Open Writing

Sunday Morning

Blues and twos Tango Papa 10 took the call, and were tearing along Valley Road on the horn, lights flashing.

‘Typical low key response, eh Val?’ shouted Lewis above the din. Joynes, pedal to the floor, flat out, skidded taking the island on the edges of two wheels.

‘Control Tango Papa 10. ETA any minute now. Out.’ Traffic’s rapid response vehicle being the nearest to the industrial estate by the main London line at the rear of Letchfield Valley station, it was bound to be down to Tango Papa 10 to investigate.

‘Go on kiddo leg it while I park up.’

It was probationer PC Cathy Lewis, who first on the scene, running as fast as the rookie’s chubby little legs would carry her across the warehouse floor to examine the body.

‘He’s dead. He’s dead. Isn’t he?’ pleaded the sobbing youth who was keeping up a steady rhythm of sorts on the dead man’s chest, but the inexperienced policewoman could tell at a glance that the corpse was well beyond hope of resuscitation.

The Piker was dead as mutton.

‘Best stop that now, Ducky. He’s too far gone,’ said Lewis, with as much compassion as she could muster for a dead Piker.

Looking up, his eyes red and swollen, the Gypsy stopped. He settled back onto his heels, rocking with silent tears. The lad’s powerful hands locked themselves together as if in prayer, the knuckle of a thumb thrust into his mouth. Those lost choirboy eyes never left the dead man’s face. For all his young years and lack of formal learning, one thing Manny Lidderdale knew for sure he had better keep schtum in front of the Shaydick or else his dad would leather the back off him. Viggo was always very clear on how to behave around the po-lice.

‘Control, I’ve found the body. Is that ambulance still on the way? Over.’

The radio crackled.

‘Lewis is that you? How many more times? Identify before you speak. Back-up is on the way. Inspector Coppnull, will be with you directly as soon as I can locate him. Over’

‘Thank you, Sorry, Control. I’ll get it right. Sorry.’ Lewis reddened at the telling off: she was doing her best. ‘I can confirm this looks like a sudden death. I am now interviewing a witness. Over.’

There was a sharp intake of breath: ‘Doing what? Where’s Joynes? Over,’ crackled the impatient voice on the radio.

‘She’s on the car park waiting to direct in the DI and sort out the paramedics. Over.’

‘Don’t you interview anybody. You just maintain a sterile area and wait for Coppnull. He might be some time. I’ll try and find DC Watts for you. Over.’

‘That’s what I am doing Sarge. Over and out.’ Lewis snapped, as she clicked off the radio. Finding Wattsy on a Sunday morning. That would be some challenge for Control. Maintain a sterile site! Some chance! Control was talking through their backside as usual. As she grumbled to herself, the dark tanned Gypsy youth at her feet untangled his frame like a gangling colt. His mass of curls shaking, Manny Lidderdale, now the oldest of the jeal’s sibleen, rose to his feet unsteadily and looked down at the stocky policewoman, who at five foot three stood about level with his chin.

‘Right, so what have you got to say for yourself?’ Lewis asked, looking up nervously and wondering what to do if he ran.

‘Nu-tin.’