When I saw the Police van drifting into the cul-de-sac, I
took no notice. I went on watching
television. I did not hear the sound of
heavy footsteps on the drive, but I did hear a ring at the bell. I looked through the window. There was a policeman at the door. I went into panic mode instantly. It had to be a death in the family, or a
tragic accident with someone seriously injured.
It never occurred to me that the Police would under no circumstances send
round a single policeman in a van to impart such shocking news. I should have paid more attention to Taggart.
I tiptoed to the front door and opened it apprehensively. The police constable was shorter that I thought Police were supposed to be, and stocky, with a Zapata moustache. I wondered what would happen if he ever had to chase down any burglar. He might overtake an arthritic septuagenarian weighed down by half a hundredweight of swag, but that was about all. Anyone of even average fitness would be half a mile from the crime scene as the constable chugged his way round the first corner.
‘May I come in?’ he enquired, politely. I looked to see whether he had his handcuffs at the ready, but there was no evidence of that, so I admitted him, somewhat reluctantly.
‘May I sit down?’ he said, almost sweetly.
‘Of course.’ I gestured to an easy chair. He sat down. I noticed that he was holding a large envelope. His walkie-talkie crackled a harsh message. He ignored it. It took him several moments to gather his thoughts.
‘Do you own a car?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it a Citroen Picasso?’
‘Yes, but it’s taxed, tested and insured. I can prove it. And the front tyres aren’t really bald – they look worse than they are.’
He held up a restraining hand.
‘Can you give me the registration number?’ he asked.
Of course I couldn’t. Who carries that sort of information round in his or her head? After all, I’d only had the car three years. My ignorance didn’t seem to faze him.
‘Is that the vehicle outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask whether you keep the vehicle locked?’
‘Yes.’
I couldn’t tell him that I hadn’t locked the car for weeks, as I knew the battery in the key fob needed replacing and I’d had enough trouble with car alarms to last me a lifetime.
‘Can you tell me whether or not you secured the vehicle last night?’ he asked.
‘I think I did.’
He frowned and shook his head in disagreement. He dipped his hand into the envelope with a flourish and withdrew an artefact that I recognised instantly.
‘Is there one of these in the aforesaid vehicle?’
‘Yes. It’s my Tom-Tam satellite navigation thingummy. You stick it on the windscreen. I keep it in the glove locker.’
He nodded with satisfaction.
‘You can positively identify it?’
‘Yes. There’s a scratch on the front bezel in the upper left-hand corner where the stupid stylus gizmo slipped and gouged a bit out. I have to admit I hit it rather hard. I was cross. I was lost. It had just directed me to the back of an industrial estate when I wanted the railway station.'
'That is all the proof I need,' the constable said.
'Hang on.’ A thought had just struck me. ‘How did you know the sat-nav was mine?’
‘I charged it up and switched it on’, he said. ‘It came up with your address.’
I was horrified by the stupidity of my question.
‘How come you have it there, then?’ I asked.
‘I was coming to that,' he said, with some asperity. He drew out his notebook and turned over several pages until he reached the one he wanted. He read in a low monotone. I had to bend forward to catch what he was saying.
'At two ‘o’ clock this morning, we apprehended a youth on the High Street, who was acting suspiciously. He was carrying a bag of items that we believed may have been stolen. There were several sat-navs and a quantity of compact discs. He could not satisfactorily account for these items, so we took him to the Police station, where he made a full confession. It seems he tried dozens of cars in the vicinity, and whenever he found one that was open, he stole any portable contents that were in it. Your car was open. He said he didn’t want to cause undue damage to said vehicles.’
‘Very civil of him,’ I said. I was secretly pleased I'd left the Picasso open. I remembered the last time I had had a sat-nav stolen. On that occasion, the thief had smashed in the nearside front window of my locked Vauxhall Omega and had caused six hundred pounds’ worth of damage.
‘It transpires that he was homeless', the constable said. 'It is our view that he wanted a roof over his head for the night, and such was his desperation, he perpetrated these thefts.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘We’ll need to keep the sat-nav until later,’ he said. ‘It’s what we call in the Force prima facie evidence. He’s up in court tomorrow.
‘What will happen to him?’
‘It’s his 134th offence, so we expect that he will be given a custodial sentence.’
I couldn’t think of anything useful to say.
‘How much is the item worth?’ the constable asked.
‘Around fifty pounds’, I said. Privately, I thought about a fiver.
‘Did you have any compact discs in the car?’ he asked.
‘I had several.’
‘You’ll have to check if any are missing’, he said. ‘And now, I must be on my way. Good evening. I can see myself out. Oh, and in future, I would strongly advise you to lock your vehicle overnight. We wouldn’t want anything like this to happen again.’
I went out to the car to see how many CDs were missing. It transpired that the thief had left all the ones I had recorded myself from i-tunes but he’d taken the two pre-recorded ones.
Two days later, I watched the police van pull up outside the house. The short square constable was accompanied this time by a young blonde policewoman. She didn’t speak.
‘I’m returning your sat-nav, as promised,’ he said. ‘Please sign this form here, and here.’ I scribbled my signature twice, and he handed over the item.
