Welcome back to this great bastion of discerning good taste…
The other day, whilst sprawling languidly at my escritoire, I was struck by an idea for a short story. To some, it might seem a tale that’s in excruciatingly poor taste. However, I’ve always subscribed to the notion that it’s better to be disapproved of and infamous than, ‘nice’ and ignored. The latter, of course, represents a state worse than death to any artist. Indeed, despite being the current whimsy of popular culture, insipidness has never been regarded as a virtue (excepting diplomatic circles). Furthermore, I’ve come to the conclusion that the unhealthy over-reverence of convention, good taste and ‘sacred cows’ is one of the great blights upon freethinking. In keeping with this, I’ll leave you with a little ditty I recently tossed-off entitled; ‘The improbable case of the purple scrotum’. I hope you find it amusing.
The improbable case of the purple scrotum
The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed herein do not necessarily represent those of the author. Please N.B. that no animals were harmed in the writing of this story.
PART I – Putting two and two together…
Detective Sergeant Collins was a woman on a mission. Having completed her brief training, she’d embarked upon the career of a lifetime. At thirty-two, she’d been seconded to operation ‘Trojan Barbie’; a clandestine arm of the Metropolitan Police Force. ‘Trojan Barbie’ comprised an elite band of men and women driven by a singular purpose - to eradicate criminality from the shadowy murk of the Internet. Popular wisdom suggested that this virtual world had become heavily infiltrated by pederasts, terrorists, con-artists and even the common-or-garden pervert. Indeed, thanks to the diligence of a few good men (i.e. hysterical tabloid newspaper editors), politicians had finally cottoned on to the idea that the vast majority of online users were latent criminals and should be treated as such. Consequently, considerable public funds had been urgently earmarked for a mass online surveillance operation. Afterall, western civilisation had to be saved from this festering behemoth.
Given D.S. Collins’s middling linguistic credentials, she’d been the obvious choice to deal with a particularly persistent menace. Tracking software had flagged up an individual who went by the name of ‘football*kid’. The subsequent debriefing had highlighted the fact that the screen name (in a popular teenager’s chatroom) represented neither a kid nor a fan of the beautiful game. Rather, it was the masquerade of a predator trawling the web in order to score rather more nefarious goals.
She’d been advised that ‘football*kid’ was almost certainly male in his mid fifties and a manual labourer. The expert profiler had also hypothesized that he was obese and had low self-esteem. There was also a distinct possibility that, although married with children, he had little or no confidence with women of his own years. The very idea that a family man, rather than some weirdo loner, could be culpable did not sit well with Collin’s preconceptions. This, in spite of her own home truths regarding her father.
It had been a long, and so far, tiresome night. Collin’s attempts to ensnare ‘football*kid’ in the guise of her own alter-ego, ‘pigtails’, had, so far, proven fruitless. However, Collins was certainly no quitter. Her sheer tenacity had already achieved unparalleled success in the conviction of a clutch of unwitting fiends. Although football*kid’ employed a more tacit approach than most, she would assuredly get him in the end.
Of course, it’s widely understood amongst the professional criminal fraternity that young people’s chatrooms and social-networking sites are so heavily populated by undercover police officers that the average age of its occupants is thirty-seven. In fact, career criminals such people traffickers, recruiting jihadists and Catholic priests avoided them like the plague. The most ‘Trojan Barbie’ could ever hope for would be to nab the occasional blundering halfwit.
Given these inordinately high concentrations of psyched-up law enforcement officers, the probability of an occasional misunderstanding was fairly high. Indeed, natural laws dictate that when prey becomes relatively scarce, predators invariably turn on themselves and resort to cannibalism.
It was unfortunate, therefore, that D.S. Collins remained blissfully unaware that her correspondent (none other than D.S. Pauline Ashcroft) was engaged in similar crime detection activities at a secret location in Shropshire. Indeed, it came as no surprise when ‘football*kid’ asked her if she ‘liked ball games’. She considered her response carefully before resuming the elaborate ruse. ‘Yes I like netball and hockey,’ she keyed, ‘what ball games are you into?’
Some miles north, D.S. Pauline Ashcroft, considered her response to such a leading question. After some careful deliberation, she resumed typing. ‘I like to play lots of different ball games. Oh yeah, I really like playing with my balls! And I love it when I score...’
Back in a rather nondescript office in London, D.S. Collins considered the subtext of the message (was there any?). This was surely a pretty blatant and disgusting insinuation? Apparently, the vile creature was deliberately steering the conversation toward a sexual agenda via innuendo. The balls in question needed grabbing pretty urgently and yanked down to the nearest cop-shop. She hastily resumed, ‘My mummy just gave me a new netball kit. Would you like to see it or wot?’
D.S. Ashcroft was suitably flabbergasted by such a brazen invitation. This sicko was seriously audacious! ‘Pigtails’ was clearly an absolute menace that had to be taken out at all costs. There was no time to lose. Her heart pounded as she deftly tapped in her reply. ‘Yeah…sure. If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine - I’d love to see your strip. Maybe you’d like me to shoot one into the back of the net sometime?’
Meanwhile, D.S. Collins squinted in disbelief. Every moment that this maniac was on the loose could spell dire consequences. However, ‘Trojan Barbie’ methodology required certain checks and balances. She needed to wheedle out a clear statement of specific intent. The monster would have to proposition ‘pigtails’ in some fashion. Inspiration was quick to arrive. ‘I want to be friends. Maybe we could play together?’
