made no attempt to contradict him. ‘I’m sorry. I had no right to do that.’ Yet this time she did equivocate. ‘But surely it’s just as important to contain crime.’
Her statement implied a question, although Toby was sure she knew the answer as well as he did. ‘That’s not what worries me.’
He had to confront her with the larger question, the underlying issue, although he was almost sure to be misunderstood. He tried to show his concern, rather than his own attitude toward those of Asian extraction.
‘Aren’t you identifying too closely with your own kind?’
The look in her eyes was the same as she had given the manager of the engineering works.
The view of Birmingham from the expansive windows of the ‘Pub on 4th’ – the purpose-built social club on the top floor of the Division ‘S’ headquarters – is transcendent and serene, far from the madding crowd below: one of the few material benefits of volunteering for public service as a Special. Restricted to Police, Specials and their guests, it allowed them to relax from the pressures and travails of their work and meet socially in a secure, private environment with all the comforts of home, including a bar, TV area and snooker room. Yet besides its exclusive, even privileged company the Pub on 4th was the same as any other perhaps, preferable only in its panoramic views and family atmosphere.
Tonight the pub was quite full and alive with shop talk and laughter. Not in the mood, Toby was sitting at a table with Anjali, the centre of attention, surrounded by young bucks, Specials and PC’s alike. Somewhat dispirited, he was just finishing his orange juice and getting up to leave.
‘Ah! Young love,’ one of the Specials remarked, obviously referring to Toby. ‘Bed calls.’
It wasn’t worth a sassy rejoinder, so instead Toby flicked his fingers at the guy’s head, though he missed by a long shot. He mouthed ‘goodnight’ and ‘see you’ to the faces around the table. Finally his gaze stopped, and stayed, on Anjali. He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity without turning away; yet she returned his stare, challenging him with her eyes, unflinching. Beginning to wonder if the others were watching them, Toby eventually decided it was time to leave.
On his way out, Toby watched Viv Smith and Sandra Gibson at another table engaged in serious discussion. Sandra was the Mother of all Midland Specials, the administrative secretary who knew, filed, remembered and took care of all the Specials in the Birmingham area. Toby would have liked to have stopped and say hello, but Viv was immersed in the conversation in a manner that suggested any interruption would not be welcome, so he decided to amble on by, acknowledging Sandra with a quick wave and smile.
Viv took the occasion of Sandra’s momentary distraction to knock back the rest of her vodka and orange. It wasn’t her first. When Sandra returned to their conversation, Viv was ready to continue her diatribe. ‘What really gets up my nose is what kind of a human being could leave kids wandering around a supermarket?’
Sandra nodded and pulled a quizzical face in agreement. Before Viv could continue her litany of complaints about the parentage of the lost children, Bob Loach wandered over to their table showing off the red-and-white badge of courage: his bandaged thumb.
Immediately Loach began to entertain the other PCs sitting at the table with Viv and Sandra. Although they had ceased following or even listening to Viv, they interrupted any semblance of civilized conversation by raising their glasses, voices and laughter in toasts to the valiant Loach. ‘Why didn’t you get Big Jess to kiss it better?’ asked one wag.
‘Been sucking your thumb, Bob?’ simultaneously suggested one of the others.
Loach smiled sourly and silently pleaded with Sandra for some sympathy. But Viv was having none of his interruptions.
‘Now don’t go giving Sandra a hard time with your problems, Bob Loach. She’s off-duty. Having a quiet drink,’ And busy with my problems at present, Viv wanted to add. ‘She’s not interested in discussing compensation tonight.’
The disappointment on his face was that of a disheartened little boy which, as ever, Sandra didn’t have the constitution to resist.
‘What happened?’ she asked innocently, at the same time automatically removing a secretarial pad and pencil from her shoulder bag.
Viv decided that the only way to cut this short was to speak up first. ‘A lady of the night called Big Jess bit it. I’d say Loach got off lightly.’
Loach ignored Viv and concentrated on Sandra. ‘I suppose it’ll mean a court appearance,’ he sighed. ‘As if I didn’t have enough on my plate.’
Just feeling sorry for himself, Viv reflected. ‘He’s a lot on his mind, has our Section Officer,’ she cracked.
Unfortunately Loach took the opportunity to venture off on one of his pet peeves. ‘Damned right. I’ve been Acting SDO for about three months. And doing all skiver SDO Barker’s paper work …’
Viv tried to head him off at the pass. ‘Loach …’
But it was already too late. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind doing the job. But how long am I supposed to act as an Acting?’ Now that he was off and running, there would be virtually no stopping him. ‘I wouldn’t care, if I got a word of thank-you from our invisible SDO for the time I’m putting in.’
Loach’s tirade against SDO Barker was having an unintended effect on Sandra, although he took no notice of the time-bomb he could be about to ignite.
‘Change the channel, will you?’ Viv implored, though her voice probably revealed her sense of futility.
As expected, Loach barely paused to catch his breath before running on again. ‘Why can’t the sod phone and say: “Thank you, Bob.” It’s not much.’
Loach seemed completely oblivious to the devastating effect the lambasting of his immediate superior, Sub-Divisional Officer Rob Barker, was having on Administrative Secretary Sandra Gibson. Obviously he didn’t realize the connection.
‘If you want my opinion,’ Loach offered, although no one had solicited his views, ‘he’s got his leg over some bird, or maybe broken it getting off.’
That did it. Without a word, her face set in a bleak expression, Sandra got up and walked out.
Loach was dumbfounded, the puzzled look on his face asking Viv: What’s that all about?
‘You really are a daft egg,’ Viv remonstrated.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Rob Barker this, Rob Barker that. You’re as sensitive as a Harpic.’
‘I’m only telling it the way I see it,’ Loach tried to rationalize self-defensively.
Viv wasn’t letting him off the hook. ‘Well, I’ll be glad to tell Rob Barker the next time I see him.’
‘Fine. Do that,’ Loach concluded. To hell with the gent. But then he started to replay her comment and reconsider what it meant.
‘What
