Chapter 12
IT WAS CLOSE TO THE END OF HIS SHIFT AND PC PERCY GUTTERIDGE WAS TIRED. He was fifty-six years old and was feeling ever one of those years this day. But even so, tired as he was, he was still a good copper, observant to the ebb and flow of his beat, the same beat he had walked day and night for seventeen years now, ever since his transfer to Chelsea, B Division, from F Division in Paddington.
Percy Gutteridge was well liked around his beat, he always ready to listen and help where he could – he was more honest than most although always willing to accept a glass or two of gin and a bottle or two of brandy or scotch might come his way at Christmas. An odd guinea or two might pass across his palms should he decide to turn away from a street scam such as ‘Find the Lady’, Pinky Nev