As the instant message appeared on her screen, D.S. Ashcroft raised her hands in triumph. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘you’re so under arrest, you perv.’ She redoubled her efforts into typing. ‘Yes, I’d like to play. Where do you live?’
This was it, Collins realised - this was the clincher! She promptly adjusted herself below the desk. She became aware of a rather peculiar sensation. In fact, she was experiencing a rather disconcerting sensation of arousal. As she re-focussed her attentions back to the job-in-hand, she realised that she’d still not managed to pinpoint the perpetrator’s location. Maybe he’d got anti-tracking software? It was certainly proof that she dealing with quite a criminal mastermind (relatively speaking, that is). Thinking quickly, she recalled an enclosed location that was well served by CCTV. A shopping centre appeared to be the obvious choice. ‘I live near Croydon. We could meet in town. There’s a pet shop in the shopping centre…’
Meanwhile, D.S. Ashcroft was already triangulating the location. It was quite a long drive but it could be reached in a matter of hours. Soon, she’d be able to substantiate her theory that behind every ‘pigtail’ out there lurked some grubby old arsehole. Ashcroft formulated a rendezvous time as she began typing ‘Yes, I know the pet shop. I can meet you there at three tomorrow. I like doggies and I like the position. And you?’
D.S. Collins immediately hit the red button by her desk to notify the rapid response unit. It looked as if the match would be played on home turf. It was reassuring to think that ‘football*kid’ was on the verge of scoring the biggest home goal of his entire worthless life. Then it would be game over for one hell of a long time. Despite the fact that he’d somehow eluded their location detector, this particular villain would soon discover that the second half of his nasty little game would be played out in HMP Wandsworth. She returned her attentions to the keyboard. ‘Yes, I love doggies. 3pm is good for me. How will I know it’s you?’
DC Ashcroft hit the ‘livelink’ button on her keyboard. All her team were now privy to the unfolding drama of her cyber chat. The evidence against ‘pigtails’ was unequivocal. The events of the next few hours would probably even gain her a commendation. There was no time to loose. ‘I’ll be wearing a red sweatshirt with a big yellow balloon on it. You like balloons? What will you be wearing?’
Collins pondered her wardrobe for a moment. Most of her skirts were so skimpy that her off-duty colleagues had often jokingly referred her to as the Met’s ‘finest asset’. However, she did have a pink trouser suit she’d bought for a staff fancy-dress party. It would have to suffice. ‘I’ll be all in pink. I’ll also have little pigtails and a pink sparkly handbag. I bet you’ll love it! And yes, I really like pretty balloons.’
For D.S. Ashcroft, the momentary vision of a faux-camp, burley, cross-dressing construction worker seemed somewhat incongruous with the psychological profile. However, experience had taught her that monsters appeared in many guises. After finalising the rendezvous she decided to quiz ‘pigtails’ a little further about the peculiar choice of clothes.
It was probable that the pair would never have met and engaged in mutual online entrapment, if it wasn’t for an oversight on the part of Piers Cunningham (a malingering pen-pusher in Whitehall). Piers was charged with the duty of alerting surveillance teams to incidences of ‘website overlap’. However, Pier’s highly professional level of incompetence had placed both Collins and Ashcroft in dire peril.
PART II – Getting the wrong end of the stick.
It was now a game of cat and mouse (and budgerigar, hamster, rabbit etc.). D.S. Collins and her team had positioned themselves strategically about the ‘Pete’s Pet Paradise’. Amidst the squawking, mewing and barking, she activated her walkie-talkie. ‘Any sign of him yet, Reid?’ There was a moment of static.
‘No, nothing front of shop ma'am. Suspect hasn’t showed. Think he’ll turn up? Just that the parrot’s crapped on me again.’
‘Stick with it Reid. He’ll show,’ Collins reassured her subordinate, ‘besides, it’s not quite three yet. I imagine this freak’s pretty fixated with timekeeping. Always the way.’
‘Ma'am.’
‘Okay. Is Lawley still outside with the balloons?’
‘Yeah, I see him. He’s attracted quite a lot of punters though.’
‘Just keep a look out, alright? I don’t want this guy catching us unawares.’ As Collins nonchalantly turned a carousel of pet care books she glanced surreptitiously at a woman and child. Was that the girl’s real mother, she wondered? Maybe something far more sinister dwelt behind the seemingly harmless interplay of childish exuberance and maternal assurances?
Her radio crackled into life. ‘Erm, hello? This Emil at control HQ. We got something on CCTV. Looks like the…ahh…‘person’ yes? With balloon logo. It’s a woman though. She head your way…’
‘Eh? A woman?’
‘Affirmative. Thirty-ish, brown hair. Could be wrong, but I don’t think she’s alone.’
Collin’s mind began to race. ‘Not alone? What do you mean?’
‘Well, a couple of guys follow her. I think so, anyway…’
Collins rapidly calculated various scenarios. What if this villain had sent a stooge? Or maybe they were dealing with a transvestite and a couple of stalkers? That was possible too. However, the presence of possible henchmen would complicate matters. She hastily radioed Reid. ‘It’s possible there’s three of them, maybe more. Think you can handle it?’
‘Oh yeah, definitely. Showtime! Get ready to kick some ass,’ Reid said excitedly with a poorly feigned American accent.
‘Well, I’m calling in backup. Where’s Strachen?’
