Brian Degas - Specials - Based on the BBC TV Drama Series - The complete novels in one volume

Nevertheless Freddy Calder was on the case. His mood had changed with his identity: now he was a secret agent of the law – a Special – trailing someone in a hurry.

‘Put me through to Sheila Baxter in Control, would you, Bill? Yeah, it’s Freddy Calder here.’

There was no reason to assume that the response would be immediate, efficient or professionally respectful. Nor was it.

‘Fred-dy Cal-der … Sure I’ll hold, but this is important.’

Damn the bureaucratic mind. It was this kind of red tape, he reflected, that had delayed Napoleon’s conquest of Russia, which would have been better for everyone concerned, as history had demonstrated …

Meanwhile, the Sirens were beckoning Odysseus, not only from his sample case stuffed with intimate and racy unmentionables but also from his anticipation of official sirens heralding the imminent arrival of the everyday police. And what would they think of Dolly?

Should he cover them in some way? Hide them? Absolutely not, for that was the secret of his disguise: a ‘Special’ in ladies’ underwear. Who would think to look at him ? The fool in the Audi wouldn’t know what had hit him until it was too late. Freddy might appear to the casual eye to be pudgy and unimpressive, but underneath was a lion ready to pounce. When fists were flying, Freddy Calder would be the gent you’d want in there as a back-up. Many a fool had learned that lesson the hard way.

Meanwhile, at Division ‘S’ headquarters, WPC Sheila Baxter was manning the control room – and that wasn’t the only contradiction in terms. In truth, the awesome-sounding ‘control room’ constituted four walls, no windows and no room whatsoever to manoeuvre. The sole generous proportion in this room was a desk too large, and the only semblance of control, computer terminals and the usual communication gear.

But it wasn’t home, and that’s what Sheila liked best about the place. She wanted to stay and keep this job, so she had to exercise a Job-like patience with some of the Specials.

‘Freddy Calder, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call on this line.’

In an attempt to win her sympathy, he told her that he ‘couldn’t get through by the proper channels,’ and he had a hot item that couldn’t wait.

‘What? What car? Listen, Freddy, unless it’s dropping gold bricks I’m not interested … Well, for one thing, you’re not on duty. For another, I’m not supposed to give that kind of information to a Special. You know that.’

Perhaps he did, yet what difference should that make now, when pursuit was in progress through traffic becoming thicker as the city grew closer?

‘Sheila, believe me. I got a tingle in my nose about this one. The number is … Ready?’

WPC Baxter grabbed her notebook. ‘Just a second, give me that again.’

While entering the numbers into the computer terminal, she failed to observe the entering of Darth Vader – Police Sergeant Andy McAllister – behind her, looming above like a misery-seeking missile. Just as she realized his sinister presence, she also discovered something of an obstacle on the computer screen.

‘Freddy! Blow your nose. You’re tailing an unmarked police car, you wally!’

With that little piece of information, Freddy squeezed down on the brake and slowed considerably, while the idiot woman driver behind him pulled out and around with a screaming blast of the horn, although he and his brave Cortina did manage to escape intact.

Suddenly there was another vicious burst of noise from the car-phone Freddy was just putting to his ear.

‘Calder! This is Sergeant McAllister.’

Trying to keep his grip, McAllister held the phone – which he had abruptly acquired from WPC Baxter at the instant he resumed command – like a club.

‘Calder, you may think you’re a bloody Miami Vice, but I’ve news for you. You’re a Special , and that puts you lower than the lowest PC still in his nappies. And right now you’re a damned nuisance. In future, leave highway duty to those who know what they’re doing.’

The line went dead, and Freddy blinked hard. That’s the thanks you get for risking your life, he thought to himself, still unable to calm his trembling fingers … and as a volunteer yet! Bunch of bloody desk jockeys.

‘Damned Hobby Bobby!’ McAllister muttered at no one in particular, although scared rabbit Baxter was at least ostensibly paying attention to his every word.

‘Pretend police, who don’t take their function at all seriously … who sell brassieres! This is no place for a clown.’

As far as McAllister was concerned it was enough to bring the entire Specials programme into question.

‘Who’s his senior Special?’

‘His SDO is Barker …’ replied Baxter.

An easy name for her to remember, McAllister mused.

‘… but he’s not been putting in much of an appearance lately, and things are being handled by the section officer, Bob Loach.’

I must have a quiet chat with Loach then, thought McAllister with a smile.

Cougar Coaches was busy in the late afternoon, hosting the methodical movement of vehicles being driven in and out of the garage. Prominently parked in the yard area reserved for the staff were the infamous Loach-mobiles, Bob’s white Jag next to Noreen’s Renault 25: hardly a matched pair.

Inside the garage were several buses of varying size and capacity, a few still waiting for repair or some adjustment: the mechanics were clocking off for the day. Unable to stop fussing over a particularly stubborn exhaust-system problem grounding one of the coaches for the last couple of days, works foreman John Barraclough was finishing the job himself. He had advised the frustrated young mechanic he could push off home after informing at least one of the Loaches as to the current status of and prognosis for the obstinate exhaust system.

In one corner of the garage, in the office constructed of white-painted breeze blocks, Noreen Loach was feeling trapped while trying to get somewhere: trying to leave a bit early so she could get to her appointment at the beauty parlour. There was always too much ‘getting’ to do.

She had tidied her desk until it was a model of efficient organization, and made her final tour of the kitchen, wash-up and lavatory in the annexe. Now all that remained to obstruct her was her husband, as usual.

‘I’m off, then. I’ll tidy up the Edinburgh entries tomorrow. It looks as though we did well on that one.’ – While she practised her nonchalant tone of voice at every opportunity, in her own mind she realized full well that it convinced nobody, again with the possible exception of her husband, the one hope she clung to in the present circumstances.

‘Oh aye.’

Another response typical of his ever-so-revealing remarks, she reminded herself.

‘Yes. Anyway, I’m late for my appointment.’ Before he could interrupt, she kept right on going, moving to the door one step at a time. ‘Can I trust you to call them up and say I’m on my way?’

‘Call who?’

Whatever her wishful thinking about making a quick exit, two words from him could dash such notions in an instant.

‘Judy’s Beauty Salon. And no cracks, Loach. I don’t have time for cracks.’

‘I was only going to ask, Noreen, how long you’d be there.’

Immediately she was defensive. ‘What for? I don’t have time to bother about your tea, if that’s what you’re asking.’

Obviously that was not what he was asking. What was she keeping to herself this time, he wondered.

‘I can grab a sandwich. It won’t be the first time.’

Apparently his gesture of self-sufficiency had tipped her over the edge.

‘I’m off,’ she shrugged, swinging her leather bag over her shoulder in a huff and throwing him a warning glance. ‘I can’t stand it when you use that little-boy-lost voice.’