Return Ticket to Brompton

CHAPTER ONE

NEWBURY TOWN CENTRE

Mid-1970s

"N ewbury Control to any unit available for commitment, Northbrook Street, acknowledge with call sign please. Over."

Sergeant Don Barton, standing outside the famous Camp Hopson department store at the eastern end of Northbrook Street, heard the message on his personal radio and decided and wait and hear what response the control room received.

I repeat. Any unit Northbrook Street or can attend? Acknowledge with call-sign please, over.

No response.

Panda One, Panda One, location and commitment? Over.

Still no response.

Panda Two, location please.

This was becoming embarrassing. Don had been warned that this new shift of his were going to be hard work, but he had certainly not expected their issues to manifest themselves this early in his supervision of them – nor indeed this blatantly. He had taken the late turn parade and allocated the shift their duties for the day less than an hour previously. He had been listening to the radio traffic and he knew damn well that nobody was actually tied up with any commitments.

Somebody should be answering this call. Where had they all got to?

This was intolerable. There was no longer any doubt in Don’s mind that a serious shake-up was called for.

However, the shake-up would have to wait. The job in hand was the current priority and had to be dealt with first.

He pressed his transmit button on his personal radio.

Sergeant Barton for Control. I’m on foot in Northbrook Street. Can I assist? Over.

Thanks, Sarge, the radio operator sounded relieved. Female shoplifter, British Home Stores. Please attend the manager’s office. Mrs Mollington, the security officer, will give you full details. Over.

On my way. I’m only a couple of hundred yards from the location. Keep trying to raise Panda One, I’m probably going to require transport. Over.

Roger that. Control stand by.

Mollington? Now there was a name to conjure with. Could there be some connection with Inspector Mollington, the ‘high-flyer’ officer whose downfall Don had been instrumental in bringing about a few years back? The last Don had heard of him, Mollington had been banished to the wild, outer regions of North Buckinghamshire. Bletchley or somewhere if he remembered rightly.

Don hoped the name was just coincidence – but the way his luck was turning this afternoon it was anyone’s guess.

And yet the day had started so well!

Are you sure you don’t mind me taking the car? he’d said to Rosemary. It’s bloody ‘taters out there, you’ll freeze walking all that way to the nursery.

Don’t swear in front of the child, his wife scolded him. Of course I don’t mind. The nursery school is only twenty-minute walk. Anyway, a bit of fresh air will do us both a bit of good. Besides, David could do with getting some colour in his cheeks for a change.

Okay, said Don dubiously. I’ll try and get the motor back to you at lunchtime. Always assuming that I can get home for my meal break.

Honestly, Don, you’d think I was a cripple instead of just expecting a baby. It’s your first day back at Newbury. You want to make a good impression, don’t you? Try as you may, you always look scruffy getting off that motorbike of yours.

Yeah, I suppose so, Don acknowledged. "And I do have a mountain of gear to take in with me as well. Okay, as long as you’re happy about it, I’ll be off.

Don lifted David, his four-year-old son, high in the air and, taking care not to let the little lad make any physical contact with his freshly pressed uniform jacket, kissed him on the forehead.

You be a good boy for your mum, you hear me?

David gave his dad a cheeky grin and said, Mummy says I’m better than good, I’m the best!

Don laughed. She would say that, wouldn’t she!

He put his hands on Rosemary’s shoulders, kissed her on the cheek and said, Wish me luck.

Rosemary laughed.

Stop being such a baby! she said. It’s not like you’re a new boy going to the big school for the first time. You already know everybody there.

You’d be surprised, he told her. Staff turnover in police stations these days is incredible. Nothing stays the same for too long – especially personnel.

Well, all right. If you say so. Anyway, you’d best be off, you don’t want to be late. Just drive carefully.

Don parked in the public car park at the police station and walked in through the large glass entrance at the front of the main building. He waved to the duty officer who was busy speaking with a caller at the front desk. The officer glanced up briefly, nodded to Don, then reached under the counter to press a button that released electric latch on the security door.

Once inside, Don made his way up the wide staircase that led to the command suite on the first floor.