‘Hampsters. There he is! Repeat, suspect approaching…’
‘Alright guys. Wait until they’re inside the shop. They must be cornered before we bring ‘em down. I want this one to be smooth and quick.’
‘Okay boss. Lock ‘n’ load.’ Reid enthused.
‘Jesus Christ, Reid, just stay focussed okay?’
Collins peered between the bars of a cage and caught sight of her ‘entrapee’ that Emil had described. He appeared to loiter at the balcony whilst talking to himself. Abruptly, the suspect made a sharp beeline for the entrance. There was something unnerving in the fact that he did indeed exhibit a superficially feminine appearance despite a butch, rather strident manner. But that was immaterial - there was no going back now.
‘Ok guys, on my order…’ she murmured into her walkie-talkie.
However, as soon as the suspect crossed the threshold, there was pandemonium. Reid, already bristling with youthful vigour, launched himself. As he collided with the suspect, there was a shriek as the pair barrelled into a cage of Parakeets. Even before the cage had clattered to the ground, an unidentified assailant charged at the recumbent forms. He leapt onto Reid, heaving him into his back, fists flailing. Strachen bolted towards the affray, truncheon drawn, bringing it down onto the accomplice’s shoulder blade. In the melee of punches and thrashing limbs, a goldfish bowl toppled over dousing the writhing forms with assortment of tropical fish.
‘Shit! Back up! Where’s the bloody back up for Christ’s sakes?’ Collins screamed into her radio.
Outside the shop, an incensed D.C. Lawley promptly relinquished his remaining balloons and charged towards the fight. The poor, ill-fated goldfish that he slipped on spent it’s last seconds couriering the officer into a stack of hamster cages sending them toppling against a stack of chinchillas which, in turn, felled an outcrop of bird boxes.
Unfortunately, Collin’s frantic cry of ‘Stop! Police officers!’ was interpreted by her northern counterparts as recognition of their own status. It moved them to redouble their efforts; now imbued with the belief that their attackers had deduced their identities and were attempting to affect a desperate escape.
Collins wisely held back, realising that the fracas was becoming decidedly vicious. Afterall, what could she do until backup arrived?
Somehow, Reid’s trousers had been wrestled down and the prime suspect appeared to be grappling with his testicles in an attempt to immobilise him.
‘Get yer fuckin’ hands of me yer nonce!’ He bawled, before issuing an agonised howl that punctured the frenzied cacophony of squawks and squeals. Meanwhile, Lawley was set upon by a third attacker who was promptly reinforced by the arrival of a fourth. D.C. Strachen broke cover and dived into the affray. One of the criminals had been fortunate in the discovery of a large dog chew, which was proving to be a very effective improvised cudgel. As the brawl spiralled into pitched-battle, a crowd of onlookers had gathered outside. Many of them cheered as the blows were exchanged and there was the occasional rallying call of ‘Go on my son, ‘it ‘im!’
However, one of the more civic-minded citizens opted to call emergency services, who in turn, referred the report on to the rapid response unit. In fact, the incidence of another random act of wanton destruction and brutality was entirely plausible for Croydon given the pugilistic nature of the populace. One only had to recall the riotous tantrum thrown following England’s defeat in the World Cup.
Collins slunk back of the shop but was swiftly confronted by ‘Pete’, the rather apoplectic shop owner.
‘Ere, ‘ave yer seen what they’re doin’ to all my bleedin’ stock? I’ll be fuckin’ ruined, I tell yer! I can’t afford this!’
Collins rounded on him, ‘Listen you, back off okay? Just stay out of this or I’ll have you arrested!’
‘Me arrested!’ he bellowed, ‘Listen, it’s you who should be bloody arrested. This is criminal damage mate! And someone’s g’nu ‘ave to pay for all this bleedin’ lot an’ all!’
Collins was incensed. ‘I’m warning you, yeah? If, you carry on with anymore threatening behaviour, I’ll do you for disturbance of the peace!’
The dispute was cut short by the sudden arrival of hoards of heavily armoured riot police who swarmed into the shop wielding Tasers which were promptly discharged. Collins gazed in disbelief as boots and truncheons rained down. Sheer force of numbers and a few well-aimed blows finally restored order. Bruised and battered, the ‘insurgents’ were forcibly dragged from what remained of the pet shop and promptly handcuffed. Despite their protestations and flash of the occasional badge, they were frogmarched, staggering and limping, into awaiting police vehicles.
Collins opted to avoid any potential personal injury and go quietly. It was a simple misunderstanding, she tried to assure herself. However, this rather charitable assessment of the situation wasn’t one shared by her superiors.
PART III – Swallowing one’s pride…
‘Tell me Collins, do the words ‘total fucking catastrophe’ mean anything to you?’ Detective Inspector Humes hissed menacingly from across the desk.
‘Sir, if you’ll just let me go over this, I’d like to…’
‘Like to what? Explain?' Humes balled. ‘Listen Collins, we’ve invested nigh-on three million in acquiring this tracking software. How hard can it be to apprehend someone? I mean, it should be easier than catching a turd in a shitstorm, surely?’
Collins shrunk somewhat, unable to meet the fearsome glare that verged on the belligerent. ‘Yes sir, I suppose so. But I…'
‘Listen, do you honestly think we can afford a repeat performance of the Portsmouth Paedophile riots? Christ, resources are already stretched to breaking-point without having to post a guard on every paediatrician, pedicurist and pied-à-terre owner in the fucking borough! We were set up to help avoid repeats of the braying rabble going loco, not to recreate it!’ Humes snarled.
