to suggest to other bystanders that they should be wary of a part-time member of a police organization in their midst.
Although she was always proud to identify herself as first-generation English, in many ways she still found herself uncomfortably in the middle of contrary and changing cultural influences, often self-conscious of the position she was taking in any group situation. She also considered herself a feminist, so she really couldn’t rationalize standing meekly at the rear of a group of strangers waiting for a bus. Paradoxically, she also had to wage a continuing internal struggle against ancient traditions urging her not to stand near the front of the group, and, especially as a woman, and most certainly as a woman alone and unaccompanied by a gentleman, not to be ‘much too conspicuous’, as Uncle Ram would say.
Standing in front of her were two women of her age who were indeed conspicuous and none too timid about asserting their presence, a couple of Sharons, their hair teased into clouds and their names surely immortalized on the sun visors of cars driven by their Kevins. While in some sense Anjali could envy the bold, even brave disguise they adopted to face a world crowded with anxieties, nevertheless she could never assume that disguise for herself.
Suddenly she recognized someone familiar – her section officer, Bob Loach – sailing by the bus stop in his fancy Jag. Impulsively she waved at him, a gesture perhaps uncharacteristic of the woman she imagined other people saw her to be.
Against all odds, Bob Loach saw her wave, and although he had overshot the mark, the Jag quickly slowed to a stop. Then he turned and waved back to Anjali, motioning for her to join him for the ride to Division ‘S’ headquarters.
The Sharons standing in front of her simultaneously got the same message, misinterpreting Loach’s wave and come-on as intended for them. The short one even had the nerve to return Loach’s wave. The two exchanged glances, half-seriously asking ‘What d’you think?’
Before they could decide among themselves, Anjali had run and jumped into the Jaguar. She wasn’t out of hearing range when the short one remarked loudly, ‘What a tart!’
Anjali had to laugh but she couldn’t quite convince herself to explain what she was laughing about to her section officer. He might see her as a bit silly but neither he nor anyone else would have any grounds to think of her as a tart. Yet she wasn’t positive that someone else, indeed a man who had waved at her from afar and picked her up in his handsome carriage, would laugh at the misunderstanding. So she smiled and kept the story to herself.
In turn, Bob Loach didn’t seem very forthcoming either: he appeared to mirror her distant attitude. He was friendly, and made some attempt to offer polite conversation, but still he was reserved. Perhaps that was proper for a man in his position – as well as for an unmarried woman in hers.
Maybe that was one of the reasons Anjali looked up to Robert Loach. He was sympathetic to the concerns of the individuals under his command and was certainly thought to be ‘one of us’. Nonetheless, he clearly took his responsibilities seriously. Anjali decided he was more in tune with his role than she was with hers, at least in terms of what she could discern from his outward behaviour. His strength of character made him attractive to any woman, and Anjali was not unaware of her own desires and secret fantasies stimulated by a mature, older man who personified qualities she admired.
Later in the parade room for Specials at the Division ‘S’ station, Anjali and Section Officer Loach were looking smart in their neat, crisp uniforms, and she felt more comfortable with their defined roles. Yes, he was a section officer, but Anjali Shah could hold her head just as high: she too was a Special in her own right.
Of about a dozen Specials in the parade room, their ages varying from early twenties to mid-forties, one in four were women. Anjali felt honoured to be one of them.
The section officer cleared his throat, and she knew the meeting was about to come to order.
After reviewing the roster of duties on his clipboard and the faces of the Specials present, Section Officer Loach barked ‘All right, settle down, troops.’ It was time to move along, take parade and get the show on the road.
‘I know you’ve heard it all before, but I want you to remember three things when you’re out on the street …’
He paused for effect.
‘… Respect … respect … and respect.’
Loach once again noticed eyeballs rolling skyward and wished that perhaps the Lord High Executioner would authorize him to order their heads to roll instead.
‘Yeah, I know it’s boring. But watch out when you turn the next corner. All hell could break loose, and you’d better be ready for it.’
He prayed, as he did every single time, that each of them would take his words to heart and return home safe and sound. However, before he could deliver the climax of his address, the door opened and Police Sergeant Andrew McAllister popped his head into the breach. Raising a quizzical eyebrow in Loach’s direction, McAllister curled his finger, beckoning the section officer to him.
