Back To Basics And Other Stories

Chapter 2

PC Percy Copper was a hero about town. Or so he still believed. Not so long ago he had foiled an armed bank robbery, losing the little finger of his left hand from a shotgun blast in the process. He had been feted in the press, received a commendation from the Chief Constable and everyone in the squad room had been happy to shake his hand or pat him on the back.

But fame is a transient thing, fleeting and ephemeral, a fickle mistress and now he was simply back to where he had been just a few short weeks ago, a humble copper walking his beat. And none too happy about it.

Judy Dennison, a twelve-year-old schoolgirl, had been attacked on her way home after a Girl Guides meeting. Attacked, r***d and strangled and it seemed that every copper in town was working on the case. But not Percy Copper.

Here was the chance to keep his name to the forefront. But no, he had not been assigned to duty on the case. Here he was, patrolling his beat as usual, as if nothing else was going on, whilst others were making a name for themselves at his expense.

He felt like kicking through a shop window in frustration. He was on night shift again as well, where the only chance of glory was the arrest of a few drunks or the breaking up a half-hearted scuffle as the pubs turned out at 10.30. Percy had complained to Inspector Eddie Trueman, the head of uniform branch, asking to be put on the murder team, but was told brusquely that ordinary policing still had to carry on, beats had to be walked, minor arrests to be made, traffic to be directed, complaints to be investigated, the continuing day-to-day routine that keeps the streets of the town relatively crime-free. ‘Can’t have everyone glory-seeking, can we, son? Coppering is doing as you’re told. We don’t always like it, but it goes with the job.’

‘But sir, it would be good experience for me.’

‘How long have you been in the job, Percy?’

‘Since last October, sir, nine, ten months.’

‘Thee’s still wet behind the ears, lad, nine months? The first nine months I was on the job I never got to even see an inspector, let alone make demands on him. Get thissen out there and do your job. Experience will come along in time right enough. You’re keen to get on and I like that but, in the meantime, you’ve got a beat to patrol.’

‘Yessir.’

There was nothing else he could say and so now he paced along his beat. He rattled shop doors to check they were locked, looked into the back yards of premises, shining his torch into all corners and peered through shop windows to check for intruders. Somewhere out there, maybe in this very street, there lurked a child-killer, a murderous, r****g bastard, whilst he, Percy Copper, escorted the gin-sodden, piss-stinking Widow Blackburn as she staggered home from the Dog and Duck, making sure that she got home safely and didn’t trip over the pavement and break her hip or whatever.

Percy had visions of spotting a suspicious character creeping about after midnight with a small canvas haversack in his hand. As Percy approaches, the man turns and runs. Percy chases after him, bringing him down to the ground with a flying rugby tackle and subdues him. On opening the runner’s haversack, he finds Judy Dennison’s missing Guides uniform and realises he has singly-handedly caught her killer

PC Percy Copper; the hero of the hour once again.

It was a fantasy played out in his mind as he patrolled down Fenwick Street. On the other side of the road, Percy noticed a woman sitting on a low wall. It was getting late, past closing time, there was a chilly wind and it had been raining; not the night to be out sitting on a wall. As he approached, he realised that she was sobbing into her hands.

‘You all right, love?’ he asked, shining his torch at her, trying not to shine it in her eyes.

‘No, I’m bastard well not. What’s it got to do wi’ you, anyhow?’

‘It’s me job, love. Giving a helping hand where we can.’

He was close by her now. She was a small woman, possibly in her early forties, dark hair cut short, round face, her eyes red from weeping, wearing a flower-patterned dress and red cardigan, but no coat. She twisted her wedding ring round and round and round about her ring finger. He squatted down onto his haunches beside her.

‘Well, you can take your helping hand and piss off. It’s nowt to do with you and there’s sod all you can do to help.’

‘You don’t know until you ask, do you?’

‘All right then, tell us where he is, the bastard.’

‘Who are we talking about, love?’

‘Next door’s cat, of course. What do you think? Me bastard husband, that’s who.’

‘Oh, right. He’s gone missing and you’re worried about him, like?’

‘Yeah, worried I’ll cut his lying, cheating heart out if I ever find him, more like.’

‘Oh!’ answered Percy, suddenly unsure how to proceed. He had not had to deal with a domestic incident before.

‘Yeah, “oh”! That about says it all, don’t it? Like I said, less’n you know where he is, or where she lives, the b***h, you’re no sodding use and you might as well bugger off.’

she‘Look, love, it’s cold and wet, s’not a night to be out like this, is it? You’ll catch your death.’

‘And who’d give a s**t, eh? Not that bastard, that’s for sure!’ She spat vehemently.

‘How… how do you know, like, he’s gone… astray?’

She gave him that look, the sort of look you give to dogs and idiots. ‘It’s Tuesday, right? Tuesday night is his bowls night. Every Tuesday, without fail, he goes to the club, plays while it’s still light and then has a beer or two at the club bar. Maybe a game of darts, right?’