Collins swallowed hard, words struggled to escape a parched throat. ‘With, erm…all due respect sir…I did follow procedures. If you’ve read my report you’ll see…'
‘Read your report?’ Humes seethed. ‘No I haven’t read your damn report. You wanna know why? Well, I’ve spent all morning trawling through forty-seven pages of shit from the Police Complaints Authority. After that, I’ve got to deal with compensation claims from Pete’s Pet Purveyor. And I note that the he’s demanding recompense for pig’s ears amongst the other damaged stock. Ironic, don’t you think? I mean, seeing as you’ve made such a fucking pig’s ear of this whole operation?’
Collins glanced up at the chief sullenly before returning her gaze to the floor.
‘Oh, and the shopkeeper’s also threatening to sue us for loss of trade!’ Humes barked, regarding the document he was holding. ‘Not forgetting, of course, a traumatised parrot, a crushed hamster, a gerbil with concussion and thirteen asphyxiated goldfish. Jesus, there must be more chance of finding residual animal life in an abotoirre!'
‘But sir, it was Reid,’ Collins implored, ‘He didn’t…’
‘I’m not interested in Reid. It was you heading up this fucking debacle and I ought to have you thrown out the force.’
Collins shifted uncomfortably in an unnerving silence.
‘And, of course, this isn’t the first little fuck-up from you, Collins. I mean, it was only last week when you arrested Mr Ortega for emailing residents in his care home photos of his great-granddaughter’s swimming trip. I mean the guy been incontinent and bed-ridden for nine years for Christ’s sake! He had no previous form either. Do you honestly think this person represents a threat? I mean you’d only need to follow the trail of piss to catch the poor old bastard.’
‘But sir, I followed procedures to the letter. If you’d only check my case notes you’d see that.’ Collins offered.
‘Listen Collins, you’d better have a damn good explanation for this latest fucking fiasco. If not, I think you’ll find that your career in the force is gonna vanish faster than of a bar of soap in nun’s bathhouse!’ Humes bawled. ‘I mean, I’ve just had the Chief on the blower who’s ready to turn my testicles into a novelty desk ornament.’
Collins sighed despondently, desperately trying to reorder the chaotic jumble of events that now threatened to engulf her.
‘I’ve now got the medical reports in front of me and they don’t make for pleasant reading. I mean, I’ve only glanced through them so far but I’ve already seen a partly chewed off ear, two broken noses and a dislocated shoulder. The sick leave alone for this little lot will haemorrhage our budget. And how the hell some poor bastard ended up with a distended testicle is, quite frankly, beyond me! Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do with my time than look through photos of purple scrotums? Hmm?’ Humes fumed.
Collins blanched under the withering stare. ‘But Sir, I followed our procedures. As I say, if you check my case notes…’
'I’ve don’t care about your report, damn it! There’s no excuse for this. What the hell were you all thinking of? I mean, there must have been one hell of a cock-up somewhere along the line?'
It was certainly true that Collins was no stranger to ‘cock-ups’. Yes, she’d had her time of being a good-time girl of Croydon but wasn't that was all behind her now? Besides, it was considered rude not to be a predatory nymphomaniac in that part of the world. Still, she felt increasingly indignant at being made into a scapegoat. ‘With all due respect Sir, I believe that it was our procedures at fault. I mean maybe we’ve moved too far towards the assumption of guilt and forgotten the presumption of innocence. We’ve stopped being dispassionate in these cases. I mean, the whole country’s turned paranoid.
‘Go on...’ Humes pressed testily.
‘We’re effectively second-guessing an intention using 'pet theories'; top-down processing. But despite following these operational procedures it's still, ultimately, just hunches. Technology hasn’t changed that, sir. Hunches can occasionally be way off the mark. I may have made the wrong assumption this time, but most of them have turned out to be spot on. I’ve saved many vulnerable people. But we’re still playing a game of probability here, Sir. I just think it’s something that’s been forgotten somewhere along the line, that’s all.’
‘Hmm, well, I suppose I can see your points.’ Humes conceded reluctantly, eying up his subordinate’s pert nipples. (He’d deliberately turned down the heating in order to bring out the best in her). She was certainly feisty too. It was a fine quality in a woman. Humes wondered longingly what other qualities lay hidden under her bushel. Of course, he’d heard the rumours of the ‘office letterbox’. Indeed as things stood, there was still a lot riding on her. She had great potential - way more than many of the other hopefuls.
Collins felt threatened by Hume’s silent deliberation. The last thing she needed was a disciplinary on her record. Fortunately, she was extremely well versed in the art of charm. ‘Sir, I love this job. I’m totally, one hundred percent committed to the work,’ She cooed breathily. ‘It was an honest mistake Sir. I just wish you could overlook it somehow. I’ll do anything to keep this job…anything. And, yes I do mean anything...” she pleaded coquettishly.
Humes got up purposefully and locked the door. Collins gave him a knowing look as he hastily unfastened his fly.
“Okay, Collins. I’m prepared to give you a second chance this time. I’ll accept your proposal, provided that you accept mine.”
“Your wish it my command, Daddy,” Collins cooed, whilst trying to appear bashful.
What began as a something of a tongue-lashing ended with one, although this time - it had to be said - it was a very happy ending.
