Whispering Death

18

Elsewhere in the building, John Tankard was changing into his uniform and facing down smirks. The guys had heard what happened last Friday, the naked chick appearing out of the bushes and screaming at the sight of him. Thank Christ it had been cleared up quickly. He hadn’t abducted and raped anyone. But, as he gave each of his mates the finger, he couldn’t help wondering: Did you do it? Or you?

Then, to cap off this brilliant start to the day, he was told to report to the Traffic Management Unit. ‘They want you for an RBT.’

A random breath test campaign. ‘Jesus, Sarge, not again.’

Tankard was an old hand in the ranks of uniformed constables at Waterloo. Mostly, he roamed around in the divisional van, answering calls. Throwing drunks out of bars, arresting a wife who’d stuck a knife in her husband or vice versa, handing out on-the-spot fines for jaywalking.

But now and then he was seconded to Traffic. The TMU was always engaged in some blitz against motorists: drink driving, unregistered vehicles, speeding, failure to wear a seatbelt…A unit of ten officers, but there was always someone in court, on holiday or down with the flu, so guys like Tank took up the slack.

‘Your local knowledge and sparkling personality, Tank.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Sarge.’

John Tankard was pink and sweaty. Short hairs sprouted from the fleshy rolls above his collar, his heavy damp limbs pushed at the seams of his uniform. He didn’t welcome too much action on the job, yet his chief impression of his last RBT, earlier in the year, was of incredible boredom. Even shifting location every few hours had only amounted to a few minutes of activity. Mostly an RBT consisted of standing around in the sun or the rain with your finger up your bum, hoping some idiot would try to dodge the breathalyser or pick a fight.

‘Now?’

‘Right away.’

Tank hauled out leathers, cap and yellow jacket from the storage locker, balanced his sunglasses on the visor of the cap, and joined the others in the Traffic briefing room on the ground floor. The window caught the morning sun and flashed from the windscreens creeping along the McDonald’s drive-through on the other side of High Street. Big mistake, spotting Macca’s: now he felt hungry. He moved his gaze to the kerb outside the police station where the Unit’s patrol cars and motorbikes stood in full, snarling livery, waiting to terrorise the good citizens of the Peninsula.

Weariness took the place of hunger and he dragged his eyes away. He glanced around at the other officers: all men, all young, all petrol heads. They loved the storm-trooper gear, the cars and bikes, as Tank himself once had. But he was thirty now and he felt old here, in this room, with these guys.

The briefing started. It was a pep talk, as if the Unit C.O. had seen too many war movies. He slapped one hand into the palm of the other as he spoke:

‘A vital job, gentlemen. Three fatalities on the whole of the Peninsula last year, six so far this year.

‘And it’s spring-season of love, boozy lunches, winery tours and eighteen-year-olds finishing their exams. Lovely. But not to be seen as excuses for stupid behaviour on the open road. Zero tolerance, gentlemen. Let’s get the dills off the road.

‘So we’ll set up on hills, we’ll set up on corners and bends, and we’ll be out every day for the rest of the week. And just when the locals get wind of us in one location, we’ll move to another-only to return a couple of days later, same road, different hill or bend.

‘Keep them on their toes, guys, okay?’

His words fired the young ones. One of them even whooped. Tank looked out at the street again, the pursuit cars festooned with antennas and stripes, and wondered if he’d be given the chance to drive one. It was usually his job to say, ‘Blow into this, please, sir,’ not give chase in a fast car. Strangely, sir or madam would always show a moment’s hesitation, a flicker of disquiet, as if they had something to hide. Maybe they were scared of germs.

‘Another thing,’ said the Traffic boss. He passed around a stack of A4-sized photographs. ‘Be on the lookout for this guy.’

A grainy shot of a man carrying a shotgun, face averted, beanie pulled low over his brow. ‘Robs banks,’ the Traffic boss said. ‘Apparently he’s headed this way.’