The Prince Albert was a popular jaunt for the local police force, situated, as it was, next door to Mildenheath Police Station on Westgate. It was fair to say that there was rarely any trouble at the Prince Albert. Culverhouse picked up his pint of bitter and led Wendy over to the corner table at the front window. Copper’s seat, back to the window, of course. It was impossible to see anything through the frosted glass and net curtains, but it made Culverhouse feel safe and important. He was on watch.
Wendy sipped her orange juice delicately, as she always tried to do at first. After an evening sat talking to an increasingly inebriated Culverhouse, she knew she would progress on to larger and larger gulps.
She admired the genteel decoration of the pub, the horse brass decorating the out-of-use fireplace and the quaint sets of pub games stacked up in the corner.
It was Culverhouse who spoke first. ‘Baxter's had some good ideas and leads on the Danielle Levy case.’
‘I bet he has,’ Wendy said.
‘Sorry, Knight. Can you sound a bit more jealous for me? I don't think I quite picked up on that.’
‘I’m not jealous. I'm pissed off, if the truth be told.’
‘With what? Baxter?’
‘Yeah, Baxter. I appreciate his input, but I can't help feeling a bit... undermined at times.’ A downright lie, and she knew it. She didn't appreciate his input. Not one iota. She thought he was an interfering little fuckwit and she would be glad to see him kicked off the case.
‘He's not so bad. He needs to be eased in. He's a good copper.’
‘Eased in? We've got a missing persons enquiry and a murder enquiry to deal with at the moment. How is that easing him in? He could be a liability, guv. He’s barely out of uniform. Christ knows why he’s been fast-tracked to DS.’
‘Nonsense. I think he'll add a lot of value to the team.’
‘He lowers the value, guv! He's done nothing but interfere with my leads and undermine me since he started on these cases. I don't want to give any ultimatums, but I'm finding it bloody impossible to work with him.’
‘Listen, Knight,’ Culverhouse said, leaning in. ‘Baxter's a promising young copper. All right, he might be a bit wet behind the ears but he's going to make a bloody good detective one day.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I know it. I was once like that, Knight. The boy needs nurturing. He’s a rough diamond.’
‘Nurturing?’ Wendy asked. ‘What, so he can turn out like you?’
‘Would that be such a bad thing?’
Wendy stayed quiet. Very quiet. Her raised eyebrow told Culverhouse all he needed to know to answer his question.
‘Listen, Knight. The reason the powers-that-be don't like me is because I'm old school. All right, it might not be politically correct or any of that bullshit, but it works. I get results. That's why I'm still here. I was like Baxter once, a new copper full of ideas and aspirations to change the world. But the world can't be changed, Knight. It's a fucking shit world and it'll always be a fucking shit world. The best thing we can do is stamp on the shit. There aren't many coppers like me left, and when I'm gone, this police force will go to pot with red tape and political correctness. Don't get me wrong, but every police force needs a bit of the old school.’
‘And you think that turning Baxter into a carbon copy of you is going to help the police force?’ Wendy asked.
‘He'll get results, like I get results. Listen. When I joined the force, the DI was a man called Jack Taylor. Now, he was really old school. The whole police force was compared to how it is now, but DI Taylor was a visionary, Knight. He could see the way things were going, the way we weren't able to nick the bastards because of red tape and warrants coming out of our ears. DI Taylor was a good man. One night, we'd gone round to speak to a bloke who'd been battering his wife. She was sat on the stairs sobbing, and wouldn’t make a statement to us because she knew he'd get away with a ticking off and she'd be in for a right kicking when he got back home again. We couldn't touch him, despite the blood literally being on his hands. He let me get the first kick in, Taylor did. He stood there and watched as I beat that bastard to within an inch of his life. To this day, I still don't know why I did it, but I knew it was the right thing to do. You could see the pride on Taylor's face, knowing his legacy was in safe hands. And do you know what? That bloke never touched his wife again. Didn’t dare. Because he’d had a proper punishment. Tell me that's what would happen if he went to court and got a fifty quid fine.’
‘It doesn't mean that's the right way to go about things, guv.’
‘Nonsense. Of course it's the right way to go about things. The woman called us because she wanted her husband to stop beating her up. We took action and he stopped beating her up. Job done. None of this namby-pamby political correctness bollocks. That wasn't the first or the last time, but I can tell you now that we got a result every single fucking time. She got hundreds of kickings before that, he got just one and the violence stopped. A means to an end, Knight.’
Wendy picked at her fingernails and changed the subject.
‘What happened to DI Taylor?’
Culverhouse fell silent, his eyes drawn to the dregs in his pint glass. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
‘He's not around any more.’
‘Retired?’
‘In the passive sense. He went too far one day. Funny thing is, he wasn't even on duty. He was in a post office queue in Braylsford and some little shit tried to hold the place up with a gun. Local gang trying to make a name for themselves, trying to ruin what had been a nice quiet little market town. Taylor had seen more than enough of that shit in his time, so he stepped in. Wrestled the gun out of the kid’s hand and elbowed him in the face. Knocked him clean out.’ Culverhouse looked choked. He swallowed and continued to speak through a large sigh. ‘The kid went down and hit his head on the counter. Died two days later from a brain haemorrhage.’
‘What happened to Taylor?’
‘He was given the option of resigning or being pushed. Stupid old sod was too proud for his own good and left them to sack him. Lost his wife and his house. All he ever had was the police force and when that was gone he lost everything. He always told me he'd die in his uniform, doing what he loved best for his country and his community. Fact is, he died face down in a gutter with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand.’ A single, solitary tear built up on Culverhouse's lower eyelid and began its journey down his cheek. ‘And I will never forgive myself for not helping him, Knight. I will never let those bastards ruin our chances of getting real results. And if DS Baxter can take even 10% of that pride and belief with him in his career, I'll die a happy man.’
‘That's why you're trying to fast-track him?’
‘As best I can, yeah. The further up you get, the harder it is for them to get rid of you. I should know. That’s the only reason I’m still knocking about.’ He let out a small laugh followed by a large sniff. Opening his mouth with a noise as if he'd just woken up, Culverhouse rubbed his red eyes and smiled at Wendy before finishing his beer.