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  ‘Not for another year,’ replied William. ‘But I don’t think you’ll be getting rid of me quite yet,’ he added as they approached the local newsagent. He glanced at the headline: ‘PC Yvonne Fletcher killed outside the Libyan Embassy’.

  ‘Murdered, more like,’ said Fred. ‘Poor lass.’ He didn’t speak again for some time. ‘I’ve been a constable all my life,’ he eventually managed, ‘which suits me just fine. But you—’

  ‘If I make it,’ said William, ‘I’ll have you to thank.’

  ‘I’m not like you, Choirboy,’ said Fred. William feared that he would be stuck with that nickname for the rest of his career. He preferred Sherlock. He had never admitted to any of his mates at the station that he had been a choirboy, and always wished he looked older, although his mother had once told him, ‘The moment you do, you’ll want to look younger.’ Is no one ever satisfied with the age they are? he wondered. ‘By the time you become commissioner,’ continued Fred, ‘I’ll be shacked up in an old people’s home, and you’ll have forgotten my name.’

  It had never crossed William’s mind that he might end up as commissioner, although he felt sure he would never forget Constable Fred Yates.

  Fred spotted the young lad as he came running out of the newsagent’s. Mr Patel followed a moment later, but he was never going to catch him. William set off in pursuit, with Fred only a yard behind. They both overtook Mr Patel as the boy turned the corner. But it was another hundred yards before William was able to grab him. The two of them led the young lad back to the shop, where he handed over a packet of Capstan to Mr Patel.

  ‘Will you be pressing charges, sir?’ asked William, who already had his notebook open, pencil poised.

  ‘What’s the point?’ said the shopkeeper, placing the cigarette packet back on the shelf. ‘If you lock him up, his younger brother will only take his place.’

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Tomkins,’ said Fred, clipping the boy around the ear. ‘Just make sure you’re in school by the time we turn up, otherwise I might tell your old man what you were up to. Mind you,’ he added, turning to William, ‘the fags were probably for his old man.’

  Tomkins bolted. When he reached the end of the street he stopped, turned around and shouted, ‘Police scum!’ and gave them both a ‘V’ sign.

  ‘Perhaps you should have pinned his ears back.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Fred.

  ‘In the sixteenth century, when a boy was caught stealing, he would be nailed to a post by one of his ears, and the only way he could escape was to tear himself free.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Fred. ‘Because I have to admit I can’t get to grips with modern police practice. By the time you retire, you’ll probably have to call the criminals “sir”. Still, I’ve only got another eighteen months to go before I collect my pension, and by then you’ll be at Scotland Yard. Although,’ Fred added, about to dispense his daily dose of wisdom, ‘when I joined the force nearly thirty years ago, we used to handcuff lads like that to a radiator, turn the heat full on, and not release them until they’d confessed.’

  William burst out laughing.

  ‘I wasn’t joking,’ said Fred.

  ‘How long do you think it will be before Tomkins ends up in jail?’

  ‘A spell in borstal before he goes to prison, would be my bet. The really maddening thing is that once he’s locked up he’ll have his own cell, three meals a day and be surrounded by career criminals who’ll be only too happy to teach him his trade before he graduates from the University of Crime.’

  Every day William was reminded how lucky he’d been to be born in a middle-class cot, with loving parents and an older sister who doted on him. Although he never admitted to any of his colleagues that he’d been educated at one of England’s leading public schools before taking an art history degree at King’s College London. And he certainly never mentioned that his father regularly received large payments from some of the nation’s most notorious criminals.

  As they continued on their round, several local people acknowledged Fred, and some even said good morning to William.

  When they returned to the nick a couple of hours later, Fred didn’t bother to report young Tomkins to the desk sergeant, as he felt the same way about paperwork as he did about modern police practice.

  ‘Feel like a cuppa?’ said Fred, heading towards the canteen.

  ‘Warwick!’ shouted a voice from behind them.