‘Yeah, if you say so.’

‘So how can he play bowls without his bowls, eh? He didn’t take his bowls wi’ him. I went to put the broom away in the cupboard under the stairs and there they were, his bowls. So, what’s he up to? Playing around with Debbie Merchant that works with him, that’s what and the b***h lives here, on Fenwick Street somewhere. And when I find ‘em, I’ll likely strangle one of ‘em. Hey, not literally you twonk,’ she exclaimed, seeing the look on Percy’s face. ‘Maybe scratch her eyes out, though. Rip her n*****s off.’

‘Don’t do nothing stupid, will you? What’s your name by the way? I should’ve asked you earlier.’

‘Janice. Janice Johnson. My lying, cheating, no good, ever-loving bastard of a husband is Dave Johnson.’

‘And where’s home, Janice?’

‘Ranmoor Street. Number 22.’

‘Ranmoor Street? That’s in…’

‘Aye, Marpleside, bloody miles away, I know.’ Janice Johnson shook her head resignedly and slowly got to her feet, brushing the dirt and moss from the seat of her skirt with her hand, wrapping her arms about herself as if suddenly realising that she was feeling cold. ‘I’m not doing any good here, am I?’

‘No, Janice, not really.’

‘You’re prob’ly right’ she sighed. ‘I’m just making an exhibition of myself, aren’t I? I mean, I could sit here all night, couldn’t I and still not find ‘em.’

‘That’s right, no guarantee at all you’ll find them, they mightn’t even be here. You don’t know for sure that, er, Dave is even with this woman.’

‘Oh, I know all right. A wife knows these things. She might be the last to know but once she knows, she knows… if that makes any bloody sense?’

‘Yeah, sure, not bein’ a wife myself I can’t rightly say.’ He looked at her again. Her cardigan was wet, the back of her dress was wet where she had been sitting and her damp hair was stuck to the side of her face. ‘You know, you really need to get on home and out of them wet clothes, I meant it about catching your death. It’s no night to be out without a coat.’

‘Aye, you’re right, but it’s just I were so mad, I just rushed out of the house without thinking.’ She stood there, looking up and down the street for one last time, as if expecting her husband to suddenly reveal himself. ‘Off you go then,’ she said to Percy, not looking at him. ‘And thanks.’

‘You sure you’re OK?’ Percy asked, reluctant to leave her. ‘You’re not going to do… anything stupid, are you?’ he asked once more.

‘No, I’m not going to go and jump off Redemption Bridge if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘No’, he answered hurriedly, ‘of course not,’ but that was exactly what had crossed his mind.

‘Look, I’m doing meself no good here, I can see that. I’ve got time to catch the last bus home and I’ll have it out with Dave when he gets home. If he ever does. If not, well, I’ll cross that particular bridge that when I get to it.’ Janice wiped her eyes on a tiny square of embroidered handkerchief, straightened herself up, took a deep breath and started to walk away. She turned back. ‘Thanks for the shoulder, I’m fine now, honest.’

‘I’ll walk down with you, see you’re OK.’

‘Making sure I don’t jump off Redemption eh?’ she responded, with a faint glimmer of a smile.

‘No, it’s not that, but I can walk you down as far as Sheffield Road, it’s on my beat, see, and then it’s only a hop and step across the road and down Blonk Street to t’ bus station. What time’s the last one to Marpleside anyhow?’

‘11.25, twenty-five past.’

Percy consulted his watch: 11.12. ‘We’d best get a move on, then. You’d not want to miss that. You got your bus fare?’ he asked as an afterthought.

‘Yes, yes thanks,’ she answered, showing him her handbag.

Percy then escorted her as far as Sheffield Road. ‘There you go, love, take care now.’

‘And you. And thanks. You know, I never did get to know your name?’

‘Percy, Percy Copper, PC 4126. Any problems, just ask for me at the desk in the nick. Percy Copper…’

‘I will do, and thanks, Percy,’ she said, wrapping her arms again about her shivering body, the red cardigan offering little protection against the biting wind.

He watched her cross the street by the zebra crossing, the Belisha beacon shining out brightly orange in the gloom of the night. A scurry of wind sent a sheet of ragged newspaper hurrying on after her. He made a note in his pocketbook, just in case the body of a David Johnson should turn up or a Debbie Merchant had her n*****s ripped off.

His beat continued down towards the West Riding Bank where he had lost his fingertip in the foiled bank robbery, past an estate agent’s window displaying a nice cottage in Fenmoor village that he wanted but could not afford. He walked on past Redmires department store then turned up Glassmaker Street; not that there had ever been a glassmaker in the town so far as anyone could determine, just as no one had ever found paradise in Paradise Square.

He was near the end of his second turn around his beat and he found, much to his surprise, that he felt a sense of satisfaction at the thought that, in a small way, his action had been probably just as important as finding the killer of Judy Devonshire.