office we hold. It can be done.
1
‘Easy now, you’ll not hit an unarmed man?’
Philip Nixon, the lean and silvery Scot who was Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabularies, grinned from behind palms raised in mock surrender as he climbed into the backseat of the Jaguar.
‘Howay.’ Blaylock waved the leg-pull aside. ‘I’ve not got it in me this morning.’
Nixon gave Blaylock a sharper look from under his critical Caledonian brow. ‘You look beat, right enough. Did you not sleep?’
Blaylock shook his head, wishing to leave it at that. From the front seat Andy glanced back to ensure Nixon was buckling in, then gave Martin the signal to pull off and begin the journey up the M1.
In truth Blaylock felt his etiolated mood to be less a result of the abusive caller and the broken night’s sleep than the content of a 6 a.m. phone chat with Patrick Vaughan about the procedure of taking his Identity Documents Bill through ‘pre-legislative scrutiny’. The Captain, sounding horribly unimpressed, had instructed him to get things under way in tones that left Blaylock sure he would be paddling this canoe alone.
‘So,’ said Nixon, ‘you’ve got your story straight for the day?’
Blaylock nodded. ‘Plain words. It’s not like we mean anything so drastic, is it? As we well know, if I was such a hatchet-man I’d be cutting the number of constabularies in half.’
‘Aye, and you’d have twenty unemployed Chief Constables after your blood.’
‘Quite. For now I’ve got enough enemies. Speaking of which,I’ve got a quick meeting with Bannerman once we get there.’
In his past life Nixon had been a blue-chip accountant specialising in privatisations, foreclosures and associated redundancies. As such Blaylock found him an easygoing ear on the subject of difficult choices. However, as he now studied the broad blue backs of his police-issued driver and bodyguard, Blaylock was reminded to curb his language.
‘Thing is, all the best Chiefs know we need reform. You look at a guy like Richie Colls in Kent. There’s a copper who’s come through the ranks, earned his spurs. He’s just had to cut a quarter of his staff, it’s not pretty. But he sees the opportunities, too, he gets the best from what he’s got. He’s got crime down by twenty per cent. That’s why I asked him to lead the trial of lapel cameras on every officer.’
‘Man after your own heart …’
‘Oh aye, he’s a good guy, Richie. Few more like him and we’d be merry. Plenty problems round his patch but he’s all over them – he takes responsibility, he motivates his team. See, that’s the real problem with the cops – it’s leadership. It’s not identified in them, it’s not fostered. So they’d rather bang on about money than just get on and …’
Blaylock, having warmed up anew to his theme, looked again at Andy’s broad shoulders, and tailed away.
Nixon clucked his tongue. ‘Aye, well. What money you’ve got and how you spend it, it’s a test of character, no mistake.’
Silently, conspiratorially, Nixon placed his newspaper open on Blaylock’s lap at a story concerning the Chief Constable of Lancashire and a disputed claim for personal expenses incurred while attending a ‘special convention’ in Las Vegas.
Blaylock felt his phone vibrate near to his heart – felt his pulse move, too. Friend or foe? He withdrew the device with care, saw with relief that it was Geraldine, but was vexed to note this new sense of apprehension he was storing around his person.
Geraldine conveyed problematical news for him from Number Ten. The Captain had been alerted by Al Ramsay to the counter-immigration operation planned for Friday, and now wanted him and Blaylock to attend proceedings together, media in tow. Not for the first time Blaylock felt chastened by having to put his face to a course of action he had waved through while rating it highly dubious.
*
Even in the foyer of the Excelsior Hotel Blaylock could hear applause
1
‘Easy now, you’ll not hit an unarmed man?’
Philip Nixon, the lean and silvery Scot who was Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabularies, grinned from behind palms raised in mock surrender as he climbed into the backseat of the Jaguar.
‘Howay.’ Blaylock waved the leg-pull aside. ‘I’ve not got it in me this morning.’
Nixon gave Blaylock a sharper look from under his critical Caledonian brow. ‘You look beat, right enough. Did you not sleep?’
Blaylock shook his head, wishing to leave it at that. From the front seat Andy glanced back to ensure Nixon was buckling in, then gave Martin the signal to pull off and begin the journey up the M1.
In truth Blaylock felt his etiolated mood to be less a result of the abusive caller and the broken night’s sleep than the content of a 6 a.m. phone chat with Patrick Vaughan about the procedure of taking his Identity Documents Bill through ‘pre-legislative scrutiny’. The Captain, sounding horribly unimpressed, had instructed him to get things under way in tones that left Blaylock sure he would be paddling this canoe alone.
‘So,’ said Nixon, ‘you’ve got your story straight for the day?’
Blaylock nodded. ‘Plain words. It’s not like we mean anything so drastic, is it? As we well know, if I was such a hatchet-man I’d be cutting the number of constabularies in half.’
‘Aye, and you’d have twenty unemployed Chief Constables after your blood.’
‘Quite. For now I’ve got enough enemies. Speaking of which,I’ve got a quick meeting with Bannerman once we get there.’
In his past life Nixon had been a blue-chip accountant specialising in privatisations, foreclosures and associated redundancies. As such Blaylock found him an easygoing ear on the subject of difficult choices. However, as he now studied the broad blue backs of his police-issued driver and bodyguard, Blaylock was reminded to curb his language.
‘Thing is, all the best Chiefs know we need reform. You look at a guy like Richie Colls in Kent. There’s a copper who’s come through the ranks, earned his spurs. He’s just had to cut a quarter of his staff, it’s not pretty. But he sees the opportunities, too, he gets the best from what he’s got. He’s got crime down by twenty per cent. That’s why I asked him to lead the trial of lapel cameras on every officer.’
‘Man after your own heart …’
‘Oh aye, he’s a good guy, Richie. Few more like him and we’d be merry. Plenty problems round his patch but he’s all over them – he takes responsibility, he motivates his team. See, that’s the real problem with the cops – it’s leadership. It’s not identified in them, it’s not fostered. So they’d rather bang on about money than just get on and …’
Blaylock, having warmed up anew to his theme, looked again at Andy’s broad shoulders, and tailed away.
Nixon clucked his tongue. ‘Aye, well. What money you’ve got and how you spend it, it’s a test of character, no mistake.’
Silently, conspiratorially, Nixon placed his newspaper open on Blaylock’s lap at a story concerning the Chief Constable of Lancashire and a disputed claim for personal expenses incurred while attending a ‘special convention’ in Las Vegas.
Blaylock felt his phone vibrate near to his heart – felt his pulse move, too. Friend or foe? He withdrew the device with care, saw with relief that it was Geraldine, but was vexed to note this new sense of apprehension he was storing around his person.
Geraldine conveyed problematical news for him from Number Ten. The Captain had been alerted by Al Ramsay to the counter-immigration operation planned for Friday, and now wanted him and Blaylock to attend proceedings together, media in tow. Not for the first time Blaylock felt chastened by having to put his face to a course of action he had waved through while rating it highly dubious.
*
Even in the foyer of the Excelsior Hotel Blaylock could hear applause
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