  William turned round to see the custody sergeant pointing at him. ‘A prisoner’s collapsed in his cell. Take this prescription to the nearest chemist and have it made up. And be quick about it.’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ said William. He grabbed the envelope, and ran all the way to Boots on the high street, where he found a small queue waiting patiently at the dispensary counter. He apologized to the woman at the front of the queue before handing the envelope to the pharmacist. ‘It’s an emergency,’ he said.

  The young woman opened the envelope and carefully read the instructions before saying, ‘That will be one pound sixty, constable.’

  William fumbled for some change, which he gave to the pharmacist. She rang up the sale, turned around, took a packet of condoms off the shelf and handed it to him. William’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He was painfully aware that several people in the queue were grinning. He was about to slip away when the pharmacist said, ‘Don’t forget your prescription, constable.’ She passed the envelope back to William.

  Several amused pairs of eyes followed him as he slipped out into the street. He waited until he was out of sight before he opened the envelope and read the enclosed note.

  Dear Sir or Madam,

  I am a shy young constable, who’s finally got a girl to come out with me, and I’m hoping to get lucky tonight. But as I don’t want to get her pregnant, can you help?

  William burst out laughing, put the packet of condoms in his pocket and made his way back to the station; his first thought: I only wish I did have a girlfriend.

  3

  CONSTABLE WARWICK SCREWED the top back onto his fountain pen, confident he had passed his detective’s exam with what his father would have called flying colours.

  When he returned to his single room in Trenchard House that evening, the flying colours had been lowered to half mast, and by the time he switched off his bedside lamp, he was sure he would remain in uniform and be on the beat for at least another year.

  ‘How did you do?’ the station officer asked when he reported back on duty the following morning.

  ‘Failed hopelessly,’ said William, as he checked the parade book. He and Fred were down to patrol the Barton estate, if only to remind the local criminals that London still had a few bobbies on the beat.

  ‘Then you’ll have to try again next year,’ said the sergeant, unwilling to indulge the young man. If Constable Warwick wanted to wallow in self-doubt, he had no intention of rescuing the lad.

  Sir Julian continued sharpening the carving knife until he was confident blood would run.

  ‘Two slices or one, my boy?’ he asked his son.

  ‘Two please, Father.’

  Sir Julian sliced the roast with the skill of a seasoned carver.

  ‘So did you pass your detective’s exam?’ he asked William as he handed him his plate.

  ‘I won’t know for at least another couple of weeks,’ said William, passing his mother a bowl of brussel sprouts. ‘But I’m not optimistic. However, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m in the final of the station’s snooker championship.’

  ‘Snooker?’ said his father, as if it were a game he was unfamiliar with.

  ‘Yes, something else I’ve learnt in the last two years.’

  ‘But will you win?’ demanded his father.

  ‘Unlikely. I’m up against the favourite, who’s won the cup for the past six years.’

  ‘So you’ve failed your detective’s exam and are about to be runner-up in the—’

  ‘I’ve always wondered why they’r
e called brussel sprouts, and not just sprouts, like carrots or potatoes,’ said Marjorie, trying to head off another duel between father and son.

  ‘They started life as Brussels sprouts,’ said Grace, ‘and over the years the B became small, and the s disappeared, until finally everyone has come to accept brussel as a word, except the more pedantic among us.’

  ‘Like the OED,’ suggested Marjorie, smiling at her daughter.

  ‘And if you have passed,’ said Sir Julian, refusing to be distracted by the etymology of the brussel sprout, ‘how long will it be before you become a detective?’

  ‘Six months, possibly a year. I’ll have to wait for a vacancy to arise in another patch.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll go straight to Scotland Yard?’ said his father, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘That’s not possible. You have to prove yourself in another division before you can even apply for a job at the holy grail. Although I will be visiting the Yard tomorrow for the first time.’

  Sir Julian stopped carving. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure myself,’ admitted William. ‘The super called me in on Friday and told me to report to a Commander Hawksby at nine on Monday morning, but he didn’t give any clue why.’

