Nothing Ventured (Detective William Warwick 1)

William tried to think like a thief catcher, an accolade only given to those who, like Fred, could smell a crime even before it took place.

Fred let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Mrs Perkins’s insurance company must have paid up, so she’s now the proud owner of a new television and VCR. But what she doesn’t know is that a burglar often returns to the scene of the crime a few weeks later, well aware there will probably be a brand-new TV set for them to steal. And in her case, she’s actually advertising the fact. All the villain has to do is wait until she goes out one evening to visit her friend Mrs Cassidy at number ninety-one, then pop back in and rob her a second time.’

‘So what should we do?’ asked William.

‘Have a quiet word with her, and suggest she destroys the evidence,’ said Fred as he knocked on the door of No. 23. Mrs Perkins answered almost immediately, and once Fred had explained why two policemen were standing on her doorstep, she hastily removed the boxes, thanked him, and offered them a cup of tea.

‘That’s good of you, Mrs Perkins, but I’d better get on.’ He touched the rim of his helmet before they continued on their round.

‘When do you start your new job?’ Fred asked after they’d walked a few more yards.

‘I’m taking a couple of weeks’ holiday in Italy before reporting to Scotland Yard on the first of October.’

‘Lots of pretty girls in Italy, I’m told.’

‘Most of them framed.’

‘Framed?’

‘In gold.’

Fred laughed. ‘I’ve never been to Italy, or even Scotland Yard for that matter, but I’m told they’ve got the finest snooker room in the Met.’

‘I’ll come back and tell you what it’s like . . .’

‘You’ll never come back, Choirboy. Lambeth has just been the first rung on what I expect will be a very long ladder. But be warned, on your way up you’ll come across plenty of snakes who’ll be only too happy to send you back down a ladder, and some of them will be wearing blue uniforms,’ he said, rattling a shop door to make sure it was locked.

William chuckled. Never a shift went by when he didn’t learn something from Fred.

‘Evenin’, Jacob.’

‘Hello, Fred.’

William looked down at a man who was sitting cross-legged on the pavement, nursing a half-empty bottle of whisky. When he was first on the beat, Fred had taught him that there were four types of drunks: the sleepers, who fall into a drunken stupor, and when they eventually wake up, go home; the harmless, who are usually drowning their sorrows and are rarely any trouble; the lovers, who want to take you home and try on your uniform; and the aggressive ones, who are looking for a fight and consider a policeman fair game. Fred could identify each category at a dozen paces, especially those looking for a fight, who regularly ended up spending the night in a cell, and were often a completely different person the following morning. William had come across all four types over the past couple of years, and thanks to Fred’s common sense and strong right arm, he only had one or two bruises to show for it.

‘Which category?’ asked William.

‘Drowning his sorrows. Spurs must have lost this afternoon.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Jacob’s as good as gold when they win, but if they lose, he’s a lost cause.’

They turned into Luscombe Road to see a few locals making their way home from the Marlborough Arms.

‘Disappointing,’ said Fred. ‘Luscombe Road isn’t what it used to be since the council cleaned it up. I was hoping we might come across a drug dealer, or even Lenny the Snitch, so you’d have something to remember from your last night on the beat.’

‘We could always arrest her,’ said William, pointing to a girl in a short black leather skirt who was chatting to a man through an open car window.

‘What’s the point? She’ll only spend the night in a cell, pay a fine in the morning, and be back on the game tomorrow evening. It’s not the girls I’d like to nick, but the pimps who live off them. And one in particular,’ Fred added.

The car sped away when the driver spotted two policemen in his rear-view mirror. They ambled on towards the town centre, Fred regaling William with stories, some of which he’d heard before but were worth a second outing, and others that he wasn’t sure hadn’t been embellished with the passing of the years.

William was going to ask Fred about his retirement plans when his mentor grabbed his arm and pulled him into the nearest doorway, suddenly no longer the friendly neighbourhood bobby but transformed into a policeman who’d spotted a real criminal.

‘It’s our lucky night,’ said Fred, nodding in the direction of a giant of a man clutching a terrified girl by the neck. ‘I’ve been after that bastard for years. Don’t bother reading him his rights. That can wait until he’s banged up in a cell.’

Fred drew his truncheon, leapt out from the shadows, and began running towards the assailant, causing several other girls to scatter like pigeons in every direction the moment they saw him. William followed and quickly overtook the old timer, who was not only thirty years older, but hadn’t won the 100 yards in his last year at school.