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  A second later and with an almighty shove, Edwards was sent staggering back into the hallway. The intruder was now standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the night sky, about to enter his house; his Camelot. Edwards knew there was only one thing for it now. Taking him completely by surprise he lunged at his assailant, grabbing him around the chest in a bear hug. Something in his mind had told him that he’d never be able to run away – not with his seventy-year-old knees – yet if he could only close the distance between them both it would prevent his enemy from being able to throw any decent punches. Hanging on for dear life, Edwards gripped the intruder tightly and used his arthritic old knees to best effect; repeatedly jabbing them into the thug’s thighs and groin. He felt the blunt impact on his abdomen as the male punched him in return, but they were so close together that the blows had little effect.

  BANG! The intruder then changed tack, and started to use his greater strength to smash Edwards against the wall. BANG! With every impact, he could feel the wind being squeezed out of him. BANG! He hung on grimly, but he could already feel himself tiring. His aggressor was a third of his age and much fitter. BANG! Edwards knew he couldn’t hold out for much longer, but he was determined that he wouldn’t let this bully have an easy victory. He could smell the man’s rancid breath and hear his jaws snapping shut as his assailant tried to wrangle his head around to bite at his ear. The old man then felt a blinding pain as his opponent smashed his own head into the side of his face. The shock of the pain seemed to galvanise the old man’s strength, and for a few more seconds he was able to mirror his attacker’s every move and thwart any further blows by keeping his head close to his. BANG! Edwards’ grasp was loosening – he knew he was spent. BANG! With his mouth already dry and his arms wilting, he could feel himself letting go.

  Suddenly, there were shouts at the door. Dear God, if this was the intruder’s accomplices he’d have no chance. The man was flexing his chest now, almost breaking Edwards’ grip. BANG! Another smash into the wall and Edwards gave in; his attacker was free. Goodnight Vienna he mouthed as he brought his arms up in front of his face, bracing himself for the flurry of punches and kicks… but none came. Instead, the man backed out of the house and sprinted off down the path and into the night.

  Mr Edwards waited a second, and then cautiously looked up to see his neighbour, Mrs Garfield, standing in the doorway, wielding her metal walking stick. Behind her were a group of four or five vigilante pensioners from further up the street. He took a look at the ageing posse, and then spent a few moments gathering his thoughts, swallowing hard to draw some moisture back into his mouth.

  “I suppose you’ll all be wanting a cup of tea, then?” he growled, before falling back against the wall and sliding down onto the floor.

  * * *

  At the very time old Mr Edwards was facing his terrifying ordeal, we were racing to the scene, aware that a crime was in progress but with no knowledge of the full facts. The only information that we had was that a member of the public had rung the police on the non-emergency line, reporting a suspicious male in the street. A further call, this time on the 999 system, had then been received to report sounds of a disturbance next door. We arrived five minutes later, pulling up in the street with our sirens and lights blazing…

  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve arrived at an incident to be surrounded by a mob demanding that X, Y or Z be locked up straight away, only for them to then take umbrage when I’ve tried to clarify what X, Y or Z is alleged to have actually done. We can’t just go around locking up people for no reason! As Lloyd, Gwen and I alighted from our vehicles we were instantly ambushed by the elderly ensemble, all firing their version of events at us, all shouting to be heard, all demanding to know why we weren’t racing off to catch the culprit, all shouting a varied mix of confusing, conflicting and confounding facts and fiction.

  Apparently, the intruder had attacked Mrs Garfield first before attacking Mr Edwards. Some said the male had got away with a car, while others claimed he had only taken the keys. Mr Edwards had been beaten senseless. Mr Edwards had beaten the intruder senseless. The intruder was trying to rape Edwards. Edwards had been stabbed, or was it the intruder who had been stabbed? A couple walking their dog in the street earlier in the evening had looked very suspicious. A group of youths who had been hanging around on the street corner during the day must have something to do with it. One resident had had a note from the postman this morning saying she wasn’t in… when she most certainly was! The assailant himself was either a youth in his teens or a male in his forties, was pale in appearance, had a swarthy complexion or was possibly foreign looking. There had been sightings of a white van hanging around the area, as well as a dark hatchback which had been revving its engine in the next street all day. There were also reports of a guy on a motorbike who said he was delivering pizzas… but who has pizzas in this street?

  Gwen and Lloyd quickly made their excuses, saying they would take the van and comb the surrounding streets, leaving me to try and sort the wheat from the chaff. I quickly sought out our caller, Mrs Garfield, and asked her if she could give me her condensed version of events. A minute later, I had established the basics of what had happened, had a description of the felon and was able to deduce what he was to be arrested for. I relayed this information to my colleagues before contacting Comms to ask if a dog section was available to assist in the search. I then went to speak to Mr Edwards in order to put some more meat on the bones.

  “Good luck,” whispered Mrs Garfield, placing her hand on my arm. My bemused expression following her comment had obviously illustrated the fact that I sought further explanation. “Let’s just say he’s a bit…” She left a pregnant pause while she searched for the right word. “Let’s just say difficult. The children round here call him The Grinch.”

