The Abbottsford Police Chronicles – # 1 - Paul Curtis (simple ebook reader txt) 📗

/> With PC Holt out of the way Walter turned his gaze upon Bill.
“That was good work on the Pepperstock case constable Overend” The DI said looking suspiciously at his tea.
“Thank you sir” Replied Bill
“How would you like get out of uniform permanently?” Quilty asked “and join my team?”
“Very much sir”
“Do you think you can handle it?” Questioned the DI
“Yes sir”
“Ok I’ll square it with Superintendent Foxton” Said Walter as he stood leaving his tea.
“Unless you hear otherwise report to CID tomorrow, eight thirty”
The DI said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Yes sir”

Isabels birth was followed by another daughter Abigail then sons Daniel and Harry luckily his promotions followed at a similarly frenetic pace.
.
By the time Harry arrived Bill had made Inspector and his boss was promoted to DCI
This was on the back of their success in solving a very high profile child abduction case.
Arresting both abductors as well as securing the child’s release, unharmed.

Bill inherited most of his predecessors team plus the addition of two new transfers Detective Constable Boris Katarski and Detective Sergeant Tom Adamson.
Bill was very much a first impressions kind of person and when he overheard the two men talking he knew they would fit right in..
“Katarski? What sort of name is that? Where the hell does a name like that come from?” asked the DS.
“Cricklewood Sarge” he answered walking away.
“Ask a stupid question” Adamson muttered to himself.
Bill chose Tom Adamson as his DS.
He never regretted it.

The house, “Little Hardings,” was nestled in the hillside amidst the remnants of the ancient forest, which was once draped across the whole of the southern landscape.
The garden sloped gently away from the house and he looked out across the valley to the distant lights of Abbeyvale, the nearest town, and beyond to Grace Hill on the far side of the valley.
He looked up at the clear night sky.
The sky was clear but for the heavens bejeweled with stars, were their more stars in the sky tonight, no of course not, it’s just been a while since he enjoyed the simple pleasure of the night sky.
There was frost in the air and his breath showed like plumes of smoke as he exhaled.
“Smoke.” He heard himself say “if only.”
He found himself wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking, he hadn’t thought about smoking for months.
Bill had stopped smoking nearly a year ago, St George’s day.
He had defeated the nicotine monster as St George had defeated the dragon he would have said it was symbolic were it not for the fact that he hated symbolism so much.
He had been a serious smoker for almost thirty years.
What prompted him to stop?
It certainly wasn’t the insufferable bores who would wave their hands exaggeratedly in front of them and cough irritatingly while simultaneously rolling there tongue out and grimacing when ever they are in a smokers presence.
People like that only make you wish you smoked a pipe.
Nor was it the endless health warnings where smoking was the cause of every illness from cancer and heart disease to athlete’s foot and piles.
Bill always thought that every smoker accepted that smoking was harmful to your health.
But they took a gamble that it wouldn’t happen to them, that was certainly his view.
Even the fact that his brother, who was five years his senior, and a heavy smoker, had had a series of heart attacks when he was Bills age didn’t deter him from smoking.
And he was certainly feeling the effects of smoking like the morning cough and the breathless gasps climbing stairs.
As for National no smoking day he always found it to be an amusing concept.
Many more smokers would participate if there were also a national smoking day when all the sanctimonious little prigs would have to have at least five good drags on a Woodbine.
That would give them something to cough about.
Then there is the annual ritual of the Chancellors Budget, when anything which might give the slightest pleasure to the great unwashed, must be taxed. But even having to pay more for the privilege didn’t persuade him to stop smoking.
What finally pushed him over the edge was the realization of the fact that he was an addict.
He was no longer choosing to be a smoker; he was one because he was addicted.
He was no better than a common junkie.
And that just made him mad.
He’d never really tried quitting before and he wasn’t sure how too.
There were plenty whom did have the solution to his problem and they weren’t backwards in coming forwards.
The funny thing was that most of them had never smoked in their lives.
His Aunt Mary suggested Hypnosis.
He really didn’t fancy hypnosis at all just incase they discovered he was the reincarnated embodiment of Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler or even worse a new labor supporter.
The woman in the off license suggested acupuncture.
Acupuncture was never going to do it for him.
He didn’t believe in alternative medicine.
And if you don’t believe in the treatments one hundred percent they will never work.
Also he thought there is something faintly ridiculous about some one who sticks pins in people for a living.
And he lost count of the people who swore by nicotine substitutes, patches, chewing gum, lozenges, tablets or inhalers, all designed to replace the nicotine you would normally get from tobacco.
To his way of thinking if you want an efficient means of getting nicotine into your system then have a fag.
Now as a confirmed cynic he happened to think that nicotine substitutes are more effective at keeping affluent Pharmaceutical companies affluent than helping people to break the habit of smoking.
The addiction was to nicotine after all.
In the end he chose cold turkey, why do they call it that? , He didn’t know.
With a little positive thinking and an awful lot of will power he did it.
It was a lot easier than he thought it was going to be.
The first week was by far the hardest but he did start to feel the benefits, such as more energy, improved sense of taste and smell and tackling the stairs without getting breathless, which boosts you up when your will power might get a little shaky.
He found the hardest things were social events especially those involving alcohol, but it could be done.
He never really suffered any withdrawal symptoms but he has suffered the most extraordinary side effects in the form of unusual and extraordinarily vivid dreams.
Just a few nights ago for example, it should be mentioned that under no circumstances could Bill be described as a Cricket fan.
His knowledge of the game is virtually non-existent, this may seem an odd subject to dream about then when he detests it so much but nonetheless he did.
It amused him greatly as he thought of it.
He had on many occasions described the games rules as unfinished because the games inventor died of boredom before he could complete his work.
He always enjoyed baiting cricket fans with his suggestions as to how to improve the game, such as “tip and run” a concept familiar to most young boys forced to play the game.
Or playing with a burning ball, that would liven up the game.
So why someone so disparaging about the game should dream about it is one of life’s imponderables.
He had been selected to represent England in a test match against the West Indies in Trinidad.
If that wasn’t amazing enough he was to open the batting with Phil Tuffnell, you see even his subconscious knows nothing about Cricket.
Now for some reason there was an unpronounceable Pakistani bowling and Bill hit the last ball of his first over the pavilion for a huge six.
As he began acknowledging the crowd’s applause, Tuffers began walking down the wicket so Bill walked to the middle to meet him, he shook Bills hand warmly and then he reached in to his pocket and brought out a packet of menthol cigarettes and offered him one, and they stood there smoking and soaking in the atmosphere.
As they stared about them they saw the West Indies captain talking animatedly with the umpire and they turned their gaze on Tuffers and Bill and then walked towards them.
Bill naturally thought they were in big trouble and even Phil looked a little nervous.
As they reached the middle the umpire said “I am sorry Gentlemen to interrupt your smoke break but do you think I could trouble you for a match”? And he took out his pipe.
And that was how it continued after every over they would meet in the middle and have a smoke.
And that is fairly typical of the dreams he has from time to time.
I suppose the big questions are firstly, does he miss it?
Yes he does, not that he has cravings.
What he misses is the habit, the ritual and the feel of a cigarette in his hands.
And secondly would he ever smoke again?
Yes in a heartbeat but he would regret it so he refrains.
He would kill for one now though.

