Confessions of a Police Constable by Matt Delito Page B

nearly immediately.
    â€˜Let’s have a look at you, then,’ the paramedic said to the motorcyclist, before looking at me and shaking his head.
    The pedestrian didn’t make it.
    It’s always really hard not to place the blame in traffic collisions. In this case, the motorcyclist was going too fast for the conditions, but still well within the speed limit. As far as he was concerned, he was crossing on a green light, and making good progress past a line of stopped cars. The pedestrian only saw the line of stopped traffic, ignored the red light for pedestrians and failed to consider whether there might be other traffic behind the stopped vehicles. He should have stopped to check, perhaps, but it’s easy to forget – even if it was an oversight that claimed his life that day.
    More police and ambulances showed up; the motorcyclist had a badly broken arm and a serious concussion. I called my sergeant, and told him the state of play.
    â€˜Go home, Delito,’ he said. ‘We’ve got plenty of people on today, sounds like you need a break.’
    I felt bad about leaving my team in the lurch; traffic accidents like this are relatively commonplace, and I could have worked my shift if I’d had to, but I was looking forward to a shower, to scrubbing the blood off me, to getting my clothes into a washing machine and going back to bed.
    One of the ambulances gave me a lift home: it was on the way to the hospital anyway. I remember my last thought before I went to sleep was ‘What a horrible way to die.’

‘
Going the Way of the Dojo
’
    In the parking lot behind a local Sainsbury’s, I was sitting with my feet on the Panda’s dashboard, waiting for my colleague Jay to come back with our lunch. I didn’t really have any reason for staying in the car, other than complete, abject laziness. I suppose I quite like to have someone else buy my lunch for me … with my own money, of course.
    Jay, especially, had been on a great streak for picking tasty foods lately – he’d had a vegan girlfriend for a while, a relationship that fell apart, and he’d been trying to take revenge by eating as many cows, lambs and chickens as possible. If you ask me, it’s not the greatest way of getting back at an ex, but as long as it made him happy …
    â€˜Mike Delta two-four receiving Mike Delta,’ the radio buzzed. I looked down lazily, before reaching for the in-car handset. It was one of those old-fashioned squeeze-button microphones you see in American cop shows a lot. We never use it; in fact, I’m not even sure why we have them. The cars are fitted with small microphones next to the sun visors, along with fancy push-to-talk buttons on the steering wheel – but I guess I was in a retro mood.
    â€˜Ten-four, Mike Delta,’ I said, in my worst American accent. (Incidentally, that is also my best American accent.)
    â€˜You free to deal with an assault?’
    â€˜Yeah, why not. Send ’er over.’
    â€˜Done. Thanks. It’s on an S-grade.’
    â€˜Received!’
    I reached for my phone. The call was a Sierra-grade. This meant we had an hour to get to the location, but it never harms to get going. I rang Jay on his mobile, to urge him to get a move on. It’s possible to call people directly radio-to-radio, of course, but the user interface on our radios is very Motorola circa 1995, which means it takes a rocket scientist to figure out how to programme numbers into the phone book etc. So I just went ahead and called him on my personal phone instead. At least that’s usable.
    Before long, Jay hopped into the car. From the second he opened the door, I was aware of a truly delicious smell.
    â€˜What’d you get?’ I asked, fastening my seatbelt.
    â€˜Chicken. Roasted. Whole,’ Jay replied. I looked over. He grinned, barely holding back from salivating. ‘Where are we going, then?’
    â€˜Church