Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 8

  We travelled back into town in silence: today hadn’t been one of our finest moments. We were just heading back past Tesco when Gwen spoke again, informing me that she needed the loo. She drove into the car park, pulled up abruptly and, just as quickly, was off. I sat aimlessly in the car for a few minutes until I realised that she hadn’t even left a gap in the window for me. Admittedly, I’m not a dog and it wasn’t hot, but that’s beside the point! Just as I was bemoaning Gwen’s inconsideration, I saw a girl I recognised, and jumped out to have a quick chat with her. A minute later, Gwen reappeared, so I said my goodbyes and got back in the vehicle.

  “Did something weird just happen when I went to the toilet?” my colleague queried.

  “Quite possibly,” I replied. “You told me you had three bowls of All-Bran this morning.”

  “No,” she continued, ignoring my quip. “Did I really hear you say to that girl: ‘even Hitler had a girlfriend’?”

  “I was trying to make her feel better,” I explained.

  “Feel better?” asked Gwen quizzically. “Please enlighten me as to how on earth telling someone about the relationship status of the most evil dictator in history could possibly make them feel better?”

  “I don’t think you understand the idiom,” I protested.

  “I think you’ll find it’s pronounced ‘idiot’, actually.”

  I gave a heavy sigh. “Well, my doubting Thomas, I shall tell you, and then you shall duly understand and following on from that, I shall then accept your humble apology.”

  “Go on, then,” she challenged. “Try me.”

  “It all started a week ago,” I began. “It was a day shift. I was patrolling past the posh apartments on Shakespeare Road, when a clearly flustered young woman almost jumped out in front of me as she tried to stop the car.”

  I explained to Gwen that after managing to calm her down, the female in question had informed me of her dilemma. It seems that the previous evening, whilst she had been out drinking with her friends, she had been chatted up by a handsome man. One thing had led to another: his cheesy chat-up lines had resulted in a few more drinks, and, eventually, she had ended up at his place where, she told me, they had shared an intimate night together. When she had woken up the next morning her new lover had already gone to work and she was left alone in his flat. Walking around dressed in one of his oversized white work shirts – just like they do in the movies – she had perused his book and music collections, admiring his taste and in awe of his style. She even recalled wondering to herself how lucky she had been that fate had brought them together in that anonymous bar in Sandford.

  Making her way into the kitchen, she had then seen that he had thoughtfully left a mug out for her next to the percolator which had filled the air with that wonderful, rich roast coffee aroma; alongside it on a scrap of paper he had sketched a cherub holding a bow and arrow. She poured herself a cup, smiling inwardly and knowing in her heart of hearts that she had finally found ‘the one’.

  After getting ready, and just before leaving, she had popped to the loo, but, unfortunately, the toilet wouldn’t flush. The last thing she wanted her ideal man to see when he returned home from work was her faeces lying at the bottom of the bowl! Undaunted, she found a plastic bag in one of the cupboards under the sink and returned to the bathroom to scoop out the offending motion to dispose of later in a bin outside. She was just about to leave the flat when she realised that she hadn’t given the new love of her life her contact details and so quickly ran back into the kitchen where she added a heart under the picture of the cherub, along with her name and number. She left the note in the exact same place on the bench, complete with a lipstick kiss.

  She then finally departed with an enormous smile on her face and feeling as if she was floating on air until, however, she clicked the door closed behind her and the horrible realisation suddenly swept over her that she was no longer in possession of the bag of poop! Her blood ran cold and a horrified expression crossed her face, as it dawned on her that she had left the fresh turd in a clear plastic bag next to the note on the bench. There was nothing she could do except have a panic attack, which finally culminated in her running out into the street and flagging me down.

  “She wanted me to break into apartment number three so she could retrieve her number two,” I explained, “but, alas, I had to inform her that we are here to stop people doing that sort of thing.” There’s a reason why cupid rhymes with stupid…

  As Gwen sat, open-mouthed, I explained that I had just seen the girl in question, and had asked if she had heard from the guy. She said she hadn’t, and told me she despaired of ever finding a boyfriend.