© Edwin Black
The other day, whilst sprawling languidly at my escritoire, I was struck by an idea for a short story. To some, it might seem a tale that’s in excruciatingly poor taste. However, I’ve always subscribed to the notion that it’s better to be disapproved of and infamous than, ‘nice’ and ignored. The latter, of course, represents a state worse than death to any artist. Indeed, despite being the current whimsy of popular culture, insipidness has never been regarded as a virtue (excepting diplomatic circles). Furthermore, I’ve come to the conclusion that the unhealthy over-reverence of convention, good taste and ‘sacred cows’ is one of the great blights upon freethinking. In keeping with this, I’ll leave you with a little ditty I recently tossed-off entitled; ‘The improbable case of the purple scrotum’. I hope you find it amusing.
The improbable case of the purple scrotum
The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed herein do not necessarily represent those of the author. Please N.B. that no animals were harmed in the writing of this story.
PART I – Putting two and two together…
Detective Sergeant Collins was a woman on a mission. Having completed her brief training, she’d embarked upon the career of a lifetime. At thirty-two, she’d been seconded to operation ‘Trojan Barbie’; a clandestine arm of the Metropolitan Police Force. ‘Trojan Barbie’ comprised an elite band of men and women driven by a singular purpose - to eradicate criminality from the shadowy murk of the Internet. Popular wisdom suggested that this virtual world had become heavily infiltrated by pederasts, terrorists, con-artists and even the common-or-garden pervert. Indeed, thanks to the diligence of a few good men (i.e. hysterical tabloid newspaper editors), politicians had finally cottoned on to the idea that the vast majority of online users were latent criminals and should be treated as such. Consequently, considerable public funds had been urgently earmarked for a mass online surveillance operation. Afterall, western civilisation had to be saved from this festering behemoth.
Given D.S. Collins’s middling linguistic credentials, she’d been the obvious choice to deal with a particularly persistent menace. Tracking software had flagged up an individual who went by the name of ‘football*kid’. The subsequent debriefing had highlighted the fact that the screen name (in a popular teenager’s chatroom) represented neither a kid nor a fan of the beautiful game. Rather, it was the masquerade of a predator trawling the web in order to score rather more nefarious goals.
She’d been advised that ‘football*kid’ was almost certainly male in his mid fifties and a manual labourer. The expert profiler had also hypothesized that he was obese and had low self-esteem. There was also a distinct possibility that, although married with children, he had little or no confidence with women of his own years. The very idea that a family man, rather than some weirdo loner, could be culpable did not sit well with Collin’s preconceptions. This, in spite of her own home truths regarding her father.
It had been a long, and so far, tiresome night. Collin’s attempts to ensnare ‘football*kid’ in the guise of her own alter-ego, ‘pigtails’, had, so far, proven fruitless. However, Collins was certainly no quitter. Her sheer tenacity had already achieved unparalleled success in the conviction of a clutch of unwitting fiends. Although football*kid’ employed a more tacit approach than most, she would assuredly get him in the end.
Of course, it’s widely understood amongst the professional criminal fraternity that young people’s chatrooms and social-networking sites are so heavily populated by undercover police officers that the average age of its occupants is thirty-seven. In fact, career criminals such people traffickers, recruiting jihadists and Catholic priests avoided them like the plague. The most ‘Trojan Barbie’ could ever hope for would be to nab the occasional blundering halfwit.
Given these inordinately high concentrations of psyched-up law enforcement officers, the probability of an occasional misunderstanding was fairly high. Indeed, natural laws dictate that when prey becomes relatively scarce, predators invariably turn on themselves and resort to cannibalism.
It was unfortunate, therefore, that D.S. Collins remained blissfully unaware that her correspondent (none other than D.S. Pauline Ashcroft) was engaged in similar crime detection activities at a secret location in Shropshire. Indeed, it came as no surprise when ‘football*kid’ asked her if she ‘liked ball games’. She considered her response carefully before resuming the elaborate ruse. ‘Yes I like netball and hockey,’ she keyed, ‘what ball games are you into?’
Some miles north, D.S. Pauline Ashcroft, considered her response to such a leading question. After some careful deliberation, she resumed typing. ‘I like to play lots of different ball games. Oh yeah, I really like playing with my balls! And I love it when I score...’
Back in a rather nondescript office in London, D.S. Collins considered the subtext of the message (was there any?). This was surely a pretty blatant and disgusting insinuation? Apparently, the vile creature was deliberately steering the conversation toward a sexual agenda via innuendo. The balls in question needed grabbing pretty urgently and yanked down to the nearest cop-shop. She hastily resumed, ‘My mummy just gave me a new netball kit. Would you like to see it or wot?’
D.S. Ashcroft was suitably flabbergasted by such a brazen invitation. This sicko was seriously audacious! ‘Pigtails’ was clearly an absolute menace that had to be taken out at all costs. There was no time to lose. Her heart pounded as she deftly tapped in her reply. ‘Yeah…sure. If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine - I’d love to see your strip. Maybe you’d like me to shoot one into the back of the net sometime?’
Meanwhile, D.S. Collins squinted in disbelief. Every moment that this maniac was on the loose could spell dire consequences. However, ‘Trojan Barbie’ methodology required certain checks and balances. She needed to wheedle out a clear statement of specific intent. The monster would have to proposition ‘pigtails’ in some fashion. Inspiration was quick to arrive. ‘I want to be friends. Maybe we could play together?’