  I thanked her, steeled myself, and then went to confront the monster. As I entered the front room, I saw that one of his neighbours was already with him, dabbing his head with a damp tea towel. He quickly shooed her away.

  “Get away with you, woman! Worse things have happened at sea!”

  I wasn’t sure how much of the bluff and bluster was for my benefit. I was sure that he had been lapping up the attention when I had entered. I introduced myself and asked his full name for my records.

  “Hilary Edwards.”

  “Hilary? You don’t hear that name every day!”

  “I do,” he countered gruffly.

  I decided to stick to the facts, and managed to get to the part where the caller had put his foot in the door before we were interrupted by the sound of someone in the hallway.

  “Uncle Hilary?”

  “I’m in here!” he bellowed, before turning back to me. “Here comes the Gingeraffe,” he sighed, rolling his eyes.

  A tall redhead, who looked to be in her thirties, entered the room. She stood momentarily at the door before running over and kneeling at his feet. “I’ve just heard! Thank goodness you’re alright!”

  “This is my niece, Rose,” he explained. “She’s recently divorced.”

  “Wido…” she began, shooting him a perplexed look.

  “Widowed! Widowed! That’s right. Either way, she’s not much fun right now.”

  Her expression changed to one of absolute confusion. “Why would you even say that…?”

  I gave her a sympathetic look, and then asked our host if we could get back to the matter at hand. My colleagues were scouring the area and would be expecting an update soon. Just as I had got him back on track, there came the sound of further footsteps in the hall and seconds later a young woman, with a toddler dressed in pyjamas in tow, burst into the room.

  “Grandad! What’s happened? Someone said you’ve been attacked!”

  Hilary then launched into his story, telling the young woman that he would have beaten the intruder from here to kingdom come if he hadn’t been held back by the woman next door.

  I sat impatiently, clicking my pen, waiting for a break in p
roceedings so I could continue my questioning. My opportunity came when Rose began to play with the infant.

  “How old is he now?” she asked the mother.

  “About eighteen months,” interjected Mr Edwards abruptly in a bid to close that avenue of discussion. He seemed annoyed that the limelight had been diverted from him.

  “Four!” the mother exclaimed. “He’s four, Grandad!”

  “What am I?” he countered. “His bloody biographer?”

  As the mother grumpily folded her arms, Rose started to giggle.

  “Oh dear, that’s funny,” she blurted out. “I haven’t laughed as much since my husband died!”

  “You laughed when your husband died?”

  Hilary’s comment was met with a stony silence from his niece. This was her cue to petulantly fold her arms, too. Both women seemed to acknowledge that their support wasn’t being appreciated. The young mum took hold of the child’s hand and addressed her relative. “C’mon Rose, let’s leave The Grinch to it. We’ve tried to help!”

  And with that, the mother, the four-year-old and Rose all flounced out. It was all I could do not to let out a little cheer. I appreciate the need for police to remain victim-focussed in these matters, but trying to get a logical, coherent version of events is difficult enough, and it’s not helped by constant interruptions from third parties, however well-intentioned they may be.

  “So, are you going to catch him?” Hilary was back on track.

  “I’ve no doubt we will,” I reassured him. “I’m sure we’ll get a result from his DNA.” It seemed that there was a high possibility of getting a positive DNA match due to the low IQ of the robber.

  Our criminal had conveniently left his DNA in the blood splattered liberally up the door and wall, but others have been more imaginative. Chad had dealt with a case recently where a burglar had left his DNA in a teddy bear. Aroused by the thrill of burgling a house, the felon had satiated his sexual arousal by cutting a hole in, and then having penetrative sex with the toy. It remains unclear whether they were first alerted to this fact by the bear smoking a cigarette when they found him, but, regardless, the crime scene investigator did recover the semen from his fluffy innards. However, there were no winners in this sorry case: the burglar was charged and, sadly, the bear was ritually incinerated by its owner. Apparently, there is no bleach on earth strong enough.

  In this case, Mr Edwards’ intruder hadn’t even tried to hide his identity. Crimes such as these are on the increase, with criminals appearing not to care if they are recognised. Several times a week we deal with reports of a thief walking into a shop, blatantly picking up a crate of lager and then brazenly walking out. They know they’ll be caught, but seem to rely on the fact that they’ll more than likely get off with another warning from a magistrate loath to add to our already overcrowded prisons. In the meantime, they’ve already enjoyed what they wanted: the alcohol or, in this case, a set of wheels for the night. It’s the criminal’s interpretation of getting goods on credit.

  “Hello, anyone home?” A shout came from the front door followed by the sound of yet more footsteps in the hall. I was beginning to despair that at this rate I’d never get all the details of the crime, when the door was pushed open to reveal a couple of familiar faces.

  “These are the paramedics, Hilary,” I explained. “I’ve asked if they could give you a once over.”

  “Is that your police car outside?” one of them asked, addressing me. “Looks like someone’s just thrown a slab of concrete through the windscreen.”

  “I hope you’re joking!” I replied. “I signed for that vehicle!”

