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Meanwhile, the Sirens were beckoning Odysseus, not only from his sample case stuffed with intimate and racy unmentionables but also from his anticipation of official sirens heralding the imminent arrival of the everyday police. And what would they think of Dolly?
Should he cover them in some way? Hide them? Absolutely not, for that was the secret of his disguise: a ‘Special’ in ladies’ underwear. Who would think to look at him? The fool in the Audi wouldn’t know what had hit him until it was too late. Freddy might appear to the casual eye to be pudgy and unimpressive, but underneath was a lion ready to pounce. When fists were flying, Freddy Calder would be the gent you’d want in there as a back-up. Many a fool had learned that lesson the hard way.
Meanwhile, at Division ‘S’ headquarters, WPC Sheila Baxter was manning the control room – and that wasn’t the only contradiction in terms. In truth, the awesome-sounding ‘control room’ constituted four walls, no windows and no room whatsoever to manoeuvre. The sole generous proportion in this room was a desk too large, and the only semblance of control, computer terminals and the usual communication gear.
But it wasn’t home, and that’s what Sheila liked best about the place. She wanted to stay and keep this job, so she had to exercise a Job-like patience with some of the Specials.
‘Freddy Calder, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call on this line.’
In an attempt to win her sympathy, he told her that he ‘couldn’t get through by the proper channels,’ and he had a hot item that couldn’t wait.
‘What? What car? Listen, Freddy, unless it’s dropping gold bricks I’m not interested … Well, for one thing, you’re not on duty. For another, I’m not supposed to give that kind of information to a Special. You know that.’
Perhaps he did, yet what difference should that make now, when pursuit was in progress through traffic becoming thicker as the city grew closer?
‘Sheila, believe me. I got a tingle in my nose about this one. The number is … Ready?’
WPC Baxter grabbed her notebook. ‘Just a second, give me that again.’
While entering the numbers into the computer terminal, she failed to observe the entering of Darth Vader – Police Sergeant Andy McAllister – behind her, looming above like a misery-seeking missile. Just as she realized his sinister presence, she also discovered something of an obstacle on the computer screen.
‘Freddy! Blow your nose. You’re tailing an unmarked police car, you wally!’
With that little piece of information, Freddy squeezed down on the brake and slowed considerably, while the idiot woman driver behind him pulled out and around with a screaming blast of the horn, although he and his brave Cortina did manage to escape intact.
Suddenly there was another vicious burst of noise from the car-phone Freddy was just putting to his ear.
‘Calder! This is Sergeant McAllister.’
Trying to keep his grip, McAllister held the phone – which he had abruptly acquired from WPC Baxter at the instant he resumed command – like a club.
‘Calder, you may think you’re a bloody Miami Vice, but I’ve news for you. You’re a Special, and that puts you lower than the lowest PC still in his nappies. And right now you’re a damned nuisance. In future, leave highway duty to those who know what they’re doing.’
The line went dead, and Freddy blinked hard. That’s the thanks you get for risking your life, he thought to himself, still unable to calm his trembling fingers … and as a volunteer yet! Bunch of bloody desk jockeys.
‘Damned Hobby Bobby!’ McAllister muttered at no one in particular, although scared rabbit Baxter was at least ostensibly paying attention to his every word.
‘Pretend police, who don’t take their function at all seriously … who sell brassieres! This is no place for a clown.’
As far as McAllister was concerned it was enough to bring the entire Specials programme into question.
‘Who’s his senior Special?’
‘His SDO is Barker …’ replied Baxter.
An easy name for her to remember, McAllister mused.
‘… but he’s not been putting in much of an appearance lately, and things are being handled by the section officer, Bob Loach.’
I must have a quiet chat with Loach then, thought McAllister with a smile.
2 (#u9a2c06e8-c329-557d-8e48-2c39a09ab69e)
Cougar Coaches was busy in the late afternoon, hosting the methodical movement of vehicles being driven in and out of the garage. Prominently parked in the yard area reserved for the staff were the infamous Loach-mobiles, Bob’s white Jag next to Noreen’s Renault 25: hardly a matched pair.