  ‘Hawksby . . . Hawksby . . .’ said Sir Julian, the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced. ‘Why do I know that name? Ah yes, we once crossed swords on a fraud case when he was a chief inspector. An impressive witness. He’d done his homework and was so well prepared I couldn’t lay a glove on him. Not a man to be underestimated.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ said William.

  ‘Unusually short for a policeman. Beware of them; they often have bigger brains. He’s known as the Hawk. Hovers over you before swooping down and carrying all before him.’

  ‘You included, it would seem,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Sir Julian, as he poured himself a glass of wine.

  ‘You only ever remember witnesses who get the better of you.’

  ‘Touché,’ said Sir Julian, raising his glass as Grace and William burst into spontaneous applause.

  ‘Please give Commander Hawksby my best wishes,’ added Sir Julian, ignoring the outburst.

  ‘That’s the last thing I’m going to do,’ said William. ‘I’m hoping to make a good impression, not an enemy for life.’

  ‘Is my reputation that bad?’ said Sir Julian, with an exasperated sigh worthy of a rejected lover.

  ‘I’m afraid your reputation is that good,’ said William. ‘The mere mention of your name in the nick evokes groans of despair, with the realization that yet another criminal who should be locked up for life will be set free.’

  ‘Who am I to disagree with twelve good men and true?’

  ‘It may have slipped your notice, Father,’ said Grace, ‘but women have been sitting on juries since 1920.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I would never have given them the vote.’

  ‘Don’t rise, Grace,’ said her mother. ‘He’s only trying to provoke you.’

  ‘So what is the next hopeless cause you will be championing?’ Sir Julian asked his daughter, thrusting the knife in deeper.

  ‘Hereditary rights,’ said Grace, as she took a sip of wine.

  ‘Whose in particular, dare I ask?’

  ‘Mine. You may well be Sir Julian Warwick Bt, but when you die—’

  ‘Not for some time, I hope,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘William will inherit your title,’ continued Grace, ignoring the interruption, ‘despite the fact that I was the first born.’

  ‘A disgraceful state of affairs,’ mocked Sir Julian.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Father, and I predict that you’ll see the law changed in your lifetime.’

  ‘I can’t imagine their lordships will readily fall in with your proposal.’

  ‘And that’s why they’ll be next in line, because once the Commons realizes there are votes in it, another sacred citadel will collapse under the weight of its own absurdity.’

  ‘How will you go about it?’ asked Marjorie.

  ‘We’ll start at the top, with the Royal Family. We already have a life peer willing to present a primogeniture bill to the House, which would allow a woman to succeed as monarch if she was the first born, and not be pushed aside by a younger brother. No one has ever suggested that Princess Anne wouldn’t do as good a job as Prince Charles. And we’ll cite Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II to prove our case.’

  ‘It will never happen.’

  ‘In your lifetime, Dad,’ Grace repeated.

  ‘But I thought you disapproved of titles, Grace,’ said William.

  ‘I do. But in this case it’s a matter of principle.’

  ‘Well, I’ll support you. I’ve never wanted to be Sir William.’

  ‘What if you became commissioner, and earned it in your own right?’ said his father. William hesitated for long enough for his father to shrug his shoulders.

  ‘Did that poor young woman you were defending last week manage to get off?’ Marjorie asked Grace, hoping for a break in hostilities.

  ‘No, she got six months.’

  ‘And will be out in three,’ said her father, ‘when she will no doubt go straight back on the street.’

  ‘Don’t get me onto that subject, Dad.’

  ‘What about her pimp?’ asked William. ‘He’s the one who should be locked up.’

  ‘I’d happily boil him in oil,’ said Grace, ‘but he wasn’t even charged.’

  ‘In oil?’ said her father. ‘We’ll have you voting Conservative yet.’

  ‘Never,’ Grace responded.

  Sir Julian picked up the carving knife. ‘Anyone for seconds?’

  ‘Dare I ask if you’ve met anyone recently?’ asked Marjorie, turning to her son.

  ‘Several people, Mama,’ said William, amused by his mother’s euphemism.

