Chapter 1

2018

The New Chief Constable

After surviving 51 years, Thurstan Baddeley was too set in his ways to completely hide a dislike for a dislikeable person and the appearance of the new Chief Constable in the doorway did nothing to mellow him.

He didn’t recall how it all started but they’d detested each other from the moment they’d first met, probably some CID course somewhere, too far in the past for it to be remembered now. He’d enjoyed a reasonably good relationship with the previous incumbent; there’d been mutual respect. When Devilliers became the surprise winner of the ‘search for excellence’ that had been the selection process, the DCI had a feeling something bad was about to happen; with no one to rein him in he was sure the new Chief would want to settle some old scores. Thurstan suspected his days were numbered, but when nothing happened it simply made him feel even more nervous.

Blind obedience wasn’t in his nature and subservience never had been either – he’d rather die on his feet, or his knees, than do it face down in the mud, although he realised it might not always be possible and often wondered how, with a face full of mud, he could project dignity. However, armed with bold intent, he’d become somewhat improvident in his dealings with the man. Some would later say provocative.

“Why are none of your people wearing preferred pronoun badges?”

Thurstan looked up from the file on his desk. “I believe it’s because they all prefer to use the usual pronouns, Sir.”

“But they should be wearing the badges whether or not. I’ve issued an instruction.”

He knew; he’d read it. “Well, they seem to think it would be a huge waste of what is, for all practical purposes, the public’s money, Sir.”

“And what if someone here wanted to use particular pronouns?”

The DCI smiled, “Then they can wear a badge, Sir. At the moment, no one has expressed the wish to use non-gender specific pronouns other than them, they, their, me, you or whatsitsname.”

Devilliers glowered. “And what’s the excuse for you all not wearing the rainbow lanyards for your warrant cards?”

Thurstan stood up and walked slowly from behind his desk, he didn’t like the power play of being looked down on.

“We’ve had a totally open talk, Sir, and they believe that particular issue is more of a political matter and seeing as we are the Police and shouldn’t demonstrate such allegiances, they don’t think such public displays would be prudent. For much the same reasons, you won’t find any of them wearing swastika or hammer and sickle armbands.”

He was halfway across the Rubicon, he could have turned back but his disdain for Devilliers wouldn’t allow it, so he continued.

“I do know this for a fact though, Sir. As far as they’re concerned, there are only two types of people, nice ones and arseholes, and they come in all skin colours, nationalities, sexualities, genders and religious or political persuasions. I hope I didn’t leave anyone out.”

From under a deep frown, the Chief replied, “And where do I come in that equation?”

Thurstan couldn’t prevent a little smile from momentarily wandering across his lips. “I think it’s a discussion for another time, Sir.”

Devillier’s face started to change colour. It was a long time since Thurstan had seen such a distinct shade of puce. “I’ve given instructions that must be complied with, Baddeley”. The last word was almost spat out.

Thurstan steeled himself and waved the warrant card hanging around his neck by the issued blue lanyard. “I’m sorry, Sir, but you’ve not used my preferred pronoun. The badge says Detective Chief Inspector. Anyway, I’m not too sure the legality of those instructions would stand up to hard scrutiny. Personally, I think it’s a waste of money and I don’t think peering at someone’s chest, especially a female's, trying to read what pronouns they’d like to be addressed by is entirely advisable.”

The Chief spluttered, then shouted, “Get your people to comply, man!”

“Well, it’s not for me to do that, Sir. They’re, erm, not my instructions and I really believe enforcing such an edict could lay the messenger open to allegations of bullying. We wouldn’t want them invoking the grievance procedure, would we?”

In conversation with senior officers he had little time for, he always enjoyed the opportunity to manipulate some of the Force’s ill-thought-out policies when an appropriate occasion arose.

Devilliers took a sharp intake of breath. There was a slight pause as the two men eyed each other, then the Chief leaned into the DCI’s comfort zone, almost nose to nose.

“If you think this is over, Baddeley, you’re a bigger fool than I take you for. If I were you, I’d spend the afternoon clearing my desk!” he hissed, then turned and stormed out.

The main office was silent, but they’d heard enough. Taffy peeked into the corridor and revealed, “He’s gone!”

The room erupted with applause. The Foetus stood on his chair, saluted, and called out, “Captain, my Captain.” Thurstan waved his hands, palms down, to quieten them.

“Whilst I appreciate the gesture, Roy, I must tell you, perching precariously on a swivel chair is a health and safety issue. Did you complete a risk assessment?” He grinned, clapped his hands together and called out, “Come on you lot, show’s over, back to work.”

In his own office, he closed the door and slumped back in his chair. He knew he’d gone too far. He’d pushed his luck and now regretted it, not so much for himself but more for those he might, inadvertently, take down with him. The whole issue had been eating away at him and he’d felt for quite some time like he was strapped to a guillotine waiting for the blade to fall, whilst pretending all was well and selling souvenirs - business as usual.

