“I live on here,” said Brennan, “this is my street. Can’t a man walk down his own street?”
“Free country, innit?” asked Whittaker. “Used to be anyway, till we were swamped by immigrants, taking houses and jobs.”
“Come on, now, time for home,” said the other policeman.
“Why, eh? Why?” Brennan was all outrage, hands spread wide. “We haven’t done nothing, this is harassment, this is.”
There was no reply. The police stood there. Implacable but not looking half as hard as the men they faced.
It was Whittaker who gave the signal at last. “Freezin’ out here anyway. Funny smell an’ all. Like a farmyard.” One of the twins snorted. I saw Carl Benson’s face tighten, his adam’s apple bob.
“Got a dirty movie back at the house, few more cans.” They began to walk away.
“Darren?” A woman’s voice calling. “Darren, come on now.” Darren’s face fell, he turned away from the group, rolled his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug.
“Go on, Bunter,” teased Micky Whittaker, “beddy-byes.”
The police stood and watched until the group had gone into the houses at the bottom of the Close. The older man got in the car. Carl Benson crossed to Mr Poole’s. We went downstairs and Mr Poole let him in. I confirmed that I’d called the police and told him what I’d seen, he noted it all down in his book. I explained that I was video-recording events for a possible court case – it was all on tape. Yes, I would be happy to be a witness if required.
“It’s Carl, isn’t it?” Mr Poole said.
“Yeah,” he blushed a little.
“How’s your Mum doing?”
“Alright, they’ve put a ramp in now and a downstairs bathroom. It’s a lot better.”
“‘Bout time and all. Give her my regards.”
“Yeh, right. Best be off.”
“Glad it was them,” said Mr Poole as we returned to the kitchen. “There’s one copper round here and all he ever wanted to do was race round in fast cars – now he does it for a living – like the Sweeney. If he wasn’t a copper he’d be a villain.”
“It’s possible to be both at the same time.”
“Aye and he probably is. But Carl’s a good lad.”
I left Mr Poole to his filing and went back upstairs.
I was tired now, just a couple of hours to go until Mr Ibrahim was due back. Precious little happening. A couple more dog walkers. I yawned a lot and did some more stretching.
At twenty past two a private hire cab arrived and stopped outside the house opposite. A man got out; dark coat and hat, moustache. Mr Ibrahim, I presumed. He knocked on the door. I realised they probably used bolts as well as locks so she’d have to let him in. The door opened and he slipped through. I caught no glimpse of her. The taxi drove away.
