Brown shrugged and pulled a face of disgust.
King ignored him. ‘OK, people. That’s the job, so let’s get on with it. Starting right now.’
King walked through the estate feeling better than he had in a long time. He caught a reflection of himself in the stainless steel doors of one of the many old lifts that ferried the inhabitants skywards to their homes. It had been a long time since he’d seen himself in full uniform. There’d been no need for body armour and a belt full of equipment answering a phone on the Crime Desk. He took a second to admire his appearance – a crisp white open-neck short-sleeved shirt under the armour. Black trousers and shiny shoes with rubber soles so he could move silently. He’d also chosen to wear his peaked cap instead of the traditional helmet and had told the others to do the same. He wanted them all to look the part – to look different from other cops on foot. He wanted the locals to know they were dealing with something unlike anything they’d dealt with before. He took a deep breath and straightened his cap to perfection and let the feeling of power surge through his body. Strange how powerful a uniform could make a person feel – like wearing an impregnable shield. A jolt of pain through his shoulder reminded him it was anything but.
His radio suddenly gave off two electronic-sounding peeps – letting him know someone was trying to contact him on one of its private channels. He checked and saw that it was Renita. He pressed the transmit button and spoke to her, knowing that only she would be able to hear him.
‘Go ahead, Renita.’
‘You still on the Grove Wood?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. In Manor Mead. Something going on?’
‘I got Craig Rowsell under obs in Tabard Street checking out the parked cars,’ she told him. ‘I’ve already got enough to nick him for vehicle interference.’
‘No,’ King insisted. ‘If he’s that interested it’s only a matter of time before he screws one. Give him a bit of rope. I’ll make my way to you. Where are you now?’
‘South end of Tabard Street,’ she replied.
‘I’ll make my way to the north end,’ he explained. ‘You keep him under obs. If he screws one, show out and flush him towards me. I’ll stay out of sight until you give me the nod.’
‘Understood,’ she confirmed as he made his way quickly through the estate’s rat-runs to Tabard Street – staying out of view from anyone who might have shouted a warning to Rowsell of his impending approach. A few minutes later he’d hidden himself behind a recessed stairwell and let Renita know he was waiting to ambush their prey.
His radio hissed into life. ‘Sarge,’ Renita began. ‘Rowsell’s getting very interested in an old BMW 3 Series. He’s been back for a couple of looks. Standby.’ His radio went dead for a few seconds before coming alive again. ‘He’s picked up a small stone,’ she continued. ‘He’s moving towards the BMW. Standby. He’s done the window – repeat – he’s done the window. Shall I move in?’
‘No,’ King insisted. ‘Wait till he’s stolen from the car.’
‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but whatever he’s after he’s taking his time. Standby – he’s out the vehicle now – looks like he’s had the stereo away.’
The stereo? King thought to himself. Any stereo old enough to be ripped in one unit from a car in this day and age could surely only be worth pennies. He wondered why the likes of Rowsell bothered. ‘Show out now,’ he commanded. ‘Get him running towards me.’
‘Already done it,’ Renita told him over the radio, her voice making it clear she was running as she spoke. ‘Stop there, Rowsell, you thieving little …’ She released her transmit button before King could hear any more.
He peeked around the stairwell in time to see Rowsell haring towards him, stupid enough to be still clutching the old stereo, about fifty metres away, but closing fast. He waited, hidden, muttering barely audible encouragement to the advancing thief. ‘Come on. Come on.’ Only when he was sure Rowsell would neither be able to swerve past him nor turn and run in the opposite direction did he burst from his hiding place, making the thief’s eyes widen with fear and nostrils flare as he realized he’d run straight into a trap.
King hit him hard with the palms of his outstretched arms, ploughing into Rowsell’s chest and momentarily lifting him from the floor, knocking the wind from him and making him drop the stereo. Quickly King spun him around and pushed him up against the wall, pulling his arms behind his back and expertly wrapping his quick-cuffs around Rowsell’s wrists, making him curse and complain.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ he demanded. ‘Ah, fuck. The cuffs are too tight, you wanker.’
King pushed him harder into the wall to let Rowsell know who was in charge. ‘Better watch your language, Craig, or I’ll be adding violent disorder to theft from motor vehicle. Understand?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Rowsell asked. ‘TSG?’ Clearly he was experienced enough to know the difference between a relatively gentle arrest at the hands of the local police and the more robust treatment he could expect from the Territorial Support Group.
‘Not TSG, my friend,’ King smiled. ‘Haven’t you heard? You’ve got your very own police force now. The Grove Wood Estate Policing Unit. Remember the name, you little prick, because things around here are about to change.’
By the time King arrived home to his two-bedroom flat in Chadwell Heath, East London, his partner was already there, preparing dinner in their tiny kitchen. She kissed him on the lips and fussed around him, making him smile at the special treatment he was receiving.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ she insisted. ‘I want to hear all about your first day back.’
He slumped in one of their only two kitchen chairs that lived under the small circular dining table, also used as a part-time desk, thankful to be sitting after spending the first day on his feet for more than nine months. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he lied. ‘Just a normal day at the office.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she reminded him. ‘Your first day back on the streets. Your first day as a sergeant on full duties. Your first day in charge of the Estate Policing Unit.’
‘OK,’ he relented, nodding his head. ‘It went well. Team seem solid, although Davey Brown wants to lock horns all the time.’
‘Oh, I know Davey Brown,’ she told him. ‘The ex-Marine, right?’ He just nodded. ‘You know his type. They want to be sergeants, but they don’t want to have to bother with the exams – think they’ve got a right to promotion just because they know what they’re doing on the streets. But I know you. You’ll soon have Davey Brown eating out of the palm of your hand.’
‘Maybe what we do on the streets for real should dictate who gets promoted and not just who can pass exams?’ he questioned.
‘That’s a little rich coming from someone on accelerated promotion,’ she reminded him. ‘Turkeys don’t generally vote for Christmas.’
‘Well, we had a decent arrest on our first day,’ he explained, letting her comment slip away. ‘Craig Rowsell for screwing a car on the estate. He nicked some ancient stereo from some clapped-out BMW. I mean, why would you bother nicking that? It wasn’t worth shit.’
‘Because
