Читать книгу Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume - Brian Degas - Страница 32

At Police Administration Headquarters, the office of Sandra Gibson, Administrative Secretary for the Specials, occupied a large, airy square with two walls of cupboards and filing cabinets and two desks, the smaller one for her assistant, who was absent, as usual. At her larger desk, Sandra sat watching and helping Section Officer Bob Loach fill out the official report of his grievous injury.

‘“Occupation?”’ he read from the document. ‘I suppose I put down managing director like?’

Poor Loach. All grease and few graces, she mused. ‘Well, let’s think about that,’ she reasoned with him rather as she would with an older child. ‘They could say that the injury you suffered in the line of duty didn’t hinder you in your capacity as a managing director. Let’s face it: managing directors mainly sit on their bottoms all day. And it was your thumb and not your bum the lady bit, wasn’t it?’ Loach didn’t seem to take her attempt at comic relief too kindly. ‘Why don’t you put bus mechanic to be on the safe side.’

He shrugged. Some people just never understood, so you had to treat them like children. ‘Managing directors have to be able to sign things, Sandra. And if you’ve got a dodgy thumb, it doesn’t make much odds if you’re using a Bic pen or a number six box spanner.’ She didn’t seem to understand that either.

‘It’s up to you,’ she yielded to his obstinate whims. ‘By the way, how did the woman … what’s-her-name?’

‘Big Jess.’

‘Uh-huh. How did she manage to bite your thumb?’

‘With her teeth … What else?’

A stout heart, strong muscles, an exemplary Special, but not much power upstairs, she concluded. ‘No, I meant …’ Never mind. ‘Oh well, it’ll be in the police report.’

‘That’s it then. Where do I sign?’

She leaned across the desk to show him exactly where. ‘There … and at the foot of the page.’ As he was signing the form, the telephone rang and she picked up the receiver.

‘Good morning! Sandra Gibson of the infectious smile speaking.’ It was an unfamiliar voice. ‘Yes, this is Sandra Gibson.’ Someone unfamiliar with her voice as well. ‘Uh-huh, Administrative Secretary for the Specials.’

He had just become a Special, wanted to speak with her, wanted to know if he should bring along his companion, an off-duty policeman. They were in the reception area downstairs. ‘Uh-huh, I see. Well, you’d better both come up. Security’ll point you in the right direction. All right? Bye.’

During the ’phone conversation, she had stood up and wandered over to look out the window at the parking area, her lovely scenic view. After she replaced the receiver, she was still looking out of the window for something she couldn’t find.

‘Where’s the famous white Jag then?’ She had to hand it to him, though. Everyone’s immediate association with Loach was a fancy white Jaguar. Not bad. ‘Or are you parked somewhere else?’

He appeared strangely discomfited and evasive. ‘Er … I don’t have the Jag today. It’s … on hire … for a wedding.’

She was somewhat startled and incredulous as to what some people would do to make money. ‘You’ve hired your car for a wedding? Aren’t you taking this millionaire Special thing a bit too far, Bob?’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, what d’you take me for? If you must know, someone got let down … at the last minute. I don’t like to see folk disappointed.’

Try pulling the other one, she wanted to say. He didn’t go on, he didn’t go out. She looked at him expectantly.

‘Was there something else, Bob?’

Still he seemed ill at ease. ‘Well … now you ask … I did have another reason for coming here, Sandra. There’s something going on … and you’re the only person who might give me a straight answer.’

Something in his hesitant manner aroused her suspicion. ‘That’ll depend on the question.’

He contemplated, then decided to go ahead. ‘All right. It’s about Rob Barker – my Sub-Divisional Officer.’

Her fears confirmed. Winter came early, as her blood froze into ice.

Meanwhile, Loach was oblivious to the drop in room temperature. ‘What I want to know is … whether he’s coming or going? Viv Smith tells me he’s been into her Building Society making plans about selling his house.’

‘Selling his house?’ she asked bleakly.

‘Aye. What I want to know is if you’ve heard anything. Officially or unofficially. Is the man resigning or not?’

Before she could think of a hedge to put him off, there was a tap on the open door to her office. Standing there awkwardly was the young Special who had called from the reception area accompanied by the off-duty policeman, who appeared vaguely familiar to Sandra.

‘Sorry to trouble you,’ the young Special apologized.

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she assured him with her best motherly smile.

The off-duty policeman spoke up. ‘I told him to touch base with you, Miss Gibson. Before he saw the lot upstairs. I’m Police Constable Leadbetter, by the way.’

Sandra nodded welcome, and Loach acknowledged him as well.

The young Special was eager to jump in. ‘I wanted to know what I’m expected to buy for meself. When I become a Special. How much am I gonna be in for?’

‘That’s easy,’ she grinned. ‘Nothing. You’ll be supplied with everything you need free of charge. You’re not expected to buy anything.’

The young man frowned. ‘But I heard … Well, what about other things … like handcuffs?’

It was Loach’s turn to field that one. ‘Uh … Somebody should’ve told you. A Special isn’t allowed to use cuffs.’

‘He’s right,’ Sandra was happy to concur. ‘This is Bob Loach. He’s a Special as well. A section officer.’

‘Nobody can stop you buying them,’ Loach conceded, qualifying his earlier admonition.