‘The thief got six months,’ the constable said, reflectively. ‘The boy seemed pleased. Bed and board at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’
‘All in a day’s work’ he chuckled. ‘By the way, did you lose any compact discs?’
‘No’, I replied.
I was too ashamed to tell him that one was by Status Quo and the other Barry Manilow.
I tiptoed to the front door and opened it apprehensively. The police constable was shorter that I thought Police were supposed to be, and stocky, with a Zapata moustache. I wondered what would happen if he ever had to chase down any burglar. He might overtake an arthritic septuagenarian weighed down by half a hundredweight of swag, but that was about all. Anyone of even average fitness would be half a mile from the crime scene as the constable chugged his way round the first corner.
‘May I come in?’ he enquired, politely. I looked to see whether he had his handcuffs at the ready, but there was no evidence of that, so I admitted him, somewhat reluctantly.
‘May I sit down?’ he said, almost sweetly.
‘Of course.’ I gestured to an easy chair. He sat down. I noticed that he was holding a large envelope. His walkie-talkie crackled a harsh message. He ignored it. It took him several moments to gather his thoughts.
‘Do you own a car?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it a Citroen Picasso?’
‘Yes, but it’s taxed, tested and insured. I can prove it. And the front tyres aren’t really bald – they look worse than they are.’
He held up a restraining hand.
‘Can you give me the registration number?’ he asked.
Of course I couldn’t. Who carries that sort of information round in his or her head? After all, I’d only had the car three years. My ignorance didn’t seem to faze him.
‘Is that the vehicle outside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask whether you keep the vehicle locked?’
‘Yes.’
I couldn’t tell him that I hadn’t locked the car for weeks, as I knew the battery in the key fob needed replacing and I’d had enough trouble with car alarms to last me a lifetime.
‘Can you tell me whether or not you secured the vehicle last night?’ he asked.
‘I think I did.’
He frowned and shook his head in disagreement. He dipped his hand into the envelope with a flourish and withdrew an artefact that I recognised instantly.
‘Is there one of these in the aforesaid vehicle?’
‘Yes. It’s my Tom-Tam satellite navigation thingummy. You stick it on the windscreen. I keep it in the glove locker.’
He nodded with satisfaction.
‘You can positively identify it?’
‘Yes. There’s a scratch on the front bezel in the upper left-hand corner where the stupid stylus gizmo slipped and gouged a bit out. I have to admit I hit it rather hard. I was cross. I was lost. It had just directed me to the back of an industrial estate when I wanted the railway station.'
'That is all the proof I need,' the constable said.
'Hang on.’ A thought had just struck me. ‘How did you know the sat-nav was mine?’
‘I charged it up and switched it on’, he said. ‘It came up with your address.’
I was horrified by the stupidity of my question.
‘How come you have it there, then?’ I asked.
‘I was coming to that,' he said, with some asperity. He drew out his notebook and turned over several pages until he reached the one he wanted. He read in a low monotone. I had to bend forward to catch what he was saying.
'At two ‘o’ clock this morning, we apprehended a youth on the High Street, who was acting suspiciously. He was carrying a bag of items that we believed may have been stolen. There were several sat-navs and a quantity of compact discs. He could not satisfactorily account for these items, so we took him to the Police station, where he made a full confession. It seems he tried dozens of cars in the vicinity, and whenever he found one that was open, he stole any portable contents that were in it. Your car was open. He said he didn’t want to cause undue damage to said vehicles.’
‘Very civil of him,’ I said. I was secretly pleased I'd left the Picasso open. I remembered the last time I had had a sat-nav stolen. On that occasion, the thief had smashed in the nearside front window of my locked Vauxhall Omega and had caused six hundred pounds’ worth of damage.
‘It transpires that he was homeless', the constable said. 'It is our view that he wanted a roof over his head for the night, and such was his desperation, he perpetrated these thefts.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘We’ll need to keep the sat-nav until later,’ he said. ‘It’s what we call in the Force prima facie evidence. He’s up in court tomorrow.
‘What will happen to him?’
‘It’s his 134th offence, so we expect that he will be given a custodial sentence.’
I couldn’t think of anything useful to say.
‘How much is the item worth?’ the constable asked.
‘Around fifty pounds’, I said. Privately, I thought about a fiver.
‘Did you have any compact discs in the car?’ he asked.
‘I had several.’
‘You’ll have to check if any are missing’, he said. ‘And now, I must be on my way. Good evening. I can see myself out. Oh, and in future, I would strongly advise you to lock your vehicle overnight. We wouldn’t want anything like this to happen again.’
I went out to the car to see how many CDs were missing. It transpired that the thief had left all the ones I had recorded myself from i-tunes but he’d taken the two pre-recorded ones.
Two days later, I watched the police van pull up outside the house. The short square constable was accompanied this time by a young blonde policewoman. She didn’t speak.
‘I’m returning your sat-nav, as promised,’ he said. ‘Please sign this form here, and here.’ I scribbled my signature twice, and he handed over the item.
‘The thief got six months,’ the constable said, reflectively. ‘The boy seemed pleased. Bed and board at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’
‘All in a day’s work’ he chuckled. ‘By the way, did you lose any compact discs?’
‘No’, I replied.
I was too ashamed to tell him that one was by Status Quo and the other Barry Manilow.