Loach held up his hand to signal a pause in the parade ceremony, then joined Sergeant McAllister at the door.
‘Before you get started … a wee word in your lug, Section Officer Loach.’
Knowing how rarely McAllister assumed that tone of voice, Loach did not relish the anticipation of the nails being driven into his coffin.
‘While we both know in what high esteem the Specials are held by the regular force, it would seem that some Specials hold themselves in even higher esteem.’
What was McAllister trying to say?
‘I am, of course, referring to Special Constable Freddy Calder. He seems to see himself as Captain Marvel of the Flying Squad.’
Oh-oh, what was it this time?
‘While we appreciate enthusiasm, Loach, Mister Calder is exactly that when off-duty: Mister Calder.’
Freddy had probably arrested Princess Di for showing disrespect for the royal family.
‘I trust you’ll see that my words are inserted in the correct earhole. Over and out. And have a nice parade.’
And with that the sergeant left Cheshire-cat like, the vision of his teeth still hanging in the air.
Loach made a conscious effort to lift his eyes for action, as he returned to his place in front of the Specials. At the same time, he tried not to look into the eyes of the woman he had picked up at the bus stop and given a ride to only moments ago.
‘Okay. Where were we? Ah, right. Special Constable Anjali Shah?’
When he did look at her he was pleased to see that she was alert and responsive. In that instant he was reminded that Special Constable Shah generally demonstrated ‘the right stuff’ for the job, even though she was by no means a powerhouse in the physical sense.
‘Anjali, you’re on car patrol in the panda with PC Toby Armstrong. Okay?’
She nodded, no questions; but one of the wits in the room couldn’t leave well enough alone.
‘Cushy number.’
There was general laughter. Loach tried to ignore the mini-rabble.
‘Special Constable Viv Smith?’
When he looked up Viv Smith was applying some blush to her cheeks, but she indicated that at least she was listening. The next one wouldn’t be so easy, and he made sure his voice carried the menace of impending doom.
‘… And Special Constable Freddy Calder.’
Again the resident wit struck a blow for cynicism.
‘Batman and Robin!’
Yet he wasn’t quick-witted enough to escape Viv Smith clouting him with a graceful swinging arc of her shoulder bag.
Loach immediately forget about that nonsense when he realized Freddy Calder was nowhere in sight.
‘Flippin’ ’eck, where’s Freddy?’
Another wit took his turn. ‘Trying to get away from his mother.’
Loach could barely contain his irritation. ‘That’ll do. That’s out of order.’
At that inopportune moment, Loach heard the door open behind him, and when he turned to confront the interruption, a little furry fox hand-puppet poked his nose in and spoke to the assembled Specials in a squeaky little voice with a distinct though amateurish American accent.
‘Foxy’s real sorry for being late, but there was this babe in a miniskirt.’
Freddy Calder had at last arrived. Loach was sorely tempted to strangle Foxy and break Freddy’s fingers.
‘Hey! Feel my whiskers. Are they burning, or are they burning?’
The hand-puppet entered the parade room, followed by a similarly red-faced Freddy Calder. His embarrassment didn’t excuse his crime. It was time for a firmly administered example of keel-hauling.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ Sprinkling his apologies here and there, Freddy must have noticed that Loach was not amused. ‘Really sorry, Bob.’
Freddy hurriedly joined Viv Smith, tossing her a Benny Hill grin. Loach’s glare wiped the smile off Freddy’s face.
‘Be serious, Freddy, for once. D’you know that Sergeant McAllister has just been melting the wax in my ears? You been chasing stolen cars again?’
That random probe apparently struck a nerve, as Special Constable Calder could no longer hide the guilt on his face.
Loach tried to go easy on him, out of a basic respect for someone like Freddy who had, after all, volunteered his services to become a Special, just as he and the others had.
‘I know you don’t miss much, but it doesn’t help to antagonize the police.’
Loach shook his head. It was no use. For all of Freddy Calder’s talents, as well as quirks, advice to him on diplomacy would always fall on deaf ears.
