Promoted straight from Uniform Branch without any previous CID experience, he couldn't detect a gas leak with a lighted match. His idea of investigation was house-to-house enquiries and he didn't know what a snout (informer) looked like. Crime Scene Examination was a poke of the genteel hood around the doorframe and the stilted question, "Anything of value?" Interrogation to him was a bland statement, "Look here, my man, you'd better tell us all about it." The standard reply to that bull-shit was, "Go fuck yourself." Now I was going to be lumbered with him for at least a couple of hours.

His miasma was as much of a pain in the arse to him as he was to us, and to get out of the house he had taken to coming in on a "modified Late Shift" as he called it to spend some time "getting to know the lads." This process usually entailed a stiff conversation about the Police Staff College, of which he was a graduate, the state of Society as a Hole, and a tentative enquiry as to how my favorite soccer team was doing. The stupid bugger couldn't get it through his toggin that I was a Welshman and that Rugby football was the only game that counted. When emphatically reminded of this fact he would stammer, "Oh-Oh-Yes, I had for-forgotten."

This particular night I was feeling ticked off that he was upsetting my plans and just grunted a greeting as he pulled up a chair. Rising to my feet, I reached for my coat and said, "Well, sir, I'm afraid I've got to love you and leave you. I'm off to look for an informant who can give me some info on that robbery with violence at Burlingham Terrace last week." This was said in the hope that he would stay in the office; but, true to form, the prick jumped to his feet and said, "me bloody eagerly for my liking, 'Goodie, I'll accompany you.'"

Now, I must tell you why the prospect of walking into one of the lower class pubs with Him made my stomach turn. When he promoted to Inspector he had taken it as a sign that he had been elevated to the peerage, and dressed accordingly. Tonight he was dressed in a crisp white shirt with starched collar and striped regimental tie (the bugger had never been in the Boy Scouts, let alone a regiment of any kind), a dead black, three-button jacket and, of all fuckin' things to go pubbin' in—striped trousers. He looked like a soddin' floorwalker for a department store.

Although he bore a passing resemblance to the actor, Gregory Peck, there was a vacuity in his expression that told you that the lights were on but there was no bugger at home. I commented to myself that all he needed now was a bloody bowler hat when the prick produced one from the desk top behind him. Setting it foursquare on his head, he said, jovially, "Come along, let's get out there and fight crime." "Oh, fuck me dead!"

We clattered down the stairs and out through the Charge Room. The Station Sergeant accepted my comment of, "Out in the Town, Sarge," with a lift of an eyebrow and the comment, "Got a limo waiting 'ave yer?"

"What did he mean by that," queried the D.I.

"Fuckin' simpleton, thought I and grunted, 'Dunno, air, smart remark I guess.'"

My mind was racing as to where to take this prick without buggering up my circle of contacts that would piss themselves laughing at the sight of this twit with me. We headed down through the centre of town and halfway down the main street it came to me in a flash: The Bunch of Grapes! One of toughest pubs, in a part of town where I had served my apprenticeship on the beat. Got my nose broken twice in bloody good scups there. "I think we'll try the Grapes, air, my snout might be in there. No self-respecting snout would be seen dead in there as my suspected involvement with the police would garner him a kicking, but heck, the D.I. probably didn't know where the bloody place was.

Right on cue, the prick said, "Ah, where exactly is 'The Grapes,' eh?" he had an annoying habit of putting phrases in verbal inverted commas.

"Down by the railway arches, near the river, air, you must have gone there when you walked the beat." I knew full well that he had only survived one night shift on the beat, complained of stomach problems, given the right handshake and spent the early part of his career clerking in the Coroner's Office. That's how the bagger had so much time to swot for his promotion exams, while other poor sods had to fit study around shift work, court and anything else that came along for the practical copper.

"Ah, yes, that's right, one of those low class dives, isn't it," he stated with a certainty that belied the fact the bagger didn't have a clue where it was.

The Grapes was in fact a low class dive, which was why I headed there. I knew there'd be some roughnecks there who would recognize me for what I was and put the word around that the cops were in the establishment. The peeling stucco and the rotting timbers of the face-Tudor frontage presented a dismal picture. That, and the drunk leaning into an adjacent doorway, mumbling to himself and pissing away his last few pints, gave real tone to the neighborhood.

I elbowed my way through the door into the main bar, followed closely by the D.I., now exhibiting a little nervousness. We were in a dingy room with tobacco-cream walls and oak paneling. A layer of blue smoke hung in the air, what there was of it, and the stale odor of a scruffy pub pervaded the atmosphere - home sweet bloody home, for some.

I bellied up to the bar and attracted the barman's attention by waving a pound note, always an attention-getter in a place where coin was the normal form of transaction, much of that stolen from violated gas meters. The ugly bagger with a filthy apron eyed me up and down, and said, "What the fuck do the coppers want tonight?" This was delivered in a loud enough tone that several heads shot up and one or two of the clientele made their way swiftly towards the side door.

"I'll have a pint of Watney's and..." Looking over my shoulder to the D.I.

"Er, um, a half of shandy, if you please," came the nervous voice.

At that, a lout who was standing on my left turned towards us and looked us up and down.

"Jesus, it's Taffy. How the fuck are you doin' my son. 'Aven't seen you since you nicked me and my brother for g.b.h two years ago. Fair cop, though, and we only got six months apiece."

The speaker was Rocky Stone, a roughneck who did no work, lots of thieving and lived off a reputation for savage brutality. He had been a Royal Marine Commando during the war, when killers were at a premium, and had seen some real action.

"Awright, Rocky, keeping out of trouble are you?"

"Ere, who's that fuckin tailor's dummy you got with your?" His eyes widened in disbelief at the establishment apparition standing slightly behind me with a half pint of a beer and lemonade mix, a real poother's drink.

Now was my chance. "Oh, this is the new D.I., Inspector Blandon, Rocky."

Rocky's eyes widened even further and a smile slowly erupt across his features. He turned to the room in general and made an announcement in a voice that cut through the pall of smoke and chatter. "Hey up everybody, this tailor's dummy with Taffy here is the new D.I., believe it or not. Now we got a bit of clarce in the hestablishment, eh? Let's give 'im a rousin' cheer boys."

Everybody gave a roaring jeer that rattled the rafters. I looked at the D.I. and felt slightly, but not too much, sorry for him. He stood there with his face beetroot red, shifting from one foot to the other as the derisive sound swept around us.

"Come on, let's get out of here. There's no point in staying now that they know who we are."

"Certainly, sir," I said, "if I hadn't told Rocky who you were, they'd have never recognized you as a copper. More like a bank clerk on a rambjy night out, I reckon." I tipped Rocky a wink and downed my pint. The D.I. placed his untouched shandy back on the bar and we exited stage left to a chorus of whoops and hollers. It was quite clear that we were heading back to the station and no words were exchanged until we arrived on the forecourt.

"I'll, er, leave you to your own devices now and get on home," said the D.I.

"Aw, what a shame, sir," I replied, "I was rather looking forward to your company for the rest of the evening. Are you sure you won't reconsider. I've got another couple of pubs I'd like to visit, see if my snout is out and about tonight."

There was no reply from the stiff figure scurrying over to his car. It took him just seconds to unlock, start up and smoke out of the forecourt, propelled by embarrassment.