The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

now, courtesy of the gentleman’s instructions and that he should sit tight, and enjoy it. The siren went on and they were both laughing. They passed the front of the Leisure Centre, and Cameron saw them. They stopped and turned and she was carrying the baby, and her husband had his arm around her shoulder – Vicky and Gavin. The siren was deafening. They came to a junction, and then a roundabout and again the driver needed to slow.

He saw the old man. He was walking quickly, short steps, and the car’s siren would have blasted his ears. Didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it.

“Really sorry, was held up. Buses were a nightmare this morning,” Sadie Jilkes said to her supervisor.

Dave Hunter said, “I don’t want to remember any of that. It’s gone and should be forgotten . . . it’s like somewhere and something far away and outside our experience. We’re safe, and that’s the end of it.”

At the side door of Thames House, each holding a plastic container of coffee were Tristram and Izzy.

It did not have to be said, but Tristram did. “That’s that, then.”

He did not have to be answered, but Izzy said, “Gone, swallowed into that great electronic mouth – good riddance.”

They had talked it through all the way back to London. Had taken a taxi, with the dog, had argued with the driver about his willingness to ferry it, and had given him both barrels. Had dropped it off, no word of explanation and left the string of questions hanging . . . Had turned their backs on Sturry after collecting the office car from down the road from the Hunters’ house. Had driven back to London and had chewed it.

He’d said, “No way I’m suited to it – tried it and failed it.”

She’d said, “A war without end and I haven’t the stamina to go the course.”

“Takes people of a sort to fight that war, Izzy, and I don’t want to be like them.”

“Good for him, though – for old Merrick, Eternal Flame, Wobby and all that crap. Not for me.”

Two armed police sidled up to them, would have come from the back entrance on Thorney Street. Said they were Kev and Leroy, said they had been told to be here, at around this time, not given an explanation: had weapons hanging from their shoulders and belts. Tristram shrugged, Izzy grimaced, no answers offered . . . They had each written a letter of resignation, identical. Had offered their judgements that they were not suited for the work involved. Each had pressed Send. Alea iacta est, he had said, and she’d replied that he could be a pompous prat, then had kissed his cheek: they were an item. They would confirm that status as soon as they could get the paperwork done and be clear of the building: might be at her place or on the bed in his flat. And they’d also had time, coming into London, to take the first steps in future planning: maybe health and safety in the private sector, maybe social work . . . where victories could be counted.

The car arrived, lights flashing behind the front grille, and another had been at a crazy angle on the roof, and they had the siren blasting. Tristram took her mug and walked the few paces to the café and dumped his and hers on a table: rude, but it did not matter; he could not imagine they would use the place again. He told Kev and Leroy that he was taking charge of a prisoner who was being brought up in police custody from Kent, and what their role would be.

The car pulled up on a double yellow.

The AssDepDG had materialised behind them.

In the car, sunk on the back seat, his hands awkwardly fastened behind him, was Cameron Jilkes. Tristram thought it hardly a glorious end to the man’s work. Like the defiance was knocked out of him, like the fight had already been crushed. Threatening? Hardly. A hazard to public safety? Did not seem to be.

He heard a murmured voice behind him, “Not much to write home about, is he? Bit of a let-down, I’d say. But that’s how they all are when their ego takes a dive. Well done, both of you. I expect you’ve enjoyed it, being alongside old Jonas, my Wise Old Bird. Quite a privilege. You’re very lucky.”

And he was gone. Tristram wondered how far Jonas Merrick, Wobby, had travelled on the train, whether he was into London yet, and how his face was, and his bruises. Izzy had the paperwork on a clipboard.

Cameron was helped from the car. New handcuffs were put on him, and the original pair were handed back to the policewoman. There was a moment when the prisoner seemed to lift his head, look up at the sky above Horseferry Road, then tilt and look further and see scudding clouds over Lambeth Bridge, and might have sniffed at that air. Then Kev had a hold of one arm and Leroy had the other.

Leroy’s question, “Is this down to old Merrick? Bet it is. He’s a fucking guy, that one. Proper special.”

Kev quipped, “Amazing guy. Like the man said, ‘You’re very lucky’. Too right.”

Izzy had them sign for delivery, and added her own signature, handed it over. What to say? Nothing. The car drove away. The prisoner would be held in a waiting area until the anti-terror police arrived and he could be taken into orthodox custody.

There would be a brief interview with each of them by Human Resources. Would admit that they did not feel suited, would be shown the door and have their ID cards mangled. Would go to find a bed somewhere, his or hers, and would accept that they had failed the career test.

She said, “Didn’t much look like a crocodile, that Jilkes, did he?”

He said, “Nor would Merrick seem to fit the bill for an intrepid crocodile hunter.”

On the east side of Grantham is the local crematorium. Good car parking available, and minimal camera surveillance at