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Head down, hands in pockets, DI Drayton ambled to the canteen.
“Degsy!”
He looked up. “Jimmy! How’re things?”
“Crap if you must know.”
“How crap?”
“On a scale of one to horrendous, I’d say ‘earth shattering’.” He quickly looked around, warily. “I come on duty in the city and I’m being deployed to Southport one minute and the far edges of the Wirral the next. One end of the county to the other. Haven’t seen me Sergeant for two weeks, although she could be dead, I wouldn’t know.” Degsy smiled.
Jimmy continued. “Remember if you put out a Con requires there’d be someone there within minutes. Times it by ten, mate. Seems that way, anyway. Whatever it is, it’s a bloody long time to be practising your sword fencing skills.”
“How long you got to go now?”
“Too long, if I’m honest. It’s not just the shifts and that. Everyone’s filming everything you do and posting it. If they see you doing nothing in particular you’re being idle and if they film you arresting someone, it’s police brutality.”
He nodded at a passing uniformed Chief Inspector then lowered his voice. “The bloody Home Office won’t tell people what we can actually do to someone kicking off so when you use an approved strike the complaints come rolling in.
“The other day, we locks up this steroid monster and were having trouble getting him in the cuffs. We’re rolling around on the floor and he bites my oppo’s arm. He was like a Rottweiler, mate, so I gave him a couple of firm palm strikes to the head, as you do, just to get him to let go. Some knob filmed it and all of a sudden ‘complaint city’. The only thing that’s clear on the vid is me twatting him on the head.”
Degsy, genuinely concerned, asked, “You got time for a brew and chat about it?”
“Sorry, Degs. Got to go to Forensics and I’m already running late for me interview with you know who over this bloody complaint.” He smiled. “Anyway, take care, matey. This car park’s a dangerous place. Those steps to the canteen look a bit slippy, as well.”
“Fuck off, Jimmy,” Degsy smiled back but took hold of the rail as he climbed the stairs, now even deeper in thought.
“Who was that?” Sammy asked as he joined him, halfway up.
“What? Oh, Jimmy the Fish. Good bloke.”
“Why’d they call him that? Bit of a slippery character?”
Degsy laughed. “No, sound as a pound. It came from the local Chinese chippy when we were on the beat together, years ago. He only ate the fish from there. Nothing else, no chips. So, we’re on overtime one night and nip in for some scoff and I asked him what he was having. Quick as a flash, the Chinese woman behind the counter said, ‘He Jimmy the fish. Just fish. No chips.’’ Course, I never told anybody, well, not many.”
Sammy chuckled and held the door open.
In the canteen, Degsy scanned the room and saw his DCI with Spud in the far corner. Thurstan waved him over, pointing to a tray of cups on the table.
He leant into the queue and tapped his DS on the shoulder. “Sammy, bin it. They’ve already got them in.”
Grabbing their cups from the tray, they sat down. “Chuck Morris is sorting that other issue out,” Degs told Thurstan, who nodded knowledgeably then waved some papers at him.
“Just reading the obs logs from yesterday. Interesting. The old man goes out and comes back three hours later with a female and a suitcase. Not long after that, there’s a door to door caller, smart clothes, yellow vest and clipboard. He goes in the house but he’s not there long.” He looked thoughtful.
Degsy read the log. “Not that unusual, according to this, they’ve seen him invited into a couple of others further down.”
Thurstan smiled. “Granted, but there’s houses further up from the Nicksons that you’d expect him to visit, It’s only relatively early in the day.”
Spud interjected. “I’ve had these buggers knocking on my door at seven o’clock at night.”
“Thank you, Alison. And what does he do? Walks back down the street and out of sight. Strikes me as a bit odd so I want it checking out anyway. Discreetly.” He drained his cup. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Another bloody middle management meeting.”
Three hours later, Alison and Sammy strolled into the office. She hit the book, reading the previous entries before signing them both back in.
“The Boss has gone but Degs is still here,” she commented.
About to leave for home, he listened to their news. Depending on who he’d spoken to, ‘yellow vest guy’, had been a meter man, double-glazing salesman, carrying out a survey or simply asking if the occupant ‘had Jesus in their life’.