He briefly wondered whether Lizzie’s absence, on another residential course, had been the catalyst for him to be a smart arse but didn’t linger on it long because he knew it had. He could have just played tame and said he’d sort out whatever the problem was, but he knew Devilliers would only use the initial non-compliance as an excuse to shaft him anyway. This way he didn’t have self-loathing to put up with, nor the fuss Lizzie would make about the mistreatment of her husband. He’d break the news to her properly when she returned home; he didn’t want her losing her concentration because this course was an important step in her future career. Depending on how bad his punishment would be, he’d either tell her he was on a special case or just claim he was still working at MIT – although he was fully aware he’d probably only screw a few weeks, at the most, out of those pieces of misinformation before he’d have to come clean.

He gave it an hour then wandered over to the Detective Superintendent’s office at the end of the hall. A quick tap on the door and he entered. Chalkie White looked up from his search of the filing cabinet. “Thurstan! How are things going, mate? Now, the Crosby job, everything passed to the CPS, finally?”

Thurstan raised a weak smile. “Yep, all done and dusted.”

The Superintendent waved him to a seat. “Fancy a coffee? The wife bought me this new coffee maker. I’m not sure why but I must have done something thoughtful and not realised it.” He laughed. “It works on these funny little sachets. I’ve only just got the hang of it. The first attempt was a complete disaster, boiling hot coffee all over the place because I didn’t think to put the cup in before I turned it on.”

Thurstan nodded acceptance and, whilst Chalkie busied himself, they engaged in inconsequential conversation. Taking his seat, Chalkie studied the woebegone face in front of him. “It’s not just a friendly visit, is it? You’ve come to tell me something bad, haven’t you?”

There was no way of sugar-coating it. “I’m afraid I may have put my foot in it with Devilliers. Well, more like both feet.” He went on to explain what had taken place.

Bravely, Chalkie tried damage limitation. “Listen, don’t worry. He’ll calm down and realise what a mistake he’d be making if he posts you out. And if he doesn’t, then I’ll tell him if you go, I go.”

Thurstan gave a little sad shake of his head. “For heaven’s sake, Chalkie, don’t make a bad situation worse.” He jabbed back over his shoulder with his thumb. “These people need a good leader, and you are it. Please, don’t throw yourself on my funeral pyre. You need to be here to get them through because I think he’ll try to take some of them down with me. Sammy and Alison should be OK because they’ve got the LBGT credentials to fire back at him but the likes of Stephen Randalph? They’re going to be knackered.”

Chalkie nodded agreement. “You’re right, Devilliers has a reputation for being a spiteful bastard. I’ll be fine though; he won’t want to stir things up by having a go at me. I’m on the local BPA committee now.”

“The Black Police Association? I knew you were a member but why didn’t you say something before? We can go for a pint on the strength of that. My treat.”

Chalkie viewed him with curiosity. “I’d have thought Lizzie would’ve told you. She nominated me.”

Thurstan smiled. “She's got other things on her mind at the moment.”

There was another tap at the door. It was DI ‘Degsy’ Drayton. He looked down at the figure sitting in the comfy chair and gloomily shook his head. “What have you done, Thurstan? I’ve just met him in the car park on his way out and he told me I’m now Acting DCI and if I didn’t get on board with the new way of things I’d be posted to the arsehole of Merseyside. I’m not quite sure where that is, to be honest, but I’ve a few ideas and none of them are particularly attractive to me at the moment.”

Thurstan’s colleagues tried to mend the situation, but it all involved either a grovelling apology or more ill-thought-out pledges of management solidarity. He firmly declined; they knew he was right.

His coffee finished, he nodded approval, and placed his cup and saucer on the desk. “Hmm, good stuff. I should try doing something thoughtful occasionally.”

Chalkie smiled. “A bit too late for that, mate.”

“Yeah, I know. Listen, don’t do anything silly. I really won’t appreciate it and I don’t want us to fall out.” His face invited compliance and received it.

The following morning, he opened his emails to find a personal message from the Chief Constable. He’d been selected for a special project; cold case reviews – the files would be in his office later. He almost gave a sigh of relief but managed to stop himself. It was too easy. Relieved of current duties and no movement? He knew Devilliers; it was nowhere near painful enough. Late afternoon, nothing had arrived, so he tentatively wrote a short reply to the earlier instruction.

Almost immediately, he received a response which simply said, ‘The files are in your office. You are no longer posted to MIT. Your new place of work is waiting for you at Sutton Box Police Station, otherwise known as Stinky Brook, along with your instructions. Be there tomorrow at 10 am and there will be someone there to let you in.’

Stinky Brook! He’d heard of the place but had never been there. Old heavy industries and toxic waste were all he could recall reading about the area. Then there was the accommodation. Probably a dark, grim Victorian building in disrepair and smelling of damp, just waiting to be sold off and seldom visited unless a passing patrol needed to write a report, urgently use the toilet (if it still had one) or frighten the shit out of some gullible probationer. This was now to be his working home for the foreseeable future and all the while the unavoidable stench of rotting eggs and goodness knows what else from ‘accidental’ factory spillages. Yeah, this was more realistic, this hurt.