Private London

Chapter 82

Police Constable Mark Smith was a tall man.

Somewhat over six foot. He wasn’t sure by how much any more. At one time he was six three but the years on the beat and the ageing process generally meant he rode a little lower in the saddle nowadays. And he didn’t have the heart to measure by how much.

He was in his early fifties and looking forward to retiring sometime in the near future. He had it all planned. Out of the city, off to the coast. He’d leave his uniform behind happily, and swap his baton for a fly-fishing rod. His wife was a history teacher in a state school in Ealing, and she was looking forward to retiring too.

Between them they had a nice pension organised and enough money to buy a small B amp;B on the South Coast. Community meant something there, and if a man was found lying on the street he wasn’t just stepped over. Mark Smith was happy to be a plain old-fashioned beat copper, and, truth to tell, he was proud of it too. Just because he was looking forward to retirement didn’t mean he thought any less of his job.

‘It’s like that old guy from Greek legend, you know?’ he asked me as we sat by the window in a Middle Eastern cafe on Old Compton Street, drinking cups of coffee you could have stood up a spoon in and watching half the world throng past.

I nodded. I knew exactly who he meant – we had had this conversation many times before. He continued anyway.

‘Sisyphus, the old geezer punished by the gods for killing travellers and visitors. He had to roll this huge rock up a big hill and, before he could reach the top, it would roll all the way back down and he had to start all over again.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘And you know what the ironic thing is?’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s not the travellers or the visitors who die out there on those cold streets…’

I looked out of the window at the heat shimmering off the pavement. Today might have been a preternaturally hot day. But the streets of London could certainly get cold.

Cold enough to kill.

Mark Smith knew that better than most. He was part of the Westminster Police’s Safer Streets’ Homeless Unit, the SSHU. They dealt with about sixteen thousand or so homeless people who slept rough on the streets each year. No matter what the weather. Up to two hundred a night sometimes.

I passed the photo across the small ridged aluminium-topped table and he picked it up and looked at it. Mark fumbled in his pocket and produced a slim spectacle case, sliding out a pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of his nose.

He nodded almost immediately. ‘That’ll be the Major,’ he said.

‘Major?’

‘He’s certainly been in the service sometime. That’s how he got the name, plus the fact that he’s from an educated background.’

‘Which is rare on the streets.’

‘More common than you might think.’

Mark was right, of course.

People ended up on the streets for all kinds of reasons. Mental-health issues. Children running away from abusive homes, adults fleeing from the demons they could no longer confront. Many of the homeless people on the streets of London were like the Major – ex-servicemen and women battling with alcohol and depression. A vicious circle of self-medication that spiralled out of control.

I finished my coffee and stood up. ‘You know where he is?’

Constable Smith looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

I tossed a five-pound note on the table which just about covered the tip and two coffees, and headed out into the bustle of the metropolis.

I slipped on my pair of Ray-Bans and slung my jacket over my shoulder, following the tall policeman as he led me along Charing Cross Road towards Tottenham Court Road.