act and coppers who can’t nick anyone. Even if they did the CPS wouldn’t prosecute, lefty magistrates would side with the bad guys and good cops faced fake complaints lodged by canny felons who had learned exactly how to play the system. Macpherson’s inept report on the Stephen Lawrence case had driven what might prove to be the last stake into the heart of the force. Orwellian self-censorship was a fact of life in a modern constabulary riddled with self-doubt and crippled by a mindset of political correctness that naked self-ambition merely stoked, fed and fuelled. Morale had collapsed, fitness standards were going down like Harry’s beloved Hammers with male recruits getting progressively weaker and weedier, bossed about by the right-on ‘feminista’ female cops who were pouring in. Try wolf-whistling one of those pan-faced gorgons and keeping your job.
And that was the one thing Harry needed to do. He had been a cop for 22 years now, but he had 8 long years in front of him before he could walk away and pull a pension. Eight years that would feel like eighty. He had to do something to escape the living hell of the 2pm–10pm CID shift; to change the long drizzle of disappointment that his life had become. But what? There was nowhere left for him to go. Something else hung heavy in the air this morning besides his cock. It was the smell of burning bridges.
As the alarm clock kicked in at 9.15am, so did Harry Tyler’s resolve. He would fight back, stop the rot. He had a few hours to tidy up himself and the house. He switched on his Philips electric razor. A haircut could wait, but the beard had to be trimmed, his teeth needed cleaning and, come to think of it, he hadn’t had a shower for a fortnight. No wonder he’d been getting funny looks in the canteen. He took a bottle of Ginseng tablets from the bathroom cabinet and popped two. There was no way he was going to stop functioning today. Two hours later, Harry had spruced himself up enough to grab a tea break in front of the living room TV. The morning channels were churning out their usual cretinous mix of patronising DIY shows and feminised babble, so he skipped through the music stations: Kerrang!, Q, The Box, MTV, MTV 2, MTV hits. He settled on Sky 444, the classic smooth channel where Belinda Carlisle was belting out ‘Heaven Is A Place On Earth’. It wasn’t the song that held his attention so much as the fact that she was such a dead ringer for his first wife, Dawn. He had noticed this at the time of course, but Harry had confined all memory of his cheating ex to his mental dustbin so long before that it seemed like a fresh observation. Whatever happened to Dawny? He had a flash of his missus in the baby-doll nightie she loved to wear, a whiff of Lou-Lou on her neck, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, and he felt something he hadn’t experienced in months – a twitch in the groin. Was it the thought of Dawn or the Ginseng? He neither knew nor cared. This was it, the trigger. Suddenly Harry felt energised. He took the stairs two at a time and gave himself a number one razor crop. He had no idea how he would survive the next eight days let alone eight years, but one thing was for certain: Harry Dean would not get through the coming ordeal looking like some washed-up, Big Issue -selling muppet.
It was 1.59pm when Harry sauntered into the Ipswich CID office. He felt heads lift as he passed. He was clean-shaven, smart and, had you wanted to, you could have grated cheese on the top of his head.
It started immediately:
‘Who cut yer hair, H, a fucking cartoonist?’
‘Harry, put it in the crime book and I’ll nick the son of a bitch that did that to ya.’
‘Tell us what barber’s you went into, bro, and I’ll get the place sealed off.’
‘I want ALL you skinheads to put your boots on your feet!’
Superintendent Calder MacKenzie, a cocky Scot, stopped him in his tracks and thrust his face so far into his space that
And that was the one thing Harry needed to do. He had been a cop for 22 years now, but he had 8 long years in front of him before he could walk away and pull a pension. Eight years that would feel like eighty. He had to do something to escape the living hell of the 2pm–10pm CID shift; to change the long drizzle of disappointment that his life had become. But what? There was nowhere left for him to go. Something else hung heavy in the air this morning besides his cock. It was the smell of burning bridges.
As the alarm clock kicked in at 9.15am, so did Harry Tyler’s resolve. He would fight back, stop the rot. He had a few hours to tidy up himself and the house. He switched on his Philips electric razor. A haircut could wait, but the beard had to be trimmed, his teeth needed cleaning and, come to think of it, he hadn’t had a shower for a fortnight. No wonder he’d been getting funny looks in the canteen. He took a bottle of Ginseng tablets from the bathroom cabinet and popped two. There was no way he was going to stop functioning today. Two hours later, Harry had spruced himself up enough to grab a tea break in front of the living room TV. The morning channels were churning out their usual cretinous mix of patronising DIY shows and feminised babble, so he skipped through the music stations: Kerrang!, Q, The Box, MTV, MTV 2, MTV hits. He settled on Sky 444, the classic smooth channel where Belinda Carlisle was belting out ‘Heaven Is A Place On Earth’. It wasn’t the song that held his attention so much as the fact that she was such a dead ringer for his first wife, Dawn. He had noticed this at the time of course, but Harry had confined all memory of his cheating ex to his mental dustbin so long before that it seemed like a fresh observation. Whatever happened to Dawny? He had a flash of his missus in the baby-doll nightie she loved to wear, a whiff of Lou-Lou on her neck, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, and he felt something he hadn’t experienced in months – a twitch in the groin. Was it the thought of Dawn or the Ginseng? He neither knew nor cared. This was it, the trigger. Suddenly Harry felt energised. He took the stairs two at a time and gave himself a number one razor crop. He had no idea how he would survive the next eight days let alone eight years, but one thing was for certain: Harry Dean would not get through the coming ordeal looking like some washed-up, Big Issue -selling muppet.
It was 1.59pm when Harry sauntered into the Ipswich CID office. He felt heads lift as he passed. He was clean-shaven, smart and, had you wanted to, you could have grated cheese on the top of his head.
It started immediately:
‘Who cut yer hair, H, a fucking cartoonist?’
‘Harry, put it in the crime book and I’ll nick the son of a bitch that did that to ya.’
‘Tell us what barber’s you went into, bro, and I’ll get the place sealed off.’
‘I want ALL you skinheads to put your boots on your feet!’
Superintendent Calder MacKenzie, a cocky Scot, stopped him in his tracks and thrust his face so far into his space that
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