  I raced outside to inspect the panda, and then stood staring despondently at the damage. The screen was shattered; the offending paving slab lying on the passenger seat.

  It’s not uncommon for police vehicles to be vandalised. Sometimes when we attend a job we return to find the tyres slashed or the occasional brick through a window, but it’s usually committed by opportunistic vandals who then slink off into the shadows. This was different, though – there were words written in blood on the bonnet.

  ‘I’LL BE BACK’. It was decoratively finished off with a bloody handprint.

  Obviously, our suspect was still in the area and was goading us. I notified Lloyd and Gwen, informed Comms and requested an update on the dog section. Chad and Geezer radioed quickly to advise me that they were heading up to our location from Sandford. As I sat brooding over the next move, the paramedics emerged from the property.

  “Mr Edwards is fine. A few bruises here and there, but otherwise he’s in rude health.”

  “Very rude,” I added, “judging from his exchange with his family.”

  “ILL BE BACH?” read one of the medics.

  Admittedly, I had used artistic licence when I had interpreted the message. Without any punctuation marks, and the way in which some of the letters had been formed, it could just as easily have been a random comment about an unwell composer from the eighteenth century.

  “He needs seeing to about his blood loss,” commented his colleague as they climbed back into their ambulance.

  I was going to quip that it was too late – he died in 1750 of a stroke, but thought better of it. The paramedics were right: despite him terrorising the neighbourhood, we still had a duty of care towards our culprit. I added it to the list of reasons why we needed to find him sooner rather than later.

  As the ambulance pulled away, a brick came flying through the air, narrowly missing my head before smashing into the wall behind me. I took cover behind the car while I tried to work out where it had come from. I got on the airwaves and announced that the suspect was back. I could hear sirens in the distance as another brick smashed into the side of the panda.

  “We’re here. Where is he?” Lloyd and Gwen were on the radio. They pulled up at the end of the street and were quickly out on foot. Geezer arrived at the other end, blocking the exit with his car. He too got out of his vehicle and began a systematic search, shining his torch into every backyard in the terraced row. Chad had been dropped off in the neighbouring road, and was busy checking the numerous cuts and rat runs that led off the lane.

  Another brick landed close to Geezer, causing him to let loose a barrage of expletives. It was clear that our suspect was on the move, changing positions to get better viewpoints and better fields of fire. It was a dark, moonless night and the labyrinth of backyards and gardens would offer a thousand hiding places as he made his manoeuvres; whilst the barking of the local dogs masked any sound of his movements.

  Soon our own police dog added to the din. The handler had him on a long leash as he came running down the road towards me. Meanwhile, my colleagues and I began climbing over fences and hedges, zeroing in on where the latest missile might have been launched from. Up and over walls, checking yards and then moving on. If we could contain our target, we could limit the amount of damage he could cause.

  From the sound of each impact we would try and gauge where the object had been thrown from and move closer. Then a cry would go up and a shadowy figure would be spotted running across a road and the search would relocate. However, as more and more locals spilled out onto the streets roused by the noise, it became increasingly difficult to establish whether we were chasing our suspect or just an innocent spectator. I also became convinced that one or two of the bystanders were using the opportunity to throw the odd bottle in our general direction – just for the sheer hell of it – which only added to the general confusion.

  Furthermore, each time we scrambled over into another yard we made ourselves clear targets as we were silhouetted against the night sky, and had to duck as yet another unidentified object flew overhead. Our attacker had started out throwing bricks, but now he had resorted to hurling anything he could lay his hands on. It seemed that as our quarry sought to evade us he had been forced to adapt his ammunition to what he could grab nearby… and thankfully bricks were in short supply.

  Ten minutes later and we had n
arrowed down our search to a row of terraces on the edge of the village and it wasn’t long after that we all converged on a single backyard. This had to be where he was… finally cornered. Tentatively, we entered, with Lloyd making his way to the back door of the property. The house was in darkness and the door was locked. Geezer kicked the shed open and checked inside – nobody there. Gwen then proceeded to check behind the damp sofa lying abandoned in the yard – nothing; behind the sheets hanging on the washing line – no luck. There was only one place left. I made a silent approach before suddenly flinging open the top of the wheelie-bin lid. I shone my torch into the darkness to reveal two startled eyes reflected back at me. I stood back and shouted my instructions.

  “Come on out, we have you astounded.”

  “Shouldn’t that be surrounded?” corrected Gwen quietly.

  “I know,” I replied, “but just look at his face!”

  As he emerged, his eyes betrayed the fact that he hadn’t expected to be caught so soon. He had been certain that he could lead us a merry dance all night long. Then, just as we were being lulled into a false sense of security, our prisoner made a valiant last stand, suddenly producing a bottle and an empty mackerel tin that he launched at us. But a well-directed pepper spray from Lloyd saw him sink back down into the bin. Rather than drag him out of his hiding place, it seemed easier just to wheel him back to the van and tip him out. This resulted in another struggle – a particularly smelly one – but he was eventually housed in the van’s cage, ready for onward transportation to custody.