Impersonating a police officer again
And then, bugger me if this geezer don’t just walk in, bold as brass tits, through the front door and I’m thinking to myself (being as how I’m a trained observer and that) that it’s only that bloke from off of the late shift’s handover.
So I’m shitting it, obviously, what with this being something of a pickle. Here’s me, on my Jack in the nick at two in the morning, and here’s the scrote what done for a pair of the hardest armed blaggers in the borough. Anyway, I have a word with myself and swallow a couple of leftover pfeffernusse, to try stop my ticker flying out of my arse. Then I get up, nice and slow, and bimble up to the counter, all the while trying to figure out what to say to this murderous bell-end.
‘Mornin’ Geezer” is what I say, while trying to look like the sort of copper you don’t need to shoot in the face.
‘Good morning officer.’ He says, which don’t sound all that menacing, except that it must have been because I made a mental note to check myself, after.
‘What can I do for you?’ I ask, all cunning like, buying myself some time.
‘I’m here concerning the pistols, of which you will, I hope, be aware.’ Which I bloody was, obviously. He’d been the one what had shot three armed blaggers in that thing what happened that I didn’t catch all the details of because it was Detective Sergeant Jones giving the briefing and she’d crossed her legs and everything had gone a bit misty. There’d been something about an ‘orse. That, I was definite about.
‘How’s the ‘orse?’ I ask, by way of confirming my grounds for arrest. See? Cunning.
‘I fail to see how that’s pertinent but, as you ask, he’s a little the worse for recent events, of which I daresay you have been apprised by your superiors. Now, on the matter of the pistols…”
He stops talking at that point because, taking no further chances, I leap over the counter and twat him with my telescopic baton until he no longer poses a credible fret to my person, sort of fing. Then, with him cuffed to the leaflet stand, I radio for backup.
And that was it, Guv’nor. You know the rest.
Detective Inspector Rathbone takes a moment. He looks over my shoulder at the tree outside the window, then up at the ceiling, then back at me.
“And you genuinely believed that this gentleman was the cold blooded killer of…” He looks down at his notes, which are written all neat, in pen. “Two, well known and extremely dangerous armed robbers”
“Bastardly armed blaggers. That’s right Guv.”
“And you didn’t recognise his picture from the briefing? Renowned curator of an exhibition of antique dueling pistols? None of this rings any bells?”
“I saw some geezers do dueling banjos once, in Majorca with the missus. Bloody amazing it was.”
DI Rathbone sighs. “And DS Jones was giving the briefing, you say?”
“Well… I suppose he deserved it, after what he was found doing with that poor horse. Besides, we got the pistols back to him after the thieves managed to prove their enduring lethality. In any case, he won’t be pursuing the matter further because he doesn’t want any more publicity now interest in the equestrian issue has died down…” DI Rathbone looks at me over the top of his glasses, in the way he has that makes me wish I’d spent longer rinsing the egg out of my tie. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I knew there was a fuckin’ ‘orse.”