Leadbetter snorted. ‘Bloody stupid, if you ask me. ’Ere we got young lads like the lad ’ere who volunteer to be Specials, knowing they’ve gotta stand in line and take the same bleeding punishment a cop like me has to. For what? They don’t get paid. I got cuffs. They should be given cuffs. You can’t stand about like a bleeding football and have your head kicked in. You can ask ’em, tell ’em, but I’m buggered if I know how a Special’s going to lift ’em without cuffs.’

As if that extensive exposition weren’t sufficient, he added one more item to the wish list for good measure. ‘And another thing, they should be paid. Like the rest of us in the force.’

Loach was genuinely moved by his emotional support for the Specials, including the young man beside him. ‘I wish more policemen felt the same as you do. And I’ll tell you, there’s not many would give the time of day to help out a young Special the way you’re doing.’

Leadbetter just shrugged and smiled. ‘Got to, haven’t I?’ He put his arm around the young Special’s shoulder.

‘I’m his dad.’

Redwood’s combined office and residence was a modest house with a minute garden fronting it, the only outward sign of his existence a burnished brass plate fixed to a wall pier and bearing the legend: ‘John Redwood, Solicitor and Commissioner of Oaths.’ Stella, his secretary, who had been with him since the time when his dear wife was still alive, was fluttering at the window, waiting for him, when she saw his car pulling up. In a twinkle she flew to her desk, where a plate of savouries awaited, along with a bottle of champagne cooling in a flower vase. She carefully picked up the champagne and got ready. When she heard him enter the house, she started counting to herself.

Just as he opened the door to the office, she popped the cork in his direction. Momentarily startled, he put his hand over his heart and staggered toward her.

‘God, Stella, I thought you were a dissatisfied client.’

He dropped his briefcase on her desk and noticed her preparations. Slung over his shoulder was a plastic suit-carrier enclosing his uniform, tying up one arm.

‘Congratulations, John.’ She pushed a glass toward his lips, then pretended to snatch it back. ‘Wait. Are you allowed to drink on duty?’

Finally smiling and tolerant, he accepted the glass. She took care of the suit-carrier, transferring it to the cupboard. Just before doing so, however, she removed the cap. Taking it over to him, she playfully set the cap at a jaunty angle on his head, embarrassing him with her teasing. She tilted her head to one side, in parallel with the cap, and studied him.

‘Well, I am impressed.’ She gave him a cocky salute. ‘Evenin’ all.’

They clinked glasses and tasted the champagne. He sneezed on the bubbles.

‘Dammit. Just remembered … the conveyancing for 15 Sydney Street? Is it done?’

Stella was a bit piqued by his anxiety. ‘Of course it is.’ Now that he brought it up, she was irked that business was intruding on her carefully arranged mini-party, so she forestalled his next query as well. ‘And what’s more, I got the deposit cheque.’

She leaned over her desk to retrieve a document, then watched in amusement as he tried to read it: squinting at it, tilting it sideways to catch the light from the window. Her reaction to this foible was more good-natured. ‘How did you pass your police eye-test, John?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘And I see you’ve forgotten your glasses. Again.’ She shook her head in wonder. ‘The vanity of some men.’ In truth, that was one of the foibles she liked very much about him: that secretly, buried somewhere beneath all that reserve, he still knew what a formidable, virile, attractive man he was. On the other hand, perhaps he had inadvertently revealed the source of her dilemma as well. Why did he overlook the obvious solution she offered to his loneliness? How could he fail to take any notice of the signals she was sending him constantly? Perhaps he was simply blind, literally as well as figuratively.

‘What?’ he asked absent-mindedly, engrossed in the papers instead of in her.

The door to the office rattled as if struck by something heavy. Surmising that it was probably a certain 16-year-old paraplegic in his wheelchair, Stella opened the door.

‘Simon! You’re just in time,’ she smiled at him.

Framed in the doorway, the wheelchair didn’t move. Simon confronted his father with a hard stare, open mockery on his face.

‘Hello son … We were …’

Abruptly, out of the corner of his eye, he must have caught sight of himself in the wall mirror with the police cap still at a rakish angle on his head. Immediately he stiffened, removed his cap and returned it to the cupboard with the rest of the uniform.

Worried the fun might be spoiled for John, who had surely earned his moment of harmless celebration, Stella looked from father to son, desperately wanting to strike the right note between them and keep the party going.

‘Simon? A glass of bubbly. To toast your Dad.’ She had poured a glass for him, but he rejected it.

‘Sorry. I thought you wanted me to fix your database programme,’ he reminded her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I didn’t know it was party-time.’

In all the excitement of getting ready for the homecoming celebration she had totally forgotten the peace proposal she had negotiated with Simon. She felt awful.

‘All right, Simon,’ his father stepped in. ‘I think you’ve made your point. But Stella doesn’t deserve that kind of remark.’

‘No, it’s just as much my fault,’ she conceded. ‘Simon has a physio appointment at half four. I thought he might save me making a hash of things. You know – crashing the computer.’

Silence was closing in around them when there was a ring from outside. Saved by the bell.

‘That’ll be Mr Dawson.’

With a quizzical expression, he asked who Mr Dawson might be. She indicated the document he was holding.

‘15 Sydney Street.’

With a tender smile at the man who needed her, she went to answer the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tear in her eye. Yet why would he notice that and nothing else about her? And, as she stepped lightly around Simon’s wheelchair, she recognized that although his father might not notice her feelings, Simon hardly noticed her at all, other than as the woman who worked as his father’s secretary.