Cleaning Up Read Free Page A

he was, back again; older, single, still jumping the hoops, still trying to stay solid and rolling on. Despite the passing of the years he remained ambivalently set apart from his birthplace. Sometimes, he could taste the loneliness in his throat. That was a feeling that a few beers could never quite wash away.
     
    Darrin had hung around the station for a little more time than was his usual inclination. He was nursing a hangover that had left every cell of his body feeling dried out, frazzled and frayed. He got away with it for a while up until Thommo, the gnarled Welsh desk sergeant, had flicked a querulous eyebrow his way that was followed by a pointed glance in the directionof the reception’s wall clock.
    He had a couple of follow ups to do, a young mum who had had her letter box vandalised and an old lady whose purse had been snatched in one of the supermarket car parks. The old lady’s description of her assailants didn’t bode well for an early collar; a pair of hoodies, low-rise denim jeans, one black youth, one white. The old girl was shaken though, she’d held on tightly to her bag making them work for it and she’d taken a tumble and banged up her knee. Turned out she wasn’t one of the ‘flog em and hang em’ brigade and she had even displayed a degree of compassion for the perpetrators that had made him feel like throttling the little fuckers. If he got the collar maybe he would put a little bit of hurt on them.
    The mum was quite a tidy piece, she had a good idea who the culprits were and when she told him the names he realised that the kids’ families were known to him. He’d go up and have a word later although he knew that it would probably be as effective as plaiting sea mist. Still, it was good to have the chat, let the pricks know that they didn’t have carte-blanche.
    He got back to the station to do the paperwork and to engage in some routinely unsubtle banter with Trish and Big Chev about last night’s shenanigans in The Ship. His hangover was just about on the ebb and the next blow out was already being planned. They’d start at The Ship, have a few in The Moor Hen then end up in Piccolos, the late night place just off the High Street that was owned by a pair of shirt lifters.
    The crew had to cherry pick the pubs they frequented, if there was enough of them it didn’t really matter but any small groups had to plan ahead and use a bit of common sense, they were known after all, and not everybody in town had the plod on their Christmas card list. He pencilled himself in with thecaveat that he’d get down to the old man’s gym for a work out first. Boozy benders had put the start of a belly on him over the Christmas and New Year and his dad hadn’t let that go without comment. There were plenty of examples of the Ghost of Christmas Future knocking around the station and, besides, what self respecting bird didn’t like the look and feel of a well toned six-pack.
    He had been teamed up with one of the experienced detectives to do some door knocking about the muggings on the Barrington. A couple of the incidents had been nasty - much more assault and battery than anything else. They had pulled up at the estate’s dingy looking row of shops and their arrival was sullenly scoped by a group of Barra’ boys who were hanging out near the entrance of the launderette.
    By the time they’d climbed out of the car most of the kids had turned their backs, the lads slightly raising their voices in order to share their limited command of the English language with them. The D was an old lag with a rep for business-like toughness and he didn’t even bother looking over in their direction. He made a point of eyeballing a couple of the young ‘uns and his challenge had elicited laughter from the group. Darrin felt his face colour and the tension rise in his back and shoulders, but he didn’t push it. He caught up with the D in a few long-legged strides. Later, he thought, later.
     
    Pasquale had got