Inside the garage were several buses of varying size and capacity, a few still waiting for repair or some adjustment: the mechanics were clocking off for the day. Unable to stop fussing over a particularly stubborn exhaust-system problem grounding one of the coaches for the last couple of days, works foreman John Barraclough was finishing the job himself. He had advised the frustrated young mechanic he could push off home after informing at least one of the Loaches as to the current status of and prognosis for the obstinate exhaust system.
In one corner of the garage, in the office constructed of white-painted breeze blocks, Noreen Loach was feeling trapped while trying to get somewhere: trying to leave a bit early so she could get to her appointment at the beauty parlour. There was always too much ‘getting’ to do.
She had tidied her desk until it was a model of efficient organization, and made her final tour of the kitchen, wash-up and lavatory in the annexe. Now all that remained to obstruct her was her husband, as usual.
‘I’m off, then. I’ll tidy up the Edinburgh entries tomorrow. It looks as though we did well on that one.’ – While she practised her nonchalant tone of voice at every opportunity, in her own mind she realized full well that it convinced nobody, again with the possible exception of her husband, the one hope she clung to in the present circumstances.
‘Oh aye.’
Another response typical of his ever-so-revealing remarks, she reminded herself.
‘Yes. Anyway, I’m late for my appointment.’ Before he could interrupt, she kept right on going, moving to the door one step at a time. ‘Can I trust you to call them up and say I’m on my way?’
‘Call who?’
Whatever her wishful thinking about making a quick exit, two words from him could dash such notions in an instant.
‘Judy’s Beauty Salon. And no cracks, Loach. I don’t have time for cracks.’
‘I was only going to ask, Noreen, how long you’d be there.’
Immediately she was defensive. ‘What for? I don’t have time to bother about your tea, if that’s what you’re asking.’
Obviously that was not what he was asking. What was she keeping to herself this time, he wondered.
‘I can grab a sandwich. It won’t be the first time.’
Apparently his gesture of self-sufficiency had tipped her over the edge.
‘I’m off,’ she shrugged, swinging her leather bag over her shoulder in a huff and throwing him a warning glance. ‘I can’t stand it when you use that little-boy-lost voice.’
After waiting another few moments to assure himself she was definitely gone, he lifted himself from the chair, straightened his shoulders and assumed an altogether different frame of mind on his way to the back room.
When he emerged with his freshly cleaned and pressed uniform, he was a new man. Carefully he stripped away the long plastic dry-cleaner bag, and there it was: the armour of a peaceful people, a dignified suit of mere cloth, yet signifying to every citizen of the realm that this man, Robert Loach, was a Special, section-officer grade.
Inhaling a deep breath to expand his chest, he held the smart uniform up against himself as a mannequin, looked in the tiny wall mirror Noreen used to patch up her powder and picked imaginary specks of foreign matter and even a few filaments of nearly invisible dust already beginning to float on to the stiff collar.
That was when the door behind him opened, the moment Noreen had chosen for her curtain call.
‘Forgot my keys.’
With as much diplomacy, aplomb and deception as he could muster at this moment, he backed away from the mirror as inconspicuously as possible while swiftly shifting his scrutiny to the illusory minutiae on the collar of his uniform.
Noreen went straight to her desk to fetch the keys, without taking much notice of her husband caught preening himself in her mirror.
‘Did you make the call?’
‘I will. Give me a chance.’
‘I did that once and ended up marrying you.’
‘Very funny,’ he said.
On her way out again, she almost bumped into John Barraclough on his way in, holding up his oily black hands in front of her face, thus barring her path with a crude display of the vulgar side of his occupation. As she always remembered at such inopportune incidents, it was also her husband’s calling.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Loach. Didn’t like knocking on the door. Not with these.’
To impress his blunt point upon her even further, Barraclough extended his hands closer to her eyes so that she might focus on the grease slicking down the hair on his knuckles.