Phyllis, the superintendent’s secretary, looked up from her typewriter and smiled when she saw him coming into the outer office. This was her domain and she guarded it well. She was a lovely woman, everybody liked her, but she was fiercely loyal to her boss, the superintendent. Like Cerberus guarding the gates of Hades, no-one got past her without proper authority.

Hello, Don, she said, smiling. Welcome back, it’s nice to see you. Mr Boxwell said to send you straight in as soon as you got here.

Come in, Barton! Boxwell boomed in response to Don’s knock on his door. Grab a chair. He looked over Don’s shoulder. Phyllis, if you happen to run into a kettle on your travels, you couldn’t rustle us up a couple of cups of tea, could you?

I’m sure that can be arranged, came the cheerful reply.

Right, Don, said Boxwell. Tell me all about Reading. Eighteen months was it you were over there?

Yes, sir, just under that actually.

Did you like it?

Well, it’s certainly a busy old place. Much more than it was back when I was there as a cadet. I’d say they’ve got twice the crime and half the manpower since those days. The new police station’s a bit different, though. It’s like a huge palace now. Not at all like the old building in Valpy Street.

Boxwell laughed. Yes, I remember that old place, he said. Nowhere to park, as I recall.

It’s not much better now, guv ’nor. There’s a huge car park, but constantly rammed full of motors. I ended up going back to riding a motorbike to work. It was the only way of being sure to get in on time.

I don’t like those big bikes, Don, to be honest with you. Boxwell frowned. Bloody dangerous, far too fast these days. Anyway, enough of that, I’ve just been going through your last appraisal reports.

Oh dear!

Boxwell laughed. No, all good as it happens. You sailed through getting your promotion substantiated and, according to your last inspector, you performed bloody well in the busiest station in the force. So, tell me, why do you want to come back here? The way things were going you had a bright future ahead of you over where you were?

Family reasons, sir. For one thing, my wife’s very happy living in Thatcham. Our little lad will be starting school next year and we have another kiddie on the way. The daily commute to Reading was just getting a bit too much. I really need to be located closer to home. Beside which, I actually like Newbury. It may not be as busy as Reading, but you can get more involved here. You know, follow up on jobs you get started on, see things through a bit more. Over in Reading you chase around from one job to the next then move on. You hardly ever get to see the result of anything.

Right, be that as it may, you needn’t think coming back here’s going to be a piece of cake either. As it happens, I’ve got an issue that needs urgently addressing and I think you’re just the man for the job.

I’m all ears, guv.

I’m allocating you the patrol sergeant’s post on ‘A Shift’.

Sounds good to me, sir.

Hmm, well to put it bluntly, they need sorting out. They’ve not had a proper skipper for almost a year and they’re just not performing. If it wasn’t for the disruption to the rest of the station, I’d have had them split them up months ago.

That’s Inspector Lewis’s shift isn’t it, sir? I can’t imagine him losing control of his staff like that.

Between you and me, Don, and I really do mean that by the way, Mr Lewis is not the man he once was. He came across a couple of young shits breaking into his neighbour’s garage one night while he was off duty. Instead of waiting for back-up he decided to tackle them himself. They ended up giving him a right pasting.

Bloody hell! Don was shocked. I never heard anything about that. Was he badly hurt, sir?

It took him a couple of months to get over it physically, but his bottle’s totally gone. He hardly ever leaves the station these days.

All too often, Don had seen the long-term effects that violent crime could have on victims, including police officers. The trauma might easily last for years. For some people, it never left them.

Not being horrible, guv, I like Mr Lewis, but should he still be working if he’s that bad?

If he can hang on for another six months, he’ll have twenty-six and a half years in. You know what that means, obviously?

Of course Don knew. Officers were normally entitled to retire on full pension after thirty years’ service. However, the pension was enhanced if they had to leave for medical reasons before that time. The optimum service to qualify for a full pension on medical grounds was twenty-six and a half years.

So, what’s happened with his shift?