As the instant message appeared on her screen, D.S. Ashcroft raised her hands in triumph. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘you’re so under arrest, you perv.’ She redoubled her efforts into typing. ‘Yes, I’d like to play. Where do you live?’
This was it, Collins realised - this was the clincher! She promptly adjusted herself below the desk. She became aware of a rather peculiar sensation. In fact, she was experiencing a rather disconcerting sensation of arousal. As she re-focussed her attentions back to the job-in-hand, she realised that she’d still not managed to pinpoint the perpetrator’s location. Maybe he’d got anti-tracking software? It was certainly proof that she dealing with quite a criminal mastermind (relatively speaking, that is). Thinking quickly, she recalled an enclosed location that was well served by CCTV. A shopping centre appeared to be the obvious choice. ‘I live near Croydon. We could meet in town. There’s a pet shop in the shopping centre…’
Meanwhile, D.S. Ashcroft was already triangulating the location. It was quite a long drive but it could be reached in a matter of hours. Soon, she’d be able to substantiate her theory that behind every ‘pigtail’ out there lurked some grubby old arsehole. Ashcroft formulated a rendezvous time as she began typing ‘Yes, I know the pet shop. I can meet you there at three tomorrow. I like doggies and I like the position. And you?’
D.S. Collins immediately hit the red button by her desk to notify the rapid response unit. It looked as if the match would be played on home turf. It was reassuring to think that ‘football*kid’ was on the verge of scoring the biggest home goal of his entire worthless life. Then it would be game over for one hell of a long time. Despite the fact that he’d somehow eluded their location detector, this particular villain would soon discover that the second half of his nasty little game would be played out in HMP Wandsworth. She returned her attentions to the keyboard. ‘Yes, I love doggies. 3pm is good for me. How will I know it’s you?’
DC Ashcroft hit the ‘livelink’ button on her keyboard. All her team were now privy to the unfolding drama of her cyber chat. The evidence against ‘pigtails’ was unequivocal. The events of the next few hours would probably even gain her a commendation. There was no time to loose. ‘I’ll be wearing a red sweatshirt with a big yellow balloon on it. You like balloons? What will you be wearing?’
Collins pondered her wardrobe for a moment. Most of her skirts were so skimpy that her off-duty colleagues had often jokingly referred her to as the Met’s ‘finest asset’. However, she did have a pink trouser suit she’d bought for a staff fancy-dress party. It would have to suffice. ‘I’ll be all in pink. I’ll also have little pigtails and a pink sparkly handbag. I bet you’ll love it! And yes, I really like pretty balloons.’
For D.S. Ashcroft, the momentary vision of a faux-camp, burley, cross-dressing construction worker seemed somewhat incongruous with the psychological profile. However, experience had taught her that monsters appeared in many guises. After finalising the rendezvous she decided to quiz ‘pigtails’ a little further about the peculiar choice of clothes.
It was probable that the pair would never have met and engaged in mutual online entrapment, if it wasn’t for an oversight on the part of Piers Cunningham (a malingering pen-pusher in Whitehall). Piers was charged with the duty of alerting surveillance teams to incidences of ‘website overlap’. However, Pier’s highly professional level of incompetence had placed both Collins and Ashcroft in dire peril.
PART II – Getting the wrong end of the stick.
It was now a game of cat and mouse (and budgerigar, hamster, rabbit etc.). D.S. Collins and her team had positioned themselves strategically about the ‘Pete’s Pet Paradise’. Amidst the squawking, mewing and barking, she activated her walkie-talkie. ‘Any sign of him yet, Reid?’ There was a moment of static.
‘No, nothing front of shop ma'am. Suspect hasn’t showed. Think he’ll turn up? Just that the parrot’s crapped on me again.’
‘Stick with it Reid. He’ll show,’ Collins reassured her subordinate, ‘besides, it’s not quite three yet. I imagine this freak’s pretty fixated with timekeeping. Always the way.’
‘Ma'am.’
‘Okay. Is Lawley still outside with the balloons?’
‘Yeah, I see him. He’s attracted quite a lot of punters though.’
‘Just keep a look out, alright? I don’t want this guy catching us unawares.’ As Collins nonchalantly turned a carousel of pet care books she glanced surreptitiously at a woman and child. Was that the girl’s real mother, she wondered? Maybe something far more sinister dwelt behind the seemingly harmless interplay of childish exuberance and maternal assurances?
Her radio crackled into life. ‘Erm, hello? This Emil at control HQ. We got something on CCTV. Looks like the…ahh…‘person’ yes? With balloon logo. It’s a woman though. She head your way…’
‘Eh? A woman?’
‘Affirmative. Thirty-ish, brown hair. Could be wrong, but I don’t think she’s alone.’
Collin’s mind began to race. ‘Not alone? What do you mean?’
‘Well, a couple of guys follow her. I think so, anyway…’
Collins rapidly calculated various scenarios. What if this villain had sent a stooge? Or maybe they were dealing with a transvestite and a couple of stalkers? That was possible too. However, the presence of possible henchmen would complicate matters. She hastily radioed Reid. ‘It’s possible there’s three of them, maybe more. Think you can handle it?’
‘Oh yeah, definitely. Showtime! Get ready to kick some ass,’ Reid said excitedly with a poorly feigned American accent.
‘Well, I’m calling in backup. Where’s Strachen?’