He looks at his watch
2.00am.
He shakes his head and sighs.
He is standing in the middle of his lawn in his back garden at 2.00am on a cold march night wearing dressing gown and slippers wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking.
He looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes.
Correction wearing wet slippers and wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking.
Just then bright yellow light spills into the darkness behind him illuminating the lawn but for his large shadow stretching into the darkness.
“Bill are you coming in?” A woman’s voice called softy.
It was his wife Sally also donning dressing gown and slippers.
Sally however, sensibly chose not to venture out into the night air and just put her head out far enough around the French door to call to Bill without waking the neighborhood.
“I’ve made coffee.” She waited a few moments.
“OK sweetheart” Bill returned in equally hushed tones without turning round.
“I’ll be in, in a moment”
He heard the door close and the bright light disappeared as Sally drew the curtain back across the door.
He looked at his watch again 2.05am.
Bill despaired.
He had had some intriguing cases over his career and he was certainly no stranger to sleepless nights, either because of his work or because of the children.
Every parent experiences it at some time even with the best of children.
But this was different this was a new experience.
And it was something totally out of his control he could do nothing.
He could not help in any way, he felt redundant.
He was about to become a Grandfather for the first time.

Sally was sitting in her armchair giving every outward appearance of dignified calm.
She was in her normal corner beneath her lamp, cross-stitching, the normal paraphernalia scattered about her.
But for the fact that she had re-stitched the same area six times she was coping well.
She was wishing now that she had not insisted that her son in law, Paul, phone the moment, Isabel went into labor.
“We could have had a good nights sleep and woken to the happy news” She said to herself.
But it wasn’t the lack of sleep that worried her it was not being with her daughter to help.
She looked at the clock again.
“It hasn’t bloody moved”