Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [4]
‘Just the usual,’ said Lesley. ‘Senseless killing, blah, blah. Inner-city violence, what is London coming to, blah.’
‘Blah,’ I said.
‘What are you doing up before noon?’ she asked.
‘Got my career progression meeting with Neblett at twelve.’
‘Good luck with that,’ she said.
I knew it was all going pear-shaped when Inspector Neblett called me by my first name.
‘Tell me, Peter,’ he said. ‘Where do you see your career going?’
I shifted in my chair.
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I was thinking of CID.’
‘You want to be a detective?’ Neblett was, of course, a career ‘uniform’, and thus regarded plain-clothes police officers in much the same way as civilians regard tax inspectors. You might, if pressed, concede that they were a necessary evil but you wouldn’t actually let your daughter marry one.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why limit yourself to CID?’ he asked. ‘Why not one of the specialist units?’
Because you don’t, not when you’re still on probation, say that you want to be in the Sweeney or a Murder Investigation Team and swan around in a big motor while wearing handmade shoes.
‘I thought I’d start at the beginning and work my way up, sir,’ I said.
‘That’s a very sensible attitude,’ said Neblett.
I suddenly had a horrible thought. What if they were thinking of sending me to Trident? That was the Operational Command Unit charged with tackling gun crime within the black community. Trident was always on the lookout for black officers to do hideously dangerous undercover work, and being mixed race meant that I qualified. It’s not that I don’t think they do a worthwhile job, it’s just that I didn’t think I’d be very good at it. It’s important for a man to know his limitations, and my limitations started at moving to Peckham and hanging around with yardies, postcode wannabes and those weird, skinny white kids who don’t get the irony in Eminem.
‘I don’t like rap music, sir,’ I said.
Neblett nodded slowly. ‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, and I resolved to keep a tighter grip on my mouth.
‘Peter,’ he said, ‘over the last two years I’ve formed a very positive opinion of your intelligence and your capacity for hard work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And then there is your science background.’
I have three C-grade A levels in Maths, Physics and Chemistry. This is only considered a science background outside of the scientific community. It certainly wasn’t enough to get me the university place I wanted.
‘You’re very useful at getting your thoughts down on paper,’ said Neblett.
I felt a cold lump of disappointment in my stomach. I knew exactly what horrifying assignment the Metropolitan Police had planned for me.
‘We want you to consider the Case Progression Unit,’ said Neblett.
The theory behind the Case Progression Unit is very sound. Police officers, so the established wisdom has it, are drowning in paperwork, suspects have to be logged in, the chain of evidence must never be broken and the politicians and PACE, the Police And Criminal Evidence Act, must be followed to the letter. The role of the Case Progression Unit is to do the paperwork for the hard-pressed constable so he or she can get back out on the street to be abused, spat at and vomited on. Thus will there be a bobby on the beat, and thus shall crime be defeated and the good Daily Mail-reading citizens of our fair nation shall live in peace.
The truth is that the paperwork is not that onerous – any half-competent temp would dispose of it in less than an hour and still have time to do his nails. The problem is that police work is all about ‘face’ and ‘presence’ and remembering what a suspect said one day so you can catch them in a lie on the next. It’s about going towards the scream, staying calm and being the one that opens a suspect package. It’s not that you can’t do both, it’s just that it’s not exactly common. What Neblett was saying to me was that I wasn’t a real copper – not a thief taker – but I might play a valuable role freeing up real coppers. I could tell with a sick certainty that those very words ‘valuable role’ were rushing towards the conversation.