‘Hampsters. There he is! Repeat, suspect approaching…’
‘Alright guys. Wait until they’re inside the shop. They must be cornered before we bring ‘em down. I want this one to be smooth and quick.’
‘Okay boss. Lock ‘n’ load.’ Reid enthused.
‘Jesus Christ, Reid, just stay focussed okay?’
Collins peered between the bars of a cage and caught sight of her ‘entrapee’ that Emil had described. He appeared to loiter at the balcony whilst talking to himself. Abruptly, the suspect made a sharp beeline for the entrance. There was something unnerving in the fact that he did indeed exhibit a superficially feminine appearance despite a butch, rather strident manner. But that was immaterial - there was no going back now.
‘Ok guys, on my order…’ she murmured into her walkie-talkie.
However, as soon as the suspect crossed the threshold, there was pandemonium. Reid, already bristling with youthful vigour, launched himself. As he collided with the suspect, there was a shriek as the pair barrelled into a cage of Parakeets. Even before the cage had clattered to the ground, an unidentified assailant charged at the recumbent forms. He leapt onto Reid, heaving him into his back, fists flailing. Strachen bolted towards the affray, truncheon drawn, bringing it down onto the accomplice’s shoulder blade. In the melee of punches and thrashing limbs, a goldfish bowl toppled over dousing the writhing forms with assortment of tropical fish.
‘Shit! Back up! Where’s the bloody back up for Christ’s sakes?’ Collins screamed into her radio.
Outside the shop, an incensed D.C. Lawley promptly relinquished his remaining balloons and charged towards the fight. The poor, ill-fated goldfish that he slipped on spent it’s last seconds couriering the officer into a stack of hamster cages sending them toppling against a stack of chinchillas which, in turn, felled an outcrop of bird boxes.
Unfortunately, Collin’s frantic cry of ‘Stop! Police officers!’ was interpreted by her northern counterparts as recognition of their own status. It moved them to redouble their efforts; now imbued with the belief that their attackers had deduced their identities and were attempting to affect a desperate escape.
Collins wisely held back, realising that the fracas was becoming decidedly vicious. Afterall, what could she do until backup arrived?
Somehow, Reid’s trousers had been wrestled down and the prime suspect appeared to be grappling with his testicles in an attempt to immobilise him.
‘Get yer fuckin’ hands of me yer nonce!’ He bawled, before issuing an agonised howl that punctured the frenzied cacophony of squawks and squeals. Meanwhile, Lawley was set upon by a third attacker who was promptly reinforced by the arrival of a fourth. D.C. Strachen broke cover and dived into the affray. One of the criminals had been fortunate in the discovery of a large dog chew, which was proving to be a very effective improvised cudgel. As the brawl spiralled into pitched-battle, a crowd of onlookers had gathered outside. Many of them cheered as the blows were exchanged and there was the occasional rallying call of ‘Go on my son, ‘it ‘im!’
However, one of the more civic-minded citizens opted to call emergency services, who in turn, referred the report on to the rapid response unit. In fact, the incidence of another random act of wanton destruction and brutality was entirely plausible for Croydon given the pugilistic nature of the populace. One only had to recall the riotous tantrum thrown following England’s defeat in the World Cup.
Collins slunk back of the shop but was swiftly confronted by ‘Pete’, the rather apoplectic shop owner.
‘Ere, ‘ave yer seen what they’re doin’ to all my bleedin’ stock? I’ll be fuckin’ ruined, I tell yer! I can’t afford this!’
Collins rounded on him, ‘Listen you, back off okay? Just stay out of this or I’ll have you arrested!’
‘Me arrested!’ he bellowed, ‘Listen, it’s you who should be bloody arrested. This is criminal damage mate! And someone’s g’nu ‘ave to pay for all this bleedin’ lot an’ all!’
Collins was incensed. ‘I’m warning you, yeah? If, you carry on with anymore threatening behaviour, I’ll do you for disturbance of the peace!’
The dispute was cut short by the sudden arrival of hoards of heavily armoured riot police who swarmed into the shop wielding Tasers which were promptly discharged. Collins gazed in disbelief as boots and truncheons rained down. Sheer force of numbers and a few well-aimed blows finally restored order. Bruised and battered, the ‘insurgents’ were forcibly dragged from what remained of the pet shop and promptly handcuffed. Despite their protestations and flash of the occasional badge, they were frogmarched, staggering and limping, into awaiting police vehicles.
Collins opted to avoid any potential personal injury and go quietly. It was a simple misunderstanding, she tried to assure herself. However, this rather charitable assessment of the situation wasn’t one shared by her superiors.
PART III – Swallowing one’s pride…
‘Tell me Collins, do the words ‘total fucking catastrophe’ mean anything to you?’ Detective Inspector Humes hissed menacingly from across the desk.
‘Sir, if you’ll just let me go over this, I’d like to…’
‘Like to what? Explain?' Humes balled. ‘Listen Collins, we’ve invested nigh-on three million in acquiring this tracking software. How hard can it be to apprehend someone? I mean, it should be easier than catching a turd in a shitstorm, surely?’
Collins shrunk somewhat, unable to meet the fearsome glare that verged on the belligerent. ‘Yes sir, I suppose so. But I…'
‘Listen, do you honestly think we can afford a repeat performance of the Portsmouth Paedophile riots? Christ, resources are already stretched to breaking-point without having to post a guard on every paediatrician, pedicurist and pied-à-terre owner in the fucking borough! We were set up to help avoid repeats of the braying rabble going loco, not to recreate it!’ Humes snarled.
