Chapter 2

 

The flight home was made in solace. Although flanked by colleagues, apart from the brief hellos at the airport very little was said on the plane for the two-hour journey back. Most of Milton’s team had travelled direct to the airport from the surveillance offices and the temporary lock-up where they had assisted in the interrogations.

Milton’s night’s sleep had been interrupted more times than he would like to admit and he had not required the hotel’s wake-up call at 5.00 a.m. either, his restless mind ensuring he was wide awake long before the sun came up.

His concerns for the assignment had turned into concerns about his job. He had somehow managed to convince himself on the journey home that this would be his last day on the force and he would be dismissed. He turned his thoughts to his wife, who was putting constant pressure on him to advance through the ranks. She had her own selfish agenda though. Maggie’s daily routine after dropping the kids off at school included a coffee with her friends, whose favourite topic of conversation was the size of their husband’s pay cheques. Keeping up with the Joneses had proved to be just as difficult in his private life as the assignment had become in his professional life. Milton no longer had a corner in which to hide and he was beginning to think that something had to give soon. His wife was simply not the same exciting young woman she used to be.

He then thought about his father-in-law and how much he had started to resent the man whom he had once spent so much time trying to impress.

“By the time I was your age, John, I was being groomed for the Commissioner’s post,” was the last thing he had said when the in-laws paid their weekly visit for dinner before his departure to Switzerland. “You really need to be more ambitious in your work, John.”

His comments were supported by agreeing nods from his wife and mother-in-law, who in turn looked to Milton for a reaction.

“Of course, sir. The Met is my life too and I want to be successful,” he had replied, lying through his back teeth.

A year earlier he was indeed ambitious and would have uttered that same statement with complete sincerity. Now, however, his outlook was very different. Discovering the ringleaders behind the soccer hooliganism had become his life and a lot more of a personal mission. It was starting to put a strain on his creaking marriage and he would quite happily spend the rest of his working days cleaning London Underground toilets so long as it meant cracking this case first.

The taxi journey from Heathrow to Scotland Yard was not long enough for Milton to get his mind around a plausible excuse that would save his career. And the walk to his boss’s office went with a blink. It was time to face the music.

“Come in, Detective Inspector,” said Deputy Assistant Commissioner Steven Dobson, the man Milton had to answer to in a chain of command that finished at the very top with the Prime Minister.

The problem with Deputy Assistant Commissioner Dobson was that God had presented him with a very unfortunate lisp. He had undergone speech therapy, which got him by when speaking to his superiors and the media, but it soon slipped back into hilarity when his guard was down addressing his juniors or losing his temper.

Milton entered the office tentatively. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Dobson was standing by the side of his desk with a familiar face sitting behind it.

“There is no need to introduce this gentleman to you now is there, John?” said Dobson, carefully trying not to miss his s’s.

Facing Milton was Sir Michael Bryers, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force and the most powerful policeman in England.

“Take a seat, John,” said the well-spoken Sir Michael, who cleared his throat as if preparing to make a long speech. Milton, who had not even spoken yet, knew what was coming.

Tapping the tips of his fingers from his left hand against those on his right just under his chin, Sir Michael continued, “Now, John, I received a phone call last night at 6.00 p.m. while I was enjoying a delightful fish supper with family friends. I don’t like to be interrupted during supper at any time, so you can understand my annoyance at last night’s little intrusion can’t you, John?”

“Yes, sir,” Milton replied with a slow blink and nod of the head while wishing this pompous twat would just get on with the rollicking.

Sir Michael continued, “The interruption came from the Home Secretary himself, who told me to switch on the television. What I saw almost made me choke on my salmon.”

A pause followed as Sir Michael climbed up from behind the desk to walk towards the large window positioned directly behind it, which had a gorgeous glow coming through from the mid-morning sunshine.

Looking out onto the street below, Sir Michael proceeded, “Something tells me we are not on top of this situation. This hooliganism problem seems to be spiralling out of control. Now what I want to hear from you, John, is that this is not the case, that we have seen the last of the trouble and that England will gloriously win the bid for the 2006 World Cup and we will all live happily ever after.”

A brief pause followed as Sir Michael turned his head towards Milton.

“If this is not the case … then there will be a lot of people looking for a new job and I could well be forced to take early retirement and, believe me …” He turned to face Milton. “… I am not ready for the pipe and slippers yet, young man!”

Milton, slightly bewildered as to how to reply, listened to Sir Michael’s footsteps echo in the huge room as the Commissioner walked towards him and took his seat again.

“So then, John. Think, choose your words carefully and speak, but remember: there are a lot of heads on the chopping block and I have a wee tingling that the executioner’s axe may well be getting sharpened as we speak.”

For the first time, Milton realised fully that the blame for this mess so far went a lot further beyond him. He knew this was a national crisis, but for once it seemed that he was not the only person feeling the strain. Everyone was now feeling the pressure and he deduced - again for the first time - that a lot of people were relying on him, and he suddenly gained an added air of responsibility. For sure, he could end up being the scapegoat, but the fault for England not winning the World Cup bid due to mindless idiots causing trouble stretched all the way to the top; all the way to the Home Secretary at the very least.