  ‘You know exactly what I meant,’ she chided.

  ‘Fat chance. I’ve been working on the roster for the past month, seven nights in a row, finishing up at six in the morning, by which time all you want to do is sleep. Then you’re expected to report back for duty two days later to start an early shift. So let’s face it, Mum, PC Warwick isn’t much of a catch.’

  ‘Whereas if you’d taken my advice,’ said his father, ‘by now you’d be an eligible barrister, and I can assure you there are several attractive young women in chambers.’

  ‘I’ve met someone,’ said Grace, which silenced her father for the first time. He put down his knife and fork and listened intently. ‘She’s a solicitor in the City, but I’m afraid Dad wouldn’t approve of her as she specializes in divorce.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘Whenever you like, Mama, but be warned, I haven’t told her who my father is.’

  ‘Am I a cross between Rasputin and Judge Jeffreys?’ asked Sir Julian, placing the tip of the carving knife next to his heart.

  ‘You’re not that nice,’ said his wife, ‘but you do have your uses.’

  ‘Name one,’ said Grace.

  ‘There’s a clue in yesterday’s crossword that is still baffling me.’

  ‘I’m available to be consulted,’ said Sir Julian.

  ‘Lady’s worried about social event not working? Thirteen letters. Third letter is s, tenth letter o.’

  ‘Dysfunctional!’ the other three cried in unison, and burst out laughing.

  ‘Anyone for humble pie?’ said Sir Julian.

  William had told his father that he was unlikely to win, but now it was in the bag, or to be more accurate, in the corner pocket. He was about to pot the last ball on the table and win the Lambeth station snooker championship, and end a run of six victories for Fred Yates.

  Somewhat ironic, William thought, as it was Fred who’d taught him to play the game. In fact, William wouldn’t have ventured into the snooker room if Fred hadn’t suggested it might help him get to know some of
the lads who weren’t too sure about the choirboy.

  Fred had taught his charge to play snooker with the same zeal he had applied to introducing the lad to life on the beat, and now, for the first time, William was going to beat his mentor at his own game.

  At school, William had excelled on the rugby pitch in the winter as a wing three-quarter, and during the summer as a sprinter on the track. In his final year at London University, he’d been awarded the coveted Purple after winning the Inter Collegiate Championship. Even his father managed a wry smile whenever William broke the tape in the 100 yards dash, as he called it, although William suspected that ‘re-rack’, ‘maximum break’ and ‘in off’ weren’t yet part of his father’s vocabulary.

  William checked the scoreboard. Three games all. It now rested on the final frame. He had started well with a break of 42, but Fred had taken his time, eating away at the lead until the game was finely poised. Although William was still leading by 26 points, all the colours were on their spots, so that when Fred returned to the table, all he had to do was clear the last seven balls to capture the trophy.

  The basement room was packed with officers of every rank; some were perched on the radiators while others sat on the stairs. A silence fell on the gathering as Fred leant across the table to address the yellow. William resigned himself to having lost his chance of becoming champion, as he watched the yellow, green, brown and blue disappear into the pockets, leaving Fred with just the pink and black to clear the table and win the match.

  Fred lined up the object ball before setting the cue ball on its way. But he’d struck it a little too firmly, and although the pink shot towards the middle pocket and disappeared down the hole, the white ended up on a side cushion, leaving a difficult cue, even for a pro.

  The crowd held its breath as Fred bent down. He took his time lining up the final ball which, if he potted, would take him over the line: 73–72, making him the first person to win the title seven years in a row.

  He stood back up, clearly nervous, and chalked his cue once again as he tried to compose himself before returning to the table. He bent down, fingers splayed, and concentrated before he struck the cue ball. He watched anxiously as the black headed towards the corner pocket; several of his supporters willed it on its way, but to their dismay, it came to a halt just inches from the edge. There was an exasperated sigh from the crowd, who were aware William had been left with a shot even a novice could have pocketed, and they accepted that a new name was about to be added to the honours board.