Collins swallowed hard, words struggled to escape a parched throat. ‘With, erm…all due respect sir…I did follow procedures. If you’ve read my report you’ll see…'
‘Read your report?’ Humes seethed. ‘No I haven’t read your damn report. You wanna know why? Well, I’ve spent all morning trawling through forty-seven pages of shit from the Police Complaints Authority. After that, I’ve got to deal with compensation claims from Pete’s Pet Purveyor. And I note that the he’s demanding recompense for pig’s ears amongst the other damaged stock. Ironic, don’t you think? I mean, seeing as you’ve made such a fucking pig’s ear of this whole operation?’
Collins glanced up at the chief sullenly before returning her gaze to the floor.
‘Oh, and the shopkeeper’s also threatening to sue us for loss of trade!’ Humes barked, regarding the document he was holding. ‘Not forgetting, of course, a traumatised parrot, a crushed hamster, a gerbil with concussion and thirteen asphyxiated goldfish. Jesus, there must be more chance of finding residual animal life in an abotoirre!'
‘But sir, it was Reid,’ Collins implored, ‘He didn’t…’
‘I’m not interested in Reid. It was you heading up this fucking debacle and I ought to have you thrown out the force.’
Collins shifted uncomfortably in an unnerving silence.
‘And, of course, this isn’t the first little fuck-up from you, Collins. I mean, it was only last week when you arrested Mr Ortega for emailing residents in his care home photos of his great-granddaughter’s swimming trip. I mean the guy been incontinent and bed-ridden for nine years for Christ’s sake! He had no previous form either. Do you honestly think this person represents a threat? I mean you’d only need to follow the trail of piss to catch the poor old bastard.’
‘But sir, I followed procedures to the letter. If you’d only check my case notes you’d see that.’ Collins offered.
‘Listen Collins, you’d better have a damn good explanation for this latest fucking fiasco. If not, I think you’ll find that your career in the force is gonna vanish faster than of a bar of soap in nun’s bathhouse!’ Humes bawled. ‘I mean, I’ve just had the Chief on the blower who’s ready to turn my testicles into a novelty desk ornament.’
Collins sighed despondently, desperately trying to reorder the chaotic jumble of events that now threatened to engulf her.
‘I’ve now got the medical reports in front of me and they don’t make for pleasant reading. I mean, I’ve only glanced through them so far but I’ve already seen a partly chewed off ear, two broken noses and a dislocated shoulder. The sick leave alone for this little lot will haemorrhage our budget. And how the hell some poor bastard ended up with a distended testicle is, quite frankly, beyond me! Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do with my time than look through photos of purple scrotums? Hmm?’ Humes fumed.
Collins blanched under the withering stare. ‘But Sir, I followed our procedures. As I say, if you check my case notes…’
'I’ve don’t care about your report, damn it! There’s no excuse for this. What the hell were you all thinking of? I mean, there must have been one hell of a cock-up somewhere along the line?'
It was certainly true that Collins was no stranger to ‘cock-ups’. Yes, she’d had her time of being a good-time girl of Croydon but wasn't that was all behind her now? Besides, it was considered rude not to be a predatory nymphomaniac in that part of the world. Still, she felt increasingly indignant at being made into a scapegoat. ‘With all due respect Sir, I believe that it was our procedures at fault. I mean maybe we’ve moved too far towards the assumption of guilt and forgotten the presumption of innocence. We’ve stopped being dispassionate in these cases. I mean, the whole country’s turned paranoid.
‘Go on...’ Humes pressed testily.
‘We’re effectively second-guessing an intention using 'pet theories'; top-down processing. But despite following these operational procedures it's still, ultimately, just hunches. Technology hasn’t changed that, sir. Hunches can occasionally be way off the mark. I may have made the wrong assumption this time, but most of them have turned out to be spot on. I’ve saved many vulnerable people. But we’re still playing a game of probability here, Sir. I just think it’s something that’s been forgotten somewhere along the line, that’s all.’
‘Hmm, well, I suppose I can see your points.’ Humes conceded reluctantly, eying up his subordinate’s pert nipples. (He’d deliberately turned down the heating in order to bring out the best in her). She was certainly feisty too. It was a fine quality in a woman. Humes wondered longingly what other qualities lay hidden under her bushel. Of course, he’d heard the rumours of the ‘office letterbox’. Indeed as things stood, there was still a lot riding on her. She had great potential - way more than many of the other hopefuls.
Collins felt threatened by Hume’s silent deliberation. The last thing she needed was a disciplinary on her record. Fortunately, she was extremely well versed in the art of charm. ‘Sir, I love this job. I’m totally, one hundred percent committed to the work,’ She cooed breathily. ‘It was an honest mistake Sir. I just wish you could overlook it somehow. I’ll do anything to keep this job…anything. And, yes I do mean anything...” she pleaded coquettishly.
Humes got up purposefully and locked the door. Collins gave him a knowing look as he hastily unfastened his fly.
“Okay, Collins. I’m prepared to give you a second chance this time. I’ll accept your proposal, provided that you accept mine.”
“Your wish it my command, Daddy,” Collins cooed, whilst trying to appear bashful.
What began as a something of a tongue-lashing ended with one, although this time - it had to be said - it was a very happy ending.
© Edwin Black