  “That’s when I told her that even Hitler had a girlfriend – to give her hope.”

  “Heavens above!” declared Gwen. “Remind me to never ask you for relationship advice!”

  I told my crewmate that it couldn’t actually have been that much of a traumatic event for the girl as she had disclosed to me that she had written to a magazine problem page about her plight and had even had her letter published.

  “Which magazine?” Gwen asked, clearly intending to look it up.

  “Well, that’s the bizarre thing,” I told her. “I think it was a French magazine about cats.”

  “Chat?” sighed Gwen, shaking her head. “I dread to imagine what you think the TV Times is about.”

  Before I had time to offer my thoughts on the matter a call came through on the police car radio. A woman was kicking off in a chemist shop in the town centre. The blues and the sirens were switched on, and we were off.

  “Apparently,” Comms added, “she’s got a priest with her.”

  We exchanged glances. “Good God!” I exclaimed. “You’d think that he would be calming her down!”

  A minute later, we were parked up and running to the shop. Entering, we stepped over several shelving displays that had been knocked over, their contents scattered over the floor. Behind the counter we could see the staff, huddled together. In the opposite corner a woman was sat on the floor snoring, with her legs splayed out in front of her and a half empty bottle of wine lying between them. The smell of drink emanating from her was almost overpowering. She looked dishevelled and unkempt, but what was most striking about her were her hands and face – they were bright yellow.

  “What’s been going on here?” I asked, keeping a wary eye on our suspect as I glanced around for her accomplice.

  It transpired that the woman had entered the pharmacy and informed staff that although she didn’t have a prescription, she wondered if it would still be possible to have a bag of cocaine. When the staff had politely declined, she had gone berserk; screaming and shouting, pulling over displays and kicking at anything and everything in sight.

  “The priest smashed the cough sweets,” the pharmacist added, pointing to a pile of broken packets littering the counter. Well, at least he hadn’t been as violent as our snorer, although it did seem a bit out of character for a man of the cloth. Perhaps someone had told the old joke about sucking a Fisherman’s Friend one too many times and he had lost it. We all have our breaking point.

  “And where is he now?” I queried.

  “Where’s who?” she replied.

  “The priest,” I stressed. It seemed like an obvious question to me. “Is he still here?”

  “There’s the priest!” she answered, looking at me as if I was completely stupid, whilst pointing to the floor.

  I looked down but could only see a small wooden baton. I looked back up at her, still none the wiser.

  “The priest,” she repeated. “The priest!” She was beginning to sound like that annoying person in every game of Pictionary whose drawing is indecipherable, yet they just keep circling it over and over until we all die. I shrugged my shoulders again, adding a raise of the eyebrows for good measure. As she repeated herself again, I had flashbacks of Tattoo in Fantasy Island telling his boss that the plane had arrived.

  “I guess you’re not a fisherman.
” There was more than a hint of exasperation in her voice.

  “No, and I’m not a fisherman’s friend either before you ask,” I stated, covering all bases just in case that was her next question.

  “Well, my husband is,” she explained. “A fisherman,” she clarified with a sigh before I could say anything else. “And that’s what they call one of those batons. A priest is a tool for quickly killing fish after you catch them. Apparently, it comes from the notion of administering the ‘last rites’ to them.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” I told her, “but if you had just said she had a stick that would have been fine.” She shrugged and mouthed a ‘whatever’.

  Meanwhile, Gwen was with the sleeping woman, kneeling down beside her and examining her hands. “So what’s this?” she asked, glancing over at the pharmacist.

  “Lemsip,” came the response. “She started to open packets and packets of Lemsip, and was snorting it and rubbing it all over her face. I don’t know, maybe she thought it was lemon-flavoured cocaine?”

  Indeed, amongst all the other debris, there were dozens of opened cold-remedy packets littering the floor. I wondered if such a thing as flavoured cocaine actually existed. I also hoped that it wouldn’t give the drug dealers any new marketing ideas.