“Well, sir,” said Milton. “Our operation in Zurich was a massive success.”

Expecting a roasting reply, he was surprised that both Sir Michael and Dobson were hanging on every word he said, although Dobson was very much Sir Michael’s poodle and would not have dared speak first for fear of saying the wrong thing.

“We have arrested some prominent hooligans and we believe that we may have broken the back of the main ringleaders’ chain. We have hundreds of hours of CCTV footage and expect to make some more arrests in the next fortnight.”

Milton’s momentum was snapped by a small, but deliberate, clearance of the throat from a member of his audience.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Sir Michael whilst fingering a bound document on his lap. “But this seems to be the same terminology used in your last report. I think what you are reporting back to us is - excuse me for questioning - utter bollocks?”

There was a desperate silence as Milton wished the ground would open up below him and swallow him whole. Again Sir Michael left his seat and walked towards the window, brilliant sunshine now beaming into the room.

“I was a great friend of your father. You know that don’t you, John?” The change of topic warmed Milton. “He was a brilliant policeman. Such a shame that he died in his prime. He had a heart of gold. Who would have thought it would have been that same heart that deprived the force of a sterling man?”

Sir Michael’s address had suddenly become more personal, as if to bring a more familial feel to the discussion. It may also have been his clever way of eliciting a clear and truthful answer.

“I have followed your career, John, and I see a lot of your father in you. You are a fine policeman and you can produce results.”

Then the Commissioner threw a curve ball that presented Milton with his first get-out clause since becoming entangled with this mess in the first place. Sir Michael rested his straight arms on the desk opposite Milton and leaned towards him.

“Yes or no, John? I want you to look me in the eye and tell me whether or not you can crack this or whether you want to stand down, walk away from it all and go back to your cushy job in the station.”

Sir Michael walked over to the opposite side of the desk, next to Milton, rested his backside on the edge and repeated slowly, “Yes, or no, John?”

The mention of his father, a man he had idolised from the day he was born to the day he watched him draw his last breath, filled Milton with strength and a renewed thirst to succeed.

Milton looked straight back into the worried eyes of the Commissioner and with his clearest possible voice he announced with the confidence of an army colour sergeant on parade, “Yes, sir, I give you my word that we can still crack this.”

 

* * *

 

“You and your good lady will have to come and taste my wife’s delicious hotpots one of these nights, Steven,” Sir Michael said to Dobson with a handshake.

As he popped his cap back on to return to the outside world, the Commissioner acknowledged Milton’s confidence with a wink and a nod before shaking his hand and disappearing through the door.

Milton realised he had just received a rollicking and a rallying call at the same time and scratched his head at the bemusement of it all.

He felt warm inside because he had just received a vote of confidence from his most senior officer. But any confidence the Commissioner had instilled in him was soon undone by his immediate superior.

“You are one bloody lucky cookie, thunbeam,” said Dobson almost as soon as the door closed behind the Commissioner. This time his lisp was as prominent as the shine from his bald head, freshly waxed that morning on the news that the Commissioner himself was to visit.

“If it wath left to me you would be out!” he shouted. “I don’t give a damn who your dad wath and I thertainly don’t give two flying fuckth about who the Commissioner thinkth YOU are! You are on your lath chanth Milton and if you thcrew up thith time, you will need Harry-bloody-Houdini to get you out of it!”

He gained his composure and continued his sermon methodically and lisp-free.

“I’ve always found you weak, Milton. This job was too big for you in the first place and I am being proved right now. What you don’t seem to realise is that if you go down, we all go down. Do you realise what the World Cup being held in Britain will do for the nation? It could stop us sliding into recession. It is gold dust for us all, Milton, and we can’t afford to let the bloody Germans steal it from under us. The country needs this. The Government needs this and even more importantly the people need this.”

Milton could only deduce that the person who needed it most was the man preaching to him - Deputy Assistant Commissioner Dobson, who took a few deep breaths to calm down again and continued with his calm, professionally tuned, lispless accent.

“In two months’ time England play in France, and then the following month England are in Germany. If the fans misbehave, we can all kiss goodbye to our pensions and you, my thon …” The lisp returned. “… you can kith goodbye to everything becauth I will perthonally enthure that the ever-after in hell will theem like a holiday in paradith compared to what I will do to you.”

Milton found a strange comfort in Dobson’s ticking-off. His face had gone from pale to red as he struggled to suck in air quick enough to continue his barrage of abuse. His brow was damp and the drops of spit on Milton’s jet black blazer showed that Dobson was firing more than verbal insults in his general direction.

After a brief pause, Milton hauled himself to his feet and with brave cynicism turned to his commanding officer and quipped, “Ith that all thir?”

Without even noticing the sarcasm, Dobson waved him away and Milton headed out through the heavy mahogany door.

He had not seen his wife for two weeks and decided he needed the rest of the day off. The debriefing with his officers could wait and the hours of CCTV viewing could begin without him.

It was time to return to the security of home and the loving arms of his Maggie. If there was ever a time when Milton needed his wife most, it was now. Worn out, defeated and feeling more alone than ever before in his life, Milton hailed a cab and was soon enveloped by the busy London traffic.