‘That’s all right. See you tomorrow, Mr Barraclough.’
He nodded politely, still with his dripping hands held up to his face. She managed what she hoped would pass for a tolerant smile and closed the door behind her.
Barraclough walked over to Bob Loach, keeping his hands away from the uniform and away from anything else wherever possible. With an eyebrow instead of words, Loach asked him what he wanted.
‘Sorry ’bout this, Mr Loach, but could you have a look at the Daf?’
‘Can’t it wait, John? I’m …’
He tried to indicate what he meant to say by showing his uniform, almost like a grandparent cradling a new baby.
‘… all set, you see.’
John’s response was also wordless, but Loach could easily discern the meaning from his anxious face.
‘All right, let’s see it.’
Gently putting his uniform aside, Loach retrieved and pulled on a pair of overalls. There was no loss of pride and self-respect when he switched uniforms, at least that’s what he kept telling himself.
While lying on his back on a pallet under the Daf coach in the garage, Loach could hear the BMW of his partner, Dicky Padgett, howl into the yard and squeak to a halt just in time to avoid crashing into the garage itself. Sure enough, nary half a minute passed before Dicky’s polished Italian shoe was tapping the sole of Loach’s boot, which, unfortunately, was sticking out from under the coach.
In addition, there was another set of legs next to Dicky’s – shapely, stockinged calves.
‘Mr P-Padgett.’
‘John. This is Michelle.’
Loach instantly determined that he had better get up and take a look for himself. It was well worth the trip: a flaming redhead, all leg and bosom (and more than abundant in that department).
Loach tried to concentrate his attention on Barraclough.
‘I think somebody’s botched the welding. That exhaust system’ll need another go.’
When Loach turned to the happy couple, Dicky suddenly adopted an aspect of mock horror.
‘No wonder our profit margin is small, Bob, if we do the same job twice.’
His next wisecrack Dicky addressed to the graciously smiling redhead.
‘And he tells me he wants to be the first millionaire Special,’ Dicky muttered into Michelle’s ear, an irony palpably lost on her, as she struggled to make some sense of what he was saying.
Dicky must have sensed her questioning mind.
‘A Special? You know, part-time bluebottle. He plays policeman in his time off.’
Sadly, Dicky’s remarks did not seem to be making their way past Michelle’s heavy dangling earrings. So she decided to play with them, perhaps in some attempt to realign her vibrations.
‘’Ullo, Dicky,’ Loach offered.
Dicky acknowledged Loach’s presence without further ado.
‘You got my call about the Stratford job?’
Loach answered with a nod. An unsettling irritability stirred his middle as he strode across to the office.
‘Americans and Japs. Good money. And in the bin up front, Bobby boy.’
That was evidently going to be another exhibition of the genius for business that supposedly convinced Loach, long ago, to enter into partnership with Dicky Padgett.
‘This is Michelle, by the way.’ Again he turned to confide in her. ‘Bob Loach. My partner. The one who gets his hands dirty.’
He emitted a dry laugh, then winked at Loach.
‘Lucky I met up with her.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Damn right,’ Dicky asserted. ‘The Stratford run will leave us short-handed. Unless we ask the joyous Noreen to step in and do the courier job. And I remember how nasty that was the last time …’ Dicky’s voice trailed away.
Loach was dumbfounded, although he tried to conceal it. ‘You can’t be serious? Her as a courier?’
‘Watch it, Bob,’ Dicky smirked. ‘Equal opportunities. Sexist remarks. Ooh …’
Getting no glint of a smile from Loach, Dicky sucked in his breath, then proceeded in a somewhat more serious vein. ‘All right. Humour me. I think she can do it. Tourists like a bit of glamour.’
By jove, he was serious. Loach had to take him aside.
‘Dicky, it’s Noreen’s job to fix the couriers. She’ll take one look at this one’s knockers, and –’
‘Bob, let’s not forget who put this deal together in the first place, okay?’
End of discussion. Loach could sense that time was running out on this issue.