4
Constable Toby Armstrong was walking his partner, Anjali Shah, to the black-and-white panda they shared while out lurking through the jungles of Birmingham and local environs looking for trouble. Tonight they might find it simply by sitting in the panda and going nowhere. While talking about his wife, Toby was, for the time being anyway, happy to be happily married, or else he might be vulnerable to the temptations of this dark angel.
‘She’s pregnant.’
Anjali’s eyes widened. ‘Shirley?’
‘Who else?’
Anjali instinctively took Toby’s hand and squeezed it in hers.
‘Congratulations, Toby.’
As an afterthought, she did some mental arithmetic before coming to the logical conclusion about the nearly newlyweds and their first offspring now in gestation.
‘It’s a honeymoon baby!’
That must have been the correct answer, as it provoked a robust laugh from Toby that he didn’t explain until they were settled in the panda with their safety belts fastened.
‘Don’t mention the word “honeymoon,”’ he sighed, shaking his head in bittersweet reverie. ‘We stayed in this hotel down in the West Country …’
Her blank expression suggested to him that she might not have the faintest notion of the particular nuances and idiosyncrasies found in that region of the realm, so he took a step backward before proceeding.
‘You know? The ones that say they’ve a lot of character. Where some King Johnny spent the night.’ It was too late in the story to stop again and explain. ‘I reckon we had the same bed he did,’ implying its age. ‘It was gross. Like that –’
Through the air he made a deep scooping arc with his hand, illustrating the shape of the sacrificial honeymoon altar upon which he had probably developed permanent curvature of the spine.
‘– with squeaky bed springs.’
He had to chuckle in spite of himself.
‘If you’re right, and it is a honeymoon baby, I reckon we ought to call him Shakin’ Stevens!’
Momentarily a question flashed across his mind as to whether Anjali might consider his remark ‘not in the best of taste’, as she would carefully say. He hoped so. At least she might provide an occasion for some innocent flirtation. After all, his safety belt was in place: he was a happily married old man.
Because Freddy Calder was the last one in and, as per usual, the last one out, Viv Smith virtually had to lead him by the hand through the front entrance of Division ‘S’ in order to have any chance of getting some work done before it was time to go home again. Putting it mildly, this little-big lad could be absolutely maddening.
Nonetheless, Viv was flattered to be assigned the responsibility of babysitting the problem child of the bunch. That alone proved Loach had confidence in her: a single, smashing, hip young bird in charge of Freddy – Super Sleuth.
She decided she might as well take advantage of her plight this evening, and perhaps exploit the genuine gullibility of her intended victim, by rehearsing her latest sales scheme on poor Freddy, as she used to rehearse the lead in her school play.
‘You know something, Freddy? I’ve come to the conclusion that money is a very interesting thing.’
‘I’ll say.’
Brilliant repartee.
‘No, give over. I mean it.’ The time had arrived to establish credibility by making oblique reference to her regular position as a Teller in Accountancy.
‘Since working at the Building Society, I’ve learned a few things. You know, like stocks and shares?’
It was a bizarre possibility, but maybe he didn’t know.
‘Surely you’ve thought about that, Freddy? At your age?’
‘No,’ he scowled. ‘And less of the “at my age.”’
Such a sensitive dinosaur, though.
‘But you should. You won’t get very far pushing your fingers up a puppet …’
Maybe there was a better phrase she might have turned there, and she quickly checked his eyes for any sign of awareness or intelligence for that matter, none of which could be detected in the subdued light.
‘… But if you do it right, you can make a quick killing on the market.’
‘By going out and cutting my throat, you mean,’ answered Freddy.
Viv wondered if that might be a better plan than hers.
Through her side of the windscreen in the panda, Anjali Shah watched Special Constable Viv Smith and Freddy Calder passing by. Apparently concentrating on his driving, Toby wasn’t talkative at the moment, so Anjali had a moment’s respite. She was lost in her own thoughts of being close to and yet far from her family, from the frictions as well as the comforts of home …
‘Not feeling broody, are you?’ Toby interrupted her wanderings.
‘I need a husband first.’ Now why did she let that slip, even as a joke?
‘Well, then?’ Toby asked slyly, sneaking a quick look to gauge her reaction.
Now that the subject was out in the open, so to speak, better to approach it lightly.