  “Has she taken anything else?”

  “She seemed to be necking anything she could get her hands on,” she replied; “tearing packets open and washing it all down with her wine.”

  I called for an ambulance before crouching down next to Gwen.

  “Isn’t that Iona Rocket?” she whispered to me. I stared at the face in front of me and imagined it without the yellow dusting. It was. Iona had her problems, but she wasn’t usually violent. I wondered what had tipped her over the edge.

  “C’mon, wake up, Iona,” I coaxed her, shaking her by the shoulders. “She’s well known to us,” I commented, turning to the pharmacist. “She’s a local alcoholic.”

  “I’m NOT an alcoholic,” declared Iona indignantly, momentarily waking from her slumber. “An alcoholic needs a drink. I already have a drink,” she mumbled, fumbling for her bottle. “So I’m good, and you can fuck off now!” With that, her chin dropped onto her chest once more and within a few seconds the snoring had recommenced. Gwen moved the bottle out of her reach, and we both stood up, awaiting the arrival of the paramedics. It wasn’t long until our friends, Lysa and Steve, came climbing over the detritus towards us with their big green bag of medical kit. I showed them the wine bottle and then explained what we believed Iona had taken. Soon Lysa was kneeling next to her, trying to rouse her and establish exactly what she had consumed. Iona coughed and spluttered, and then was sick on the floor.

  “Wine into vomit,” commented Lysa, dryly; “your move, Jesus!”

  Usually, at this point I might have made a priest joke but I didn’t particularly want to give the chemist any credit after her attitude towards me regarding my lack of knowledge of fishing protocol.

  “She can clean that up, too!” declared the pharmacist.

  “Calm your tits, love!” slurred an inebriated Iona in a defiant response.

  “Calm my tits!” the chemist responded, clearly incensed. “They’re an A cup! How much calmer do you think they’re going to get?”

  We decided that now was the time to beat a hasty retreat, before it all descended into a full-scale tit-for-tat argument. Ten minutes later and we were following the paramedics down to the hospital. Iona had lashed out just as we had put her in the vehicle and we wanted to make sure she behaved herself for the rest of the journey. On arrival, we provided the welcoming committee as she alighted from the ambulance.

  “I’ve come to trade a kidney for vodka!” she shouted as we wheeled her into A&E.

  “She hasn’t really,” I explained to a foreign-looking couple, who were clearly wondering what the NHS had been reduced to since the funding cuts.

  Once Iona had been safely delivered into the care of the nursing staff, I carefully cleaned my hands with some hand-sanitiser which, I’ve discovered, always acts as a helpful reminder if you’ve forgotten that you’ve got a paper cut. We bid our goodbyes to Ms Rocket and were just about to leave when a ward Sister came running over to us.

  “Thank God you got here so quickly!”

  I didn’t think we had driven particularly fast, but I am always happy to receive a little praise and recognition – it makes a pleasant change! I smiled, and thanked her before continuing towards the exit.

  “You are here for the patient who has barricaded himself in the toilet, aren’t you?” she queried, taking hold of my arm.

  “Not as such,” Gwen responded. “We’ve just escorted a woman with a possible overdose to A&E, but since we’re here we’ll see what we can do.”

  This wasn’t even our patch. The hospital we were at belonged to the next policing area, Delta Section, but it looked like Gwen had just volunteered us for the job and so we followed the Sister along the corridor while she explained the situation. We soon discovered that a young cancer patient – with drip in tow – had made his way to the toilets where he had then proceeded to barricade himself in. Simon had recently undergone surgery to have a testicle removed and was now convinced that he had contracted HIV from a blood transfusion. Believing that no one was taking his concerns seriously, he had blockaded himself in the bathroom. He claimed he had a knife, and had threatened to harm himself or anyone who tried to get him out. The Sister further explained that they had tried to reason with him but had failed, hence the call to the police. She ended by emphasising the need for him to be back on the ward as soon as possible.

