at nine-thirty outside the Crown pub by the station. Itâll be just dark by then.â
âUniforms?â
Shackleton paused for a moment. He was wearing a suit, well cut, grey silk tie, white shirt, good shoes. He weighed up the forthcoming situation. The youths, inflamed against the police, would be taken off-guard by civilian clothes and give them a more sympathetic hearing.
But his own men would expect him to wear the uniform, not to make concessions to these yobs. And the uniform represented authority, an authority not to be intimidated by any section ofsociety. Finally, the impact in the media would be greater if they wore the crowns and insignia of their rank.
âUniforms,â he said. âSwagger sticks and gloves.â
âAnd hats off asap. Yes. Good. Forty minutes then.â Carter rang off.
What on earth was he doing? He felt like a lad whoâd just agreed to go joy-riding with the local tearaway. Why had he said yes? Was he trying to prove he was as macho as Tom Shackleton? It wasnât what chief constables did. It was stupid, it was risky and it wasnât by the book. But it was typical Shackleton. And it made the adrenalin run.
If Carter had a weakness it was being human. When he was a DC he had discovered the pleasure of masculine closeness after his team had got âa resultâ. The drinking, the physicality, the emotional memory of shared danger and, most importantly, the equality.
As heâd hurtled through the ranks heâd never stopped searching out that camaraderie. Geoffrey Carter was famous for always remembering the secretariesâ birthdays, for making sure his driver got proper breaks and was fed on jobs. For caring even when there was no camera or microphone to record his good deeds. It was part of the legend that, when the son of an old sergeant based in the middle of nowhere died in a car crash, Carter visited him and supported the family through their bereavement.
Although not naturally âone of the ladsâ, wherever heâd served heâd been popular and heâd gained a reputation for having a soft spot for the unconventional, if it got results.
Shackleton, whose natural constituency was the canteen rather than the restaurant, whose background had featured contact sports rather than ballet or opera, disliked the loud bonhomie of the changing room, the physical closeness of the triumphal piss-up. He was a loner whose occasional spectacular acts of daring or bravery were motivated solely by an instinct for self-challenge and self-promotion. He avoided at all costs getting involved. If gifts were given it was Jenni who bought and gave them, out of expediency.
Once, after a meeting, during which Gordon had been kept waiting in the car, the female councillor Shackleton had been lunching with asked if Gordon had been fed and watered. Shackleton looked blank and shook his head, not knowing why Gordon should have been. The woman had stood in the street and said, loud enough for any passer-by to hear, âYou mean bastard!â Gordon was shockedand secretly pleased. Shackleton thought her a fool and did not learn the lesson. He took no responsibility for anyone other than himself.
Shackleton opened the door beside his desk and went into his changing room. Immaculately ironed shirts and uniforms hung on wooden hangers. He didnât know it was Lucy who had pressed each piece, breathing in the steam as if he was in it. If heâd known it would have caused him embarrassment.
He put on his uniform with the care of a priest robing for Mass. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. Not a trace of the excitement he felt showed on his face. He felt aroused as other men did when anticipating an evening with a desirable woman. Alive at the possibilities.
Carter hadnât arrived when Gordon stopped the patrol car outside the dingy pub on the edge of the Flamborough Estate. Shackleton got out. It was dark now and the bleakness of the
âUniforms?â
Shackleton paused for a moment. He was wearing a suit, well cut, grey silk tie, white shirt, good shoes. He weighed up the forthcoming situation. The youths, inflamed against the police, would be taken off-guard by civilian clothes and give them a more sympathetic hearing.
But his own men would expect him to wear the uniform, not to make concessions to these yobs. And the uniform represented authority, an authority not to be intimidated by any section ofsociety. Finally, the impact in the media would be greater if they wore the crowns and insignia of their rank.
âUniforms,â he said. âSwagger sticks and gloves.â
âAnd hats off asap. Yes. Good. Forty minutes then.â Carter rang off.
What on earth was he doing? He felt like a lad whoâd just agreed to go joy-riding with the local tearaway. Why had he said yes? Was he trying to prove he was as macho as Tom Shackleton? It wasnât what chief constables did. It was stupid, it was risky and it wasnât by the book. But it was typical Shackleton. And it made the adrenalin run.
If Carter had a weakness it was being human. When he was a DC he had discovered the pleasure of masculine closeness after his team had got âa resultâ. The drinking, the physicality, the emotional memory of shared danger and, most importantly, the equality.
As heâd hurtled through the ranks heâd never stopped searching out that camaraderie. Geoffrey Carter was famous for always remembering the secretariesâ birthdays, for making sure his driver got proper breaks and was fed on jobs. For caring even when there was no camera or microphone to record his good deeds. It was part of the legend that, when the son of an old sergeant based in the middle of nowhere died in a car crash, Carter visited him and supported the family through their bereavement.
Although not naturally âone of the ladsâ, wherever heâd served heâd been popular and heâd gained a reputation for having a soft spot for the unconventional, if it got results.
Shackleton, whose natural constituency was the canteen rather than the restaurant, whose background had featured contact sports rather than ballet or opera, disliked the loud bonhomie of the changing room, the physical closeness of the triumphal piss-up. He was a loner whose occasional spectacular acts of daring or bravery were motivated solely by an instinct for self-challenge and self-promotion. He avoided at all costs getting involved. If gifts were given it was Jenni who bought and gave them, out of expediency.
Once, after a meeting, during which Gordon had been kept waiting in the car, the female councillor Shackleton had been lunching with asked if Gordon had been fed and watered. Shackleton looked blank and shook his head, not knowing why Gordon should have been. The woman had stood in the street and said, loud enough for any passer-by to hear, âYou mean bastard!â Gordon was shockedand secretly pleased. Shackleton thought her a fool and did not learn the lesson. He took no responsibility for anyone other than himself.
Shackleton opened the door beside his desk and went into his changing room. Immaculately ironed shirts and uniforms hung on wooden hangers. He didnât know it was Lucy who had pressed each piece, breathing in the steam as if he was in it. If heâd known it would have caused him embarrassment.
He put on his uniform with the care of a priest robing for Mass. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. Not a trace of the excitement he felt showed on his face. He felt aroused as other men did when anticipating an evening with a desirable woman. Alive at the possibilities.
Carter hadnât arrived when Gordon stopped the patrol car outside the dingy pub on the edge of the Flamborough Estate. Shackleton got out. It was dark now and the bleakness of the
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