‘Don’t you start. It’s like a broken record back home.’ She almost broke out laughing, remembering her mother’s constant scolding. ‘My Ma thinks I’ve missed the boat, and Uncle Ram keeps telling me no one will marry an old bat like me.’
Actually, although she challenged and generally opposed everything Uncle Ram said, on principle, she was often secretly inclined to agree with him on this unsettling topic. Not that she would admit that to Uncle Ram, or to Toby.
But again Toby interrupted her train of thought in a lower tone of voice.
‘From where I’m sitting, I see a pretty attractive bird.’
Anjali instinctively lowered her eyes, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘A bit tanned, maybe, but …’
She winced slightly, trying to let his remark slide by, to erase it from her memory. She knew his gesture was merely intended to defuse the age-old timebomb between their cultures rather than spark it off with a casual insult, so again she kept her thoughts to herself, allowing Toby to continue.
‘… not bad, not bad at all.’
Indeed, he was trying to give her a compliment, and she could see that it was sincere, although she wasn’t quite sure what to think about the new direction their conversation was taking. Just as quickly she banished her doubts, reasoning that there was nothing wrong in modestly accepting reassurance from a friend.
‘You’re good for my morale, Toby.’
She wished that that was the end of it, but Toby didn’t give her a second to change the subject.
‘Listen, you may not believe this,’ he began in his slow, smooth, baritone voice, ‘but I can remember the first time we met.’
The alarm went off somewhere in the back of her brain. Simply turning and raising her eyebrows was enough to question his intentions.
‘I’m serious. I remember the day and the time, and what you were wearing.’ He tossed a Prince Charming smile her way before resuming his scrutiny of the car ahead.
For the first time in their conversation, Anjali was embarrassed. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. In her way, she did love Toby, but she could not possibly love him in his way, and she would rather her ears be made of stone before listening to him continue any further along this path …
And yet she could barely wait for his next words.
‘You were wearing …’ Must he delay the suspense interminably? ‘… a white shirt, black skirt, a check tie and jacket with silver buttons,’ he intoned lovingly.
She punched him in the arm. It had taken her that long to catch on that Toby was describing her uniform.
After investing her time and expertise in ‘building a foundation’ for the financial advisory role with Freddy Calder, Viv was unwilling to give up her chance of gaining his confidence, and eventually the management of his savings. As they scouted the pedestrian shopping area she tried to offer him a strong dose of fiscal common sense.
‘People like you always think money is a complicated matter. It isn’t. It’s all a question of market forces, and getting your money to work for you.’
There. Maybe she could knock some of that common sense into his head after all.
‘Oh, bless you, Obewan Kenobi!’
So much for the notion he was buying any of her carefully prepared argument.
The clown’s voice soured. ‘This sucker’s always had to work for his.’
Viv was determined to be undaunted.
‘Very funny. Listen. You buy shares in a company being took-over. Then when it gets took-over, the company doing the take-over has to pay you more for the shares. Because the shares are worth more now it’s being took-over.’
Even the simplest, most basic human sounds apparently sometimes failed to penetrate Freddy’s thick skull.
‘It’s all very simple, you know, Freddy.’
‘Simple, my big toe.’
This monkey was exasperating. ‘What don’t you understand?’
Freddy had to think for a few moments before he could figure out his answer.
‘Where I get the money to buy the shares in the first place.’
Viv Smith sighed, and paused to contemplate the company she was keeping of late.
‘Freddy, talking to you is the quickest way of getting a headache I know.’
5
In the corridor of Division ‘S’ outside his office, the sign on his door said CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT FRANK ELLSMORE, and when he walked out of his office through that door into the open territory beyond he wanted people to see that he had a clear-cut destination in view, plus the ever-resolute determination to get there. That was the mark of leadership, and he reasoned, rationally enough, that here was indeed what the troops needed to see in his demeanour: his attempt to embody the authority of the uniform, as well as to fill it. He wanted them to see a man of action.
Unfortunately, sometimes ordinary reality presented unexpected obstacles in his path: in this instance in the person of WPC Morrow, the new one. Just as Ellsmore was hitting full stride, he almost collided with WPC Morrow carrying a pile of folders, but just in the nick of time she managed to spin and evade him, yet still balance the folders in her arms so that only a few actually spilled to the floor.
