Roll With It by Nick Place Page A

rode a few moments in silence, wondering whether it was worth it, but finally couldn’t help himself. ‘I did cut it, mate. I cut it a little too well. That was my problem.’
    ‘You’ve got more problems than that,’ Ollerton said, confident that the older cop couldn’t catch him if he tried. They rode in silence for the rest of the trip, Laver thinking his generation at the police academy would have shot themselves before showing such obvious disrespect to senior police. Damn youths.
    The scene at Station Street was chaos. Laver could hear the woman’s shrieks before he and Ollerton had finished leaning their bikes on the wrought-iron fence outside the sagging Victorian terrace house. Two other cop bikes were already there, along with a gathering of neighbours and passers-by standing around outside.
    ‘Don’t you use that tone with me, young lady! I’ll give you more than you bargained for if you try to give me any more of your lip!’ a shrill voice carried through the open door of the house out into the street, the hint of an English accent.
    A young, exasperated female voice responded, slowly and loudly for greater clarity: ‘Mrs Davies. We’re just trying to help you. C’mon, love, let us pick you up off the floor.’
    A scream pierced the air, startling the gathered onlookers.
    ‘Don’t you lay a hand on me, you little slut! I want the police! This is assault! I know my rights!’
    ‘C’mon Mary,’ pleaded another voice.
    ‘You won’t get nowhere being that way. I’m not putting up with your insolence. I want the police!’
    ‘Mary, I AM the police.’
    ‘Like hell you are, you little tramp.’
    The crowd parted so Ollerton and Laver could pass. Laver spotted a kid, maybe eleven years old, leaning on a Razor scooter, school bag over his shoulder. Laver pulled him aside. ‘Keep an eye on my bike and I’ll let you blow the siren after.’
    ‘Your bike has a siren?’
    ‘Don’t touch it while I’m inside or I’ll have to arrest you.’
    The kid’s eyes went wide like saucers.
    The interior of the house had clearly gone unchanged for fifty years.
    ‘God, the smell,’ said Ollerton, gagging.
    Laver sniffed, unconcerned. ‘You ever been in a house with a decom?’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘A dead body, decomposing. Usually they’re an oldie who’s keeled over and nobody has noticed for days or weeks. Or a lonely suicide. During the height of summer is the worst. Trust me, you smell that and this is like perfume.’
    ‘Jesus.’
    They walked down a dark, badly wallpapered corridor, past a couple of bedrooms, into the main lounge room. There was another door on the opposite side of the room, promising access to the back of the house where Laver could bet there was a basic bathroom, a kitchen with a dangerously old gas burner and a back door leading to the outhouse.
    The lounge room was crowded. Two ambulance officers stood near the door, hands behind their backs so there could be no chance of an accidental blow, while one of the other bike cops, McGregor, watched on.
    ‘We were only a block away,’ he explained, eyes on Laver. ‘We heard your call but didn’t have anything on and we were closer.’
    Laver shrugged. ‘Mate, is this a turf war? Relax.’
    McGregor’s partner, Constable Aimee Ratten, a cute twentysomething Laver had only met briefly on his first day, was crouching beside the old lady who was on the floor, her back supported by the timber legs of a lounge chair. The old lady was holding her arm and rocking slightly, her eyes flying wildly around the room, looking up at all the uniformed youths.
    ‘There are two sides to every story,’ the old lady was yelling. ‘Come in, all of you outside. Come in and see what they’re doing to me. It’s assault. Police!’
    ‘We are the police, Mary,’ Ratten said. ‘We’re trying to help you. Calm down and let us get you to the ambulance.’
    ‘Don’t you touch me, you little bitch,’ Mary hissed, waving her good arm at Ratten.