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The Worst Job Ever

Calvin Bridge stared at the body in the bed and wondered for the umpteenth time why he’d become a policeman.

He’d always loved the idea of being a police officer. Something about being good, when everybody around him was bad. But being a cop had turned out to be about more than just being good. There was also a lot of paperwork involved. And a lot of getting up early and going to bed late. And thinking ! There was an awful lot of thinking. Calvin wasn’t stupid, but constantly thinking about things – like crime, for instance – required a lot more effort than he’d imagined it would. Not that he was lazy. Far from it! He jogged five miles three times a week, and once had even been persuaded by his girlfriend, Shirley, to go into plainclothes and become a detective. Calvin had gone along with it because going along with things was in his nature, and because his uniform did take a lot of fiddly ironing. But after a single horrible murder case, he had been relieved to give up detective work.

And Shirley.

He didn’t regret either decision. He could do what he liked at home, and at work he was happy bumping along the bottom of burglary and public-disorder offences and shoplifting – most of which were committed by a hard core of about a dozen addicts and alcoholics, or by Tovey Chanter, who was neither, but who outstripped both in his sheer enthusiasm for wrongdoing. Anyway, the point being that there was rarely a crime committed in Bideford for which Calvin Bridge didn’t have a good idea of where to start.

And now . . . this.

They’d been called to a possible break-in – his favourite kind of case, because only occasionally did a possible break-in turn into an actual break-in, but it still gave him a chance to switch on the old blues and twos and put his foot down. And even when it did turn out to be an actual break-in there was rarely anyone still in the house to have to deal with by the time they arrived. Not unless the perp was on drugs and too dazed to run.

Anyway, this was an actual break-in. And then had quickly turned into something much more sinister . . .

His colleague, Jackie Braddick, had banged hard on the front door, while he’d snuck round the back in case anybody was dangling out of a kitchen window.

Nobody was.

Calvin had tried the back door and it had opened, and a little black-and-tan dog had squeezed between his shins and trotted out into the overgrown garden.

Calvin had called, Hello? but nobody had answered. However, the back door being unlocked seemed suspicious, so he’d drawn his baton and walked quietly through the house. Downstairs first – the kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink, and the dining room, where a hole in a window breathed on the curtains.

Calvin had noted there was no glass on the floor, which meant it wasn’t a recent break, so had moved on. He’d peered into the living room, with the coffee table piled high with crap that didn’t belong there, and then he’d opened the front door for Jackie and followed her upstairs . . .

And now here he was, standing guard over a corpse while Jackie was in the front bedroom, comforting a confused old man who kept saying that he was the one who ought to be dead. Said he’d woken and seen a tall, white-haired figure at his door, like the angel of death, who’d disappeared without a sound – and taken the wrong soul with him.

It’s all my fault, he kept saying. It’s all my fault.

Calvin sighed. Worst job ever . . .

It was a private game he and Jackie played to mitigate the daily assault on their persons and senses. A stoic attempt to turn a no-win situation into a dubious kind of victory for one of them, at least. Like when Jackie had had a tooth knocked through her lip by a runaway donkey. And a drunk in a mini­dress had once shat on Calvin’s shoe. Both previous winners. The loser bought the first drink the next time they went to the pub. Except that today they were both playing the same game, so unless one of them had to deal with bodily fluids or violence between now and the end of their shift, today would be a tie.

Still, plainclothes were on their way and, once they got here, Calvin could stop thinking about the dead man in the bed. He wasn’t crazy about corpses, so he looked forward to getting back in the car and driving to Bideford police station and having a cuppa with the lads and maybe a bit of Sergeant Coral’s wife’s terrible fruit cake. But until then he had to think about things here. The tip-off and the unlocked back door and the yappy little dog and the briefcase on the landing, and the poor old boy in the front room and the corpse in this one, presided over by a big black oxygen cylinder on a trolley that stood solemn guard beside the bed. It was hard to see how they all fitted together, but even his limited experience told him that it was inevitable that somehow they would. That at some point all the dots would join up to form a recognizable picture of what had happened here and why.

He heard the front door open, and peered over the banister to call, ‘Up here!’

Calvin hoped it wouldn’t be DCI Kirsty King. They’d worked together during his short spell in plainclothes, but once had been enough for Calvin – the case had gained her a commendation and him a nervous tic. Calvin had appreciated DCI King’s down-to-earth thinking and inclusive approach. Even though he’d been young and inexperienced, she had treated him like a man who’d had something to contribute. And to his surprise Calvin had contributed! He’d exceeded both their expectations, and she’d told him she felt he had a real future in plainclothes. And then, when it was all over, he’d proved her wrong by immediately requesting a return to uniform. She’d never said so, but Calvin knew he’d disappointed her.

But luckily the detective wasn’t King. It was an officer he didn’t know – a young bloke with neat hair and a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches. He looked like a scientist.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

As he walked up the stairs, Calvin brought him up to speed. ‘PC Bridge, sir. Responded to a call about two possible intruders. Male and female. No sign of forced entry. The tip said two suspects went in the front door. Back door was unlocked. And we’ve got a body in this room and a male resident in the front bedroom.’

‘What?’ said the detective, glancing over his shoulder towards the front room.

‘Old man, sir. Very confused. Says he should be dead. I think he’s a bit . . . you know . . .’ Calvin’s finger circled his temple to officially diagnose the old man as nuts.

Still the detective stared at him blankly.

‘A body?’ he said. ‘Whose body?’ The young man’s eyes darted past Calvin to the bed and he said, ‘Dad?’

Oh shit.

Calvin realized his mistake with a mixture of horror and defensive irritation. Why hadn’t plainclothes got here sooner? What was taking them so long? Now he’d screwed up big time and it was all their fault!

Right on cue, he heard the front door open and DCI Kirsty King call, Hello.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Calvin told the panicky boffin. ‘Would you mind coming downstairs with me?’

‘But I have to . . . Can I just?’

He tried to peer around Calvin, who spread his arms. ‘Just for a minute, please, sir.’

The man hesitated, then turned, and Calvin followed him.