side. He was young and no more than twenty-three, and very fresh-faced. They say you can tell you're getting old when the coppers look young and I could just about have been this kid's dad. He looked really enthusiastic as well. That wouldn't last. A second officer stood a few feet behind him, watching, but the other two were preoccupied with the driver of the other car. None of them appeared to be armed, which I thought was a bit foolish under the circumstances. I could have run this roadblock and they wouldn't have had a chance. I still could.
'Good evening, sir.' He leaned down into the window and gave me and the car a gentle once-over.
It always pays to be polite. 'Evening, officer. How can I help?'
'There's been an incident at a hotel called theTraveller's Rest on the A10. About fifteen minutes ago. You haven't come that way, have you?'
'No, I haven't,' I told him. 'I've come from Clavering. I'm on my way to London.'
He nodded understandingly, and then looked at me again. You could tell that for some reason he wasn't entirely convinced, although I don't know why. I'm not the type who arouses suspicions. I genuinely look like a nice guy. There shouldn't have been any alarm bells.
But there were. Maybe I'd just met the new Ellery Queen.
'Have you got any identification, sir? Just for the record.'
I sighed. I didn't want to have to do this because it could well cause me a lot of long-term problems, but I didn't see that I had much choice.
For a split second I baulked. But a split second was all I had.
Then I reached into my pocket and removed the warrant card.
He took it, inspected it carefully, looked back at me, then back at the warrant card, just to double check, probably wondering why his instincts were so wrong. When he looked back again, he had an embarrassed expression on his face.
'Detective Sergeant Milne. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize.'
I shrugged my shoulders. 'Course you didn't.
You're just doing your job. But if you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry.'
'Of course, sir, no problem.' He stepped back from the car. 'Have a nice evening.'
I said goodnight, and put the car in reverse. Poor sod. I remembered only too well what it was like to be out on nights like these, being paid a pittance to stand around for hours on end with the rain pissing down on your head. Knowing that the people you were meant to be looking for were probably miles away. Oh, the joys of being a uniformed copper.
I waved as I drove past, and he waved back. I wondered how long it would take him to lose the enthusiasm; how long before he, too, realized that by playing by the rules he was just banging his head against a brick wall.
I gave him two years.
2
I used to know a guy called Tom Darke. Tomboy, as he was known, was a buyer and seller of stolen goods. If you'd nicked something - whatever it was - Tomboy would give you a price for it, and you could be sure that somewhere down the line he'dhave a customer who'd take it off him. He was also an informant, and a good one too if you measure such things by how many people his information convicted. The secret of his success lay in the fact that he was a likeable character who was good company. He used to say that he listened well rather than listened hard, and he never asked too many questions. Consequently, there wasn't a lot that went on among the North London criminal fraternity that he didn't know about, and such was his affability that even as the local lowlifes were going down like overweight skydivers no one ever suspected old Tomboy of being involved.
I once asked him why he did it. Why, as the Aussies would say, did he dob in blokes who were meant to be his mates? Because the thing was, he didn't really strike me as the grassing sort. He came across as being a decent bloke who was above such petty deceptions. Tomboy had two answers to this question.
The first answer was the obvious one. Money. There were good rewards on offer for information on criminals and
'Good evening, sir.' He leaned down into the window and gave me and the car a gentle once-over.
It always pays to be polite. 'Evening, officer. How can I help?'
'There's been an incident at a hotel called theTraveller's Rest on the A10. About fifteen minutes ago. You haven't come that way, have you?'
'No, I haven't,' I told him. 'I've come from Clavering. I'm on my way to London.'
He nodded understandingly, and then looked at me again. You could tell that for some reason he wasn't entirely convinced, although I don't know why. I'm not the type who arouses suspicions. I genuinely look like a nice guy. There shouldn't have been any alarm bells.
But there were. Maybe I'd just met the new Ellery Queen.
'Have you got any identification, sir? Just for the record.'
I sighed. I didn't want to have to do this because it could well cause me a lot of long-term problems, but I didn't see that I had much choice.
For a split second I baulked. But a split second was all I had.
Then I reached into my pocket and removed the warrant card.
He took it, inspected it carefully, looked back at me, then back at the warrant card, just to double check, probably wondering why his instincts were so wrong. When he looked back again, he had an embarrassed expression on his face.
'Detective Sergeant Milne. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize.'
I shrugged my shoulders. 'Course you didn't.
You're just doing your job. But if you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry.'
'Of course, sir, no problem.' He stepped back from the car. 'Have a nice evening.'
I said goodnight, and put the car in reverse. Poor sod. I remembered only too well what it was like to be out on nights like these, being paid a pittance to stand around for hours on end with the rain pissing down on your head. Knowing that the people you were meant to be looking for were probably miles away. Oh, the joys of being a uniformed copper.
I waved as I drove past, and he waved back. I wondered how long it would take him to lose the enthusiasm; how long before he, too, realized that by playing by the rules he was just banging his head against a brick wall.
I gave him two years.
2
I used to know a guy called Tom Darke. Tomboy, as he was known, was a buyer and seller of stolen goods. If you'd nicked something - whatever it was - Tomboy would give you a price for it, and you could be sure that somewhere down the line he'dhave a customer who'd take it off him. He was also an informant, and a good one too if you measure such things by how many people his information convicted. The secret of his success lay in the fact that he was a likeable character who was good company. He used to say that he listened well rather than listened hard, and he never asked too many questions. Consequently, there wasn't a lot that went on among the North London criminal fraternity that he didn't know about, and such was his affability that even as the local lowlifes were going down like overweight skydivers no one ever suspected old Tomboy of being involved.
I once asked him why he did it. Why, as the Aussies would say, did he dob in blokes who were meant to be his mates? Because the thing was, he didn't really strike me as the grassing sort. He came across as being a decent bloke who was above such petty deceptions. Tomboy had two answers to this question.
The first answer was the obvious one. Money. There were good rewards on offer for information on criminals and
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