‘Sorry, sir.’
One of Ellsmore’s oldest failings, and one of the rusty skills needing some polishing, was his conduct when caught in embarrassing situations, even of the most trivial nature.
‘My fault … er …’
‘Morrow, sir. WPC Morrow.’
Of course, Morrow. Neat. Agile. Attentive. What other mental resources might she be capable of contributing?
‘You’ve only just started here, right?’
‘Right, sir.’
Well, he had offered her the opportunity to introduce herself and make an impression, but she hadn’t taken the step forward. Talent should always be ready to rise to the top in an instant, he wanted to remind her. Instead he reminded himself that she had performed a nimble feat.
‘Well, if you’re as quick as you are on your feet, Constable, we won’t have much to worry about, eh?’
‘No, sir.’
WPC Morrow didn’t say anything more, and Ellsmore had nothing more to say. Standing here waiting for her laconic answers was getting him nowhere and only prolonging the agony of his embarrassment. So he did his best to nod a farewell, and left her for the lift.
WPC Morrow sighed and watched Chief Superintendent Ellsmore steam away with his sights firmly set on course. She was becoming accustomed to observing the Super sailing through life like a galleon in a high wind.
In the Specials’ parade room, Section Officer Bob Loach was vainly trying to make some semblance of order in his paperwork. His audible groans and grunts of brute persuasion seemed of no use in consolidating scraps of assorted documents.
Abruptly there was a sharp rap on the door, which opened immediately. To Loach’s surprise, standing there like a royal oak was Chief Superintendent Ellsmore.
‘Chief Superintendent?’
As Ellsmore entered, Loach hurriedly straightened and shuffled the paperwork to the side of his desk.
‘Should’ve known you’d be here …’ The Chief Superintendent didn’t sound overjoyed at this discovery. ‘Wanted a quick word, Loach.’
Loach was powerless to prohibit the Chief Superintendent from poking through the paperwork at random, like casually rummaging through someone else’s toolbox, looking for nothing. It was an ominous diversion.
‘Good God, it seems damn stupid you Specials giving up your free time to fight crime, just to end up processing bumff,’ Ellsmore lectured, rippling a few pages of paper with evident contempt. ‘Fruits of bureaucracy, that’s what it is, Loach.’
Why was he stalling? All that this delay accomplished was to make him more nervous. Maybe that was the idea.
‘We try and cope, Chief Superintendent.’
‘Yes.’ Ellsmore did not pursue that dead end. ‘I haven’t seen much of your SDO lately, but I hear he’s been having some trouble at home.’
Telling himself there was no reason to panic, Loach was patiently taking in the information the Chief Superintendent was feeding him, but he still didn’t quite understand what Ellsmore wanted him to swallow.
‘Anyway, I … wanted to have a word with you about one of your lads, Loach.’
‘Trouble, sir?’ Here it comes, he thought.
‘Oh, no, no, no.’ Three times: he doth protest too much. ‘Just a storm in an egg cup.’
Brace yourself, this is it.
‘But you know, I hate there to be any friction between Specials and Police. There are enough jokes as it is.’
What is it, what happened? Who? Why?
‘It’s Freddy Calder.’
Loach’s blood rose as his spirits descended to the satanic depths of the underworld. Freddy Calder was an Achilles’ heel if ever there was one.
‘How long’s he been selling lingerie?’ Ellsmore was, sad to say, dreadfully serious.
‘About a year, sir.’
‘Right. And before that, he flogged …’
This was getting more painful by the moment. ‘Kitchen ware.’
Ellsmore clucked his tongue in mock regret. ‘A pity he didn’t stick to it. You know, he tried to sell a pair of peach cammy knickers to a visiting Woman Police Inspector.’
Loach was sure his cheeks were already as red as he was going to lash Freddy Calder’s backside. But his own torture wasn’t finished yet.
‘And worse … cracked some blue jokes with that damned puppet of his.’
That was too much. Loach’s will was sapped, any hope of suitable revenge dwarfed by Freddy’s towering imbecility.
‘Have a word with him, Loach. Nothing strong. Just tell him to stop selling his ladies’ undies on the premises in the future.’
