Michael Allen - A Writer's Guide To Everything Important - The Omnibus Edition Of Seven Essential Guides For Fiction Writers

For about fifteen seconds, she added, without actually giving voice to that thought.

And thus it was that wheels were now turning in Sergeant Perkins’s brain. The train of thought was roughly as follows:

Christmas Day. Small boy lost. Found by the town drunk (a tortured soul, mourning a lost love, but still full of the milk of human kindness). And…

Yes, and what? That was the problem. Nevertheless it was worth a phone call, which he now made.

And what about the Chief Constable, Sergeant Perkins then thought. The Chief, it was well known, was also wildly ambitious, always keen on getting his picture in the paper.

So, what about giving him a ring?

Nah, thought Sergeant Perkins. Bit too early yet. But keep it in mind.

Sergeant Perkins had no sooner completed these deliberations than the squad car arrived in the station yard. He could hardly avoid noticing its arrival because it was sounding its siren as it approached, and continued to sound it for at least half a minute while stationary at its destination. Peep-parp, it went. Peep-parp, peep-parp, peep-parp. Rather loudly.

Sergeant Perkins frowned; but then, mercifully, the noise ceased and a few seconds later the station door opened. In came PC Hardcastle, followed by a small boy, followed by PC Moreton.

Sergeant Perkins emerged from behind the heavy barricades which served to protect him (it was theorised) from attacks by aggrieved members of the public. And, because he had two small grandchildren of his own – though he seldom saw them – Sergeant Perkins bent down to put himself on the same level as the small (apparently lost) boy.

‘Peep-parp,’ said the newcomer happily.

‘Nothing for it, Sarge,’ said Hardcastle apologetically. ‘He would insist we had the siren on.’

‘That’s all right,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Now then, son, what’s your name?’

‘I’ve got an iPod,’ came the proud reply.

‘Jolly good,’ said the Sergeant carefully. Because he wasn’t entirely sure what an iPod was. ‘So, you’ve got an iPod, have you?’

‘Es.’

‘And who does it belong to?’

‘Me.’

PCs Hardcastle and Moreton tried hard not to snigger. But they did smirk.

‘And what’s your name then, iPod boy?’

‘Bertie.’

Sergeant Perkins raised an eyebrow at the Doubting Thomases around him. See? The eyebrow said. Some of us know how to interrogate lost kids and some of us don’t.

‘And where do you live, Bertie?’

‘In a house.’

Sergeant Perkins sighed and tried a new tack.

‘How old are you, Bertie?’

‘Free.’

Sergeant Perkins stood up. His knees were beginning to ache.

‘Well he can’t have come far, can he?’ he said to his colleagues. ‘Half past eight on Christmas morning. No coat. Just wandered off, I guess. Frantic Mum is going to phone in any moment.’

‘You’re pleecemen, aren’t you?’ volunteered Bertie.

‘That’s right, son.’

‘Peep-parp, peep-parp, peep-parp.’

‘That’s right, son, that’s us.’

‘We had two bad men in our house this morning. Wiv guns. And masks on.’

The three police officers suddenly went very quiet. Sergeant Perkins knelt down again.

‘Guns, eh?’

Bertie nodded, and demonstrated. ‘Bang, bang, bang, bang.’

‘And did they actually make their guns go bang?’

‘No.’ Bertie shook his head sadly.

Sergeant Perkins had an inspiration. ‘Did your Mummy ever teach you your address, Bertie?’

‘Thirty-five Poplar Gardens,’ said Bertie. And for good measure he added the name of the town and post code.

“Tell me, son. Did these bad men notice you?’

‘No,’ said Bertie. ‘I hid.’

There followed what was, by the standards of this particular nick, a flurry of activity.

The two PCs were dispatched to the given address. Sergeant Perkins and Bertie retired to the staff canteen – well, actually it was a small room where they brewed up – and Bertie was fed with milk and chocolate digestives. Sergeant Perkins decided that now very definitely was the time to make a call to the Chief Constable, albeit one hedged around with many cautious admonitions about how it could well be a false alarm, sir, but we are taking the matter seriously, and if it is true that guns are involved we might well need to alert the Armed Response Section.

When dealing with the Chief Constable, Sergeant Perkins was very careful to pronounce the name of the Armed Response Section in full, because – as had immediately been recognised by the rank and file, but had been overlooked by the local Watch Committee when choosing a name for it – the acronymic version of this particular unit’s title could elicit a certain amount of ribald comment among those too immature to recognise the full seriousness of letting chaps loose with authority to go around shooting people if they gave them a funny look.

The Chief Constable was not at all upset about being rung up, because the alternative to taking such things seriously was (a) to go to church, (b) to have lunch at an old folks’ home, and (c) make an apparently endless tour of various other old people’s homes and listen to lots of carols and handbell ringings by cub scouts.

The Chief Constable also made it his business to make a number of phone calls himself. First on the list, naturally, was the ambitious Emily, who kept reminding him of how advantageous it could be – nay, how absolutely essential it was – for an up-and-coming Chief Constable to get his name known on a national basis.

Then, of course, the Chief had to ring the chief ARSe himself and get him rounding up his armed men. And, naturally, he also had to alert his own force’s Head of Press Relations, and get him thinking along the lines of press conferences, local TV stations, off-the-record briefings in return for favours to be returned at a later date, and so forth.

Meanwhile, PCs Hardcastle and Moreton went to Bertie’s home address and promptly reported back. On the desk phone, naturally.

‘Bit worrying, really, Sarge. Door wide open. No sign of anyone inside, and we did a thorough search, short of the loft. One broken window and signs of a pretty serious struggle.’

‘Sure it’s not an ordinary domestic?’ said the Sergeant. ‘Stressful time, Christmas Day.’ (And who would know better then he?) ‘Bertie’s Mum might have got out of bed the wrong side, taken offence at something, marched off into the distance. Dad might have gone after her, forgetting all about young Bertie.’

‘Doesn’t smell like that, Sarge. The way stuff has been thrown about doesn’t look like a domestic. More like a heavy-duty fight between two or three big men.’

‘The Sergeant scratched his head. Do we know what the family name is?’

‘Jackson. Moreton says to tell you, Sarge, he reckons Mr Jackson is the manager of UniBank in the Square. He reckons young Bertie might have wandered over there, looking for his Dad. It’s only about two hundred yards. And I’ve got another idea.’

‘Get back here with it then. And make the place secure before you leave.’

‘Now then, Hardcastle,’ said the Sergeant, when the two PCs had returned. ‘What’s this idea of yours?’

‘Well Sarge, me and my girl friend were watching an old film the other night, Channel 4, and it was about this ruthless gang of criminals who kidnapped the wife of a bank manager, and then used that to force him to unlock the safe and hand over the cash. So we were wondering if someone might have borrowed the plot.’

‘Borrowed the plot?’ said the Sergeant. ‘Hmm, well I suppose it’s possible. But who do we know who would be dim enough to borrow the hackneyed plot of some completely unbelievable old movie?’

Pause. Then the three coppers spoke in unison: ‘Sid and Dick!’ they said.