Like I say, they’ve not had a substantive patrol sergeant for months – and they’ve been running rings round the string of acting jacks we’ve put in there. They need a strong character to step in and knock them back into shape. Someone who’ll be there full time and not just temporary.

I think I get the picture. Are there any characters I should give special attention to?

There are, but I don’t want to prejudice your judgement. I’d rather you worked out for yourself which of them needs a helping hand – and who it is that needs a bloody good kick up the arse! You’ll get my full backing, so don’t hold back on them.

Okay, sir. I’ll give it my best shot.

Good man. Well, you’ve got just six weeks to do it. If I don’t see any improvement by then I’m coming in to sort it out myself – however much disruption it causes.

That’s a bit tight isn’t it, guv!

That’s all the time I’ve got. I’m gone in six weeks. Old Father Time has finally caught up with me, it’s time to hang up my helmet.

Don was stunned. Mike Boxwell was a local legend. He had been associated with F Division since as far back as anyone could remember. The service had recently done away with the rank of Chief Superintendent and replaced it with ‘Superintendent First Class’. Boxwell had proved himself to be a first-class superintendent.

Newbury would miss him. The station would certainly not be the same without him once he retired.

As he strode purposefully along Northbrook Street, Don was inclined to believe that the superintendent had been right in his assessment of A Shift and its lack of discipline. Nobody was answering the radio, despite the fact that there were no units currently committed to jobs. There should have been a foot patrol close by. Don himself had assigned an officer to that beat.

Nevertheless, the control room had struggled to raise anyone on the radio.

So, where had the town centre patrol disappeared off to? For that matter, where were any of his shift?

Don switched off his radio as he reached the entrance to the department store. A female member of staff met him as he entered, and he was directed to a small suite of offices at the rear of the premises.

The assistant rapped her knuckles on a door marked ‘Manager’.

The police are here, Mrs Mollington, she said, opening the door.

Don’s mouth fell open on entering the room as he immediately realised that he already knew two of the three women sitting inside.

He quickly pulled himself together and addressed the smartly dressed, and extremely attractive, woman in front of him. She was seated behind a large mahogany desk and exuded an air of authority.

Mrs Mollington? he enquired.

Hello, Don – or should I say, Sergeant Barton, Diane Mollington smiled at him. This lady has been apprehended leaving the store with these items.

She indicated a small pile of what appeared to be costume jewellery on the desk in front of her.

Hello, Mr Barton. You’re back then, are you? said the second woman, whom Don had recognised as Gloria Treadaway, the frequently abused wife of local villain, Sean Treadaway.

Don noted a discolouration under her eye from a recent bruise. It appeared that nothing had changed in that household while he’d been away.

Hello, Gloria, said Don with a sigh. You’re still up to your old tricks then.

She grinned at him, revealing a row of uneven, blackened teeth.

The third woman in the room now spoke and identified herself as Mrs Leadbetter, a store detective.

I saw this lady enter the shop at approximately 2.05 p.m. I immediately recognised her from previous encounters and decided to keep her under surveillance. I observed her walking all around the store picking up and putting down a number of items. She had been in the shop for about twenty minutes when she went into the Accessories Department. She positioned herself in front of an open display of jewellery. She then distracted the counter clerk by requesting a closer look at a bag on the top display shelf. While the assistant had her back turned, I saw the suspect pick up a number of items from the display and place them directly into her shopping bag. She made no attempt to pay for these items.

It all sounded fairly cut and dried, but Don knew that more evidence would be needed to prove a charge of theft. While Gloria Treadaway remained in the shop it was always open to her to maintain that she had intended to pay for the goods at one of the several tills on the premises.

So, what did you do next? said Don.

I waited by the front entrance, replied Mrs Leadbetter. When the lady exited the store and stepped onto the street, I approached her and asked her to accompany me to the manager’s office, as I suspected she had items in her possession that had not been paid for.

Mrs Leadbetter obviously knew her job.

And you had her in your view the whole time?

Yes, from the moment she entered the store.

And she came quietly with you to the office, no attempt to get away or assault you?

Look here, Mr Barton, Gloria interposed furiously.