  As we climbed the stairs, I instinctively shook my pepper spray in case it was needed. Gwen, on the other hand, had different ideas. She prided herself on her communication skills; on her ability to diffuse a potentially volatile situation by reasoning with the subject rather than resorting to physical force. There was no denying it: she had a knack of connecting with people and resolving issues using brain rather than brawn. She placed a hand on my shoulder and said that she would talk to Simon.

  “I’ll get him to come just by using my mouth,” she announced to the small crowd of medical staff gathered outside. As soon as she saw the horrified look on the Sister’s face, and heard the stifled sniggers from the other nurses, she realised what she had just said and immediately clasped both hands over her mouth, as if she wanted to stuff the words back in; but it was too late.

  Shooting Gwen a disapproving glare, the Sister instead ushered me towards the toilet door. I cleared my throat, and then told the spectators to move back, all the while desperately trying to think of an opening line. However, even before I could introduce myself, the door opened and a hand beckoned me inside. I bent down to waist-level and tentatively peered around the opening. If anyone was waiting to thrust a knife in my eye, I’d at least be at the wrong height. The patient in question, though, had retreated to the back of the washroom and was now leaning against his drip, his gown hanging open. Registering what was now in my direct line of sight, I instantly regretted my decision to crouch down.

  “I think you’ve got it on back to front,” I told him.

  He grunted and pulled the two sides together. “Promise you won’t rush at me?” he pleaded.

  “I promise,” I replied, edging into the room. Well, not while the front of his gown was hanging open anyway! Gwen, meanwhile, took up position on the other side of the door.

  “I’ll kill myself if you do,” he threatened, showing me a blunt butter knife. “I really mean it!”

  “I believe you, Simon,” I reassured him. “I believe you’ve got the ball to do it.”

  “I just need someone to talk to,” he confessed, his voice wavering.

  “I’m not really the right person… I don’t know anything about medicine, but…”

  “No, that’s not the point!” he interrupted. “Look, I know they’ll check to see if I’ve got HIV. I just needed to talk to a man about… other things.”
He seemed to be embarrassed, looking down at his bare feet to avoid eye contact.

  “I’ll help if I can,” I responded, hoping that there weren’t any questions about Pre-Raphaelite poetry… or penguins.

  “I want to talk about women,” he began. “You look like a man of the world.”

  I could hear my colleague sniggering on the other side of the door. I chose to ignore her, instead inviting Simon to continue. It appeared that his main concern wasn’t about the operation or the blood transfusion – that was merely a smokescreen. What he really wanted to know was if women would still be attracted to him now that he was, in his words, only ‘half a man’.

  “You know, statistically,” I told him, “everyone in the world only has one testicle.” For some reason he didn’t find that very reassuring. I decided to take another tack and advised that what most women were really interested in was what was on the inside, rather than physical appearance. I tried to sound convincing, but, in the back of my mind, I kept hearing Gwen’s voice telling me that: ‘You can tell a lot about a man by the type of shoes he wears,’ and then Jess when she informed me that she found ‘men with a sense of humour really attractive… well, except for the ugly ones’.

  Simon questioned me further on how a female would be able to tell what he was really like as a person when she first met him. To be honest, I had no idea. All I knew from bitter experience is that you never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you can see an actual baby being born, and even then you should always act surprised. However, I didn’t think this pearl of wisdom would be of any help in this particular instance. Instead, I decided to bluff it out.

  “A woman just knows,” I responded confidently.

  “Which woman?”

  I wasn’t prepared for that! Simon went on to tell me that he was a virgin; how he had been saving himself for the right lady, but thought that now it was probably too late. Due to his operation, he felt that he would probably never have sex with a woman. In the circumstances, it was just as well he hadn’t heard Gwen’s earlier offer! He told me that he thought he looked like a freak. I tried to tell him that he was wrong, and that no doubt he’d go on to have a very fulfilling life, but I was floundering and running out of examples to use to convince him.