Nothing Ventured(11)

“And you’ve got two commendations to prove it.”

“Not to mention three suspensions, but as I’ve only got a few months left before I hang up my truncheon, I won’t be stepping out of line again. Wouldn’t want to do anything that would affect my pension,” he added as they strolled off the Barton estate.

“It’s quiet tonight,” said William.

“They saw us coming, and like rats, they disappeared down the nearest drain. They’ll reappear the minute we’re out of sight. But then, we wouldn’t want any trouble on your last night on the beat, would we, detective?”

William laughed, and was about to ask another question, when Fred glanced across the road and said, “Silly old moo. But I don’t suppose she knows any better.”

William suspected that another piece of homespun philosophy was about to be dispensed, although he couldn’t see what Fred was going on about.

“Number twenty-three,” said Fred. “Mrs. Perkins.”

“Burgled a couple of weeks ago,” said William. “A TV and a VCR, if I remember correctly.”

“Five out of ten,” said Fred. “Now earn the other five.”

William stared at number 23 but was none the wiser.

“What do you see, Choirboy?”

“Two empty cardboard boxes.”

“And what does that tell you?

William tried to think like a thief catcher, an accolade only given to those who, like Fred, could smell a crime even before it took place.

Fred let out an exaggerated sigh. “Mrs. Perkins’s insurance company must have paid up, so she’s now the proud owner of a new television and VCR. But what she doesn’t know is that a burglar often returns to the scene of the crime a few weeks later, well aware there will probably be a brand-new TV set for them to steal. And in her case, she’s actually advertising the fact. All the villain has to do is wait until she goes out one evening to visit her friend Mrs. Cassidy at number ninety-one, then pop back in and rob her a second time.”

“So what should we do?” asked William.

“Have a quiet word with her, and suggest she destroys the evidence,” said Fred as he knocked on the door of number 23. Mrs. Perkins answered almost immediately, and once Fred had explained why two policemen were standing on her doorstep, she hastily removed the boxes, thanked him, and offered them a cup of tea.

“That’s good of you, Mrs. Perkins, but I’d better get on.” He touched the rim of his helmet before they continued on their round.

“When do you start your new job?” Fred asked after they’d walked a few more yards.

“I’m taking a couple of weeks’ holiday in Italy before reporting to Scotland Yard on the first of October.”

“Lots of pretty girls in Italy, I’m told.”

“Most of them framed.”

“Framed?”

“In gold.”

Fred laughed. “I’ve never been to Italy, or even Scotland Yard for that matter, but I’m told they’ve got the finest snooker room in the Met.”

“I’ll come back and tell you what it’s like…”

“You’ll never come back, Choirboy. Lambeth has just been the first rung on what I expect will be a very long ladder. But be warned, on your way up you’ll come across plenty of snakes who’ll be only too happy to send you back down a ladder, and some of them will be wearing blue uniforms,” he said, rattling a shop door to make sure it was locked.

William chuckled. Never a shift went by when he didn’t learn something from Fred.

“Evenin’, Jacob.”

“Hello, Fred.”

William looked down at a man who was sitting cross-legged on the pavement, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey. When he was first on the beat, Fred had taught him that there were four types of drunks: the sleepers, who fall into a drunken stupor, and when they eventually wake up, go home; the harmless, who are usually drowning their sorrows and are rarely any trouble; the lovers, who want to take you home and try on your uniform; and the aggressive ones, who are looking for a fight and consider a policeman fair game. Fred could identify each category at a dozen paces, especially those looking for a fight, who regularly ended up spending the night in a cell, and were often a completely different person the following morning. William had come across all four types over the past couple of years, and thanks to Fred’s common sense and strong right arm, he only had one or two bruises to show for it.

“Which category?” asked William.

“Drowning his sorrows. Spurs must have lost this afternoon.”

“How do you know that?”

“Jacob’s as good as gold when they win, but if they lose, he’s a lost cause.”

They turned into Luscombe Road to see a few locals making their way home from the Marlborough Arms.

“Disappointing,” said Fred. “Luscombe Road isn’t what it used to be since the council cleaned it up. I was hoping we might come across a drug dealer, or even Lenny the Snitch, so you’d have something to remember from your last night on the beat.”

“We could always arrest her,” said William, pointing to a girl in a short black leather skirt who was chatting to a man through an open car window.

“What’s the point? She’ll only spend the night in a cell, pay a fine in the morning, and be back on the game tomorrow evening. It’s not the girls I’d like to nick, but the pimps who live off them. And one in particular,” Fred added.