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  ‘Not for another year,’ replied William. ‘But I don’t think you’ll be getting rid of me quite yet,’ he added as they approached the local newsagent. He glanced at the headline: ‘PC Yvonne Fletcher killed outside the Libyan Embassy’.

  ‘Murdered, more like,’ said Fred. ‘Poor lass.’ He didn’t speak again for some time. ‘I’ve been a constable all my life,’ he eventually managed, ‘which suits me just fine. But you—’

  ‘If I make it,’ said William, ‘I’ll have you to thank.’

  ‘I’m not like you, Choirboy,’ said Fred. William feared that he would be stuck with that nickname for the rest of his career. He preferred Sherlock. He had never admitted to any of his mates at the station that he had been a choirboy, and always wished he looked older, although his mother had once told him, ‘The moment you do, you’ll want to look younger.’ Is no one ever satisfied with the age they are? he wondered. ‘By the time you become commissioner,’ continued Fred, ‘I’ll be shacked up in an old people’s home, and you’ll have forgotten my name.’

  It had never crossed William’s mind that he might end up as commissioner, although he felt sure he would never forget Constable Fred Yates.

  Fred spotted the young lad as he came running out of the newsagent’s. Mr Patel followed a moment later, but he was never going to catch him. William set off in pursuit, with Fred only a yard behind. They both overtook Mr Patel as the boy turned the corner. But it was another hundred yards before William was able to grab him. The two of them led the young lad back to the shop, where he handed over a packet of Capstan to Mr Patel.

  ‘Will you be pressing charges, sir?’ asked William, who already had his notebook open, pencil poised.

  ‘What’s the point?’ said the shopkeeper, placing the cigarette packet back on the shelf. ‘If you lock him up, his younger brother will only take his place.’

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Tomkins,’ said Fred, clipping the boy around the ear. ‘Just make sure you’re in school by the time we turn up, otherwise I might tell your old man what you were up to. Mind you,’ he added, turning to William, ‘the fags were probably for his old man.’

  Tomkins bolted. When he reached the end of the street he stopped, turned around and shouted, ‘Police scum!’ and gave them both a ‘V’ sign.

  ‘Perhaps you should have pinned his ears back.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Fred.

  ‘In the sixteenth century, when a boy was caught stealing, he would be nailed to a post by one of his ears, and the only way he could escape was to tear himself free.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Fred. ‘Because I have to admit I can’t get to grips with modern police practice. By the time you retire, you’ll probably have to call the criminals “sir”. Still, I’ve only got another eighteen months to go before I collect my pension, and by then you’ll be at Scotland Yard. Although,’ Fred added, about to dispense his daily dose of wisdom, ‘when I joined the force nearly thirty years ago, we used to handcuff lads like that to a radiator, turn the heat full on, and not release them until they’d confessed.’

  William burst out laughing.

  ‘I wasn’t joking,’ said Fred.

  ‘How long do you think it will be before Tomkins ends up in jail?’

  ‘A spell in borstal before he goes to prison, would be my bet. The really maddening thing is that once he’s locked up he’ll have his own cell, three meals a day and be surrounded by career criminals who’ll be only too happy to teach him his trade before he graduates from the University of Crime.’

  Every day William was reminded how lucky he’d been to be born in a middle-class cot, with loving parents and an older sister who doted on him. Although he never admitted to any of his colleagues that he’d been educated at one of England’s leading public schools before taking an art history degree at King’s College London. And he certainly never mentioned that his father regularly received large payments from some of the nation’s most notorious criminals.

  As they continued on their round, several local people acknowledged Fred, and some even said good morning to William.

  When they returned to the nick a couple of hours later, Fred didn’t bother to report young Tomkins to the desk sergeant, as he felt the same way about paperwork as he did about modern police practice.

  ‘Feel like a cuppa?’ said Fred, heading towards the canteen.

  ‘Warwick!’ shouted a voice from behind them.

  William turned round to see the custody sergeant pointing at him. ‘A prisoner’s collapsed in his cell. Take this prescription to the nearest chemist and have it made up. And be quick about it.’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ said William. He grabbed the envelope, and ran all the way to Boots on the high street, where he found a small queue waiting patiently at the dispensary counter. He apologized to the woman at the front of the queue before handing the envelope to the pharmacist. ‘It’s an emergency,’ he said.

  The young woman opened the envelope and carefully read the instructions before saying, ‘That will be one pound sixty, constable.’

  William fumbled for some change, which he gave to the pharmacist. She rang up the sale, turned around, took a packet of condoms off the shelf and handed it to him. William’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He was painfully aware that several people in the queue were grinning. He was about to slip away when the pharmacist said, ‘Don’t forget your prescription, constable.’ She passed the envelope back to William.

  Several amused pairs of eyes followed him as he slipped out into the street. He waited until he was out of sight before he opened the envelope and read the enclosed note.

  Dear Sir or Madam,

  I am a shy young constable, who’s finally got a girl to come out with me, and I’m hoping to get lucky tonight. But as I don’t want to get her pregnant, can you help?

  William burst out laughing, put the packet of condoms in his pocket and made his way back to the station; his first thought: I only wish I did have a girlfriend.

  3

  CONSTABLE WARWICK SCREWED the top back onto his fountain pen, confident he had passed his detective’s exam with what his father would have called flying colours.

  When he returned to his single room in Trenchard House that evening, the flying colours had been lowered to half mast, and by the time he switched off his bedside lamp, he was sure he would remain in uniform and be on the beat for at least another year.

  ‘How did you do?’ the station officer asked when he reported back on duty the following morning.

  ‘Failed hopelessly,’ said William, as he checked the parade book. He and Fred were down to patrol the Barton estate, if only to remind the local criminals that London still had a few bobbies on the beat.

  ‘Then you’ll have to try again next year,’ said the sergeant, unwilling to indulge the young man. If Constable Warwick wanted to wallow in self-doubt, he had no intention of rescuing the lad.

  Sir Julian continued sharpening the carving knife until he was confident blood would run.

  ‘Two slices or one, my boy?’ he asked his son.

  ‘Two please, Father.’

  Sir Julian sliced the roast with the skill of a seasoned carver.

  ‘So did you pass your detective’s exam?’ he asked William as he handed him his plate.

  ‘I won’t know for at least another couple of weeks,’ said William, passing his mother a bowl of brussel sprouts. ‘But I’m not optimistic. However, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m in the final of the station’s snooker championship.’

  ‘Snooker?’ said his father, as if it were a game he was unfamiliar with.

  ‘Yes, something else I’ve learnt in the last two years.’

  ‘But will you win?’ demanded his father.

  ‘Unlikely. I’m up against the favourite, who’s won the cup for the past six years.’

  ‘So you’ve failed your detective’s exam and are about to be runner-up in the—’

  ‘I’ve always wondered why they’r