Stuart Pawson - Last Reminder

‘A hostage?’ I queried, adding, ‘I didn’t know I was on any list of negotiators.’

‘Well, you are. Once every three months, for a week.’

‘I took the course, about five years ago. I always imagined I’d failed it. I wasn’t exactly a natural.’ I only signed on because I’d approved a uniformed WPC called Kim Limbert for it and I was crazy about her at the time. Kim was our first black WPC, and she made Naomi Campbell look plain. The thought of three days sitting in the next desk to her was more than I could resist. I took her for a drink once or twice, but it was strictly business, dammit.

‘Will you help us, please? I’ve been ringing round for nearly half an hour.’

It’s difficult to turn them down when you are their last hope. ‘Who’s he holding hostage?’ I asked with a sudden burst of interest.

‘Well, actually, it’s a dog.’

‘A dog! Are you winding me up?’

‘No, Mr Priest. Let me tell you the story.’

‘I think you’d better.’

‘It’s a youth. Don’t know who he is, yet. He was disturbed at the top of a ladder, as he came out of a second-floor flat that he was burgling. He grabbed the dog and now he’s at the top of the ladder, threatening to throw the dog and himself down. A bit of a crowd has gathered, so we want to play it by the book.’

‘What is it, a Rottweiler?’

‘No, thank goodness. A Chihuahua.’

‘When you say second floor, do you mean second floor?’

‘That’s right. It’s a long ladder. He’s about thirty feet from the ground.’

Dogs and people don’t bounce from that height. I said, ‘OK, give me the address.’ I wrote it down. ‘Be with you in about twenty minutes. Try to keep the ghouls back and don’t harass him — he might come down on his own. Oh, and one other thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘Order some sandwiches and a flask of coffee, please. It might be a long night.’

‘Will do, Mr Priest. And thank you.’

I swapped my decent trousers for jeans and drank half of the mug of tea I’d taken up with me. Then I put my trainers and leather jacket on, swapped the contents of my pockets round and went outside. The car interior was still nice and warm.

On the way over I tried to remember what I’d learnt on the course, apart from the fact that Kim thought I was a schmuck. A likeable schmuck, but still a schmuck. One, create a safe environment. That was it. Five, try to build a rapport with the hostage-taker. In between was something about empathy. Like I said, I wasn’t a natural. The overriding memory was of having to suppress your instincts and do nothing. Enforced inactivity, like lying in a hospital bed with your legs in traction while all the other patients partied with the nurses. Be calm, and let nature take its course. Time heals everything. Well, stuff that for a box of soldiers.

He was right — it was a long ladder. Three extensions, fully out. The crowd was growing all the time, their faces, yellow in the glow of the sodium lights, turned up towards the unfortunate youth. One or two shouted for him to jump, trying to build up the rhythm of a chant. They’d do better in about half an hour, when the pubs turned out.

‘Charlie Priest,’ I said, identifying myself to Inspector Lockett.

‘Inspector Lockett,’ he replied, giving me a limp handshake. He looked younger than I was when I made inspector. Bet he wouldn’t break my long service record, though.

The youth was sitting a couple of rungs from the top, facing outwards. That was a feat in itself. Don’t think I’d have dared do it. He was level with the street lamps, and they cast shadows either side of him, like the floodlights at a football match.

‘Where’s the dog?’ I asked.

‘He’s got it down the front of his bomber jacket.’

‘Anyone from the RSPCA here?’

‘No. Do you want me to call them?’

‘Er, no. Not yet.’ Definitely not yet.

The window he’d come out of was open, and a couple of policemen were inside, but they’d stopped trying to persuade him to surrender.

‘Tell them to close the window and stay away from it,’ I told Lockett, pointing upwards.

‘Right,’ he said, and started giving orders on his portable.

‘Where are the sandwiches?’ I asked when he finished.

‘Oh,’ he replied brightly, ‘we shouted up to him, asked him what he wanted, and he declined.’

‘He declined! He declined!’

‘Well, told us to go and, er, eff ourselves, actually.’ He dropped his voice as he said ‘Eff’, presumably so God couldn’t hear.

‘Sod him!’ I gasped. ‘They were for me. I haven’t eaten for fourteen hours!’

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Priest. I must have misunderstood. I’ll arrange some now. In fact, maybe I should order the mobile canteen?’

‘Just a couple of ham sandwiches will do.’

We were in a parking area in front of the block of flats. Nearby were several builders’ huts and skips of rubbish. The youth must have found the ladder there. These flats are under a constant renovation programme, starving the rest of the housing of funds. Three police cars were parked, their flashing lights reflecting off the front of the building. I studied the situation and tried to remember Isaac Newton’s first law of ladders. My memory wasn’t much use to me tonight. I was tired, shouldn’t have taken this on. Never did learn how to say no. Didn’t he say something about a ladder being exactly the same length upright as it was when lying on the ground? Sounded reasonable to me. I did some elementary geometry in my mind, and when Lockett finished on the radio I asked him to move the crowd another fifteen feet back.

He had about six uniformed PCs with him, and they pushed and jostled until I was satisfied. The crowd were good natured, some of them on personal terms with the bobbies, but the mood could soon change. A fire engine with a turntable ladder came warbling down the road.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now turn those blues off and tell Thomas the Turntable to go hide somewhere. We’ll let him know if we need him.’

When it was quieter, the environment as reassuring as I thought I could make it, I strolled towards the foot of the ladder. The crowd stopped jeering.

‘Gerraway!’ the youth yelled at me. ‘I’ll chuck fuckin’ dog darn if tha comes any closer.’ He pulled the terrified hound from within his jacket to reinforce his words.

I took an extra couple of strides and stopped. ‘Hi!’ I shouted up to him, with all the sincerity of a reluctant recruit at the Mormon training academy. ‘My name’s Charlie.’

‘I’ll jump!’ he yelled back, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll chuck me-fuckin-sen off.’

He was leaning against the wall. ‘Please, be calm,’ I pleaded. ‘We don’t want to hurt you. Can we just talk?’

‘Warrabout?’

‘Well, I’m called Charlie. What are you called?’

‘Joe Fuck!’

‘Do you live round here?’ I asked, adding, ‘Mr Fuck,’ under my breath.

He didn’t bother answering, but he put the wriggling dog back inside his jacket. It was calmer in there.

I was about six feet from the foot of the ladder. I shuffled forward, my hands in my pockets. ‘Is it your dog?’ I called out. I’m usually reasonable at interviews, but this was different. The spectators had brought their video cameras along, and tomorrow I could be on the news. He ignored my question.

‘Do you like dogs?’ I tried.

‘They’re all right.’ That was an improvement.

‘I expect you prefer bigger ones?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What sort’s that one?’

‘How the fuck do I know?’

He was an articulate so-and-so. I was at the foot of the ladder now.

‘Don’t come any fuckin’ closer,’ he warned.