A Policeman's Lot

Editorial support is acknowledged with deep gratitude, any remaining errors are all mine!

*****

"When constabulary duty's to be done -

To be done.

Ah, take one consideration with another -

With another,

A policeman's lot is not a happy one."

From the light operatic piece:

The Pirates of Penzance

, by Gilbert and Sullivan

Newly promoted police sergeant Richard Probert of the Eastern Counties Police Constabulary looked at himself in his wife's full length mirror in their bedroom. The stripes and his silver buttons on his tunic shone out to him. His blue shirt, his sharply creased trousers, all looked good. Damn good! He smiled to himself.

He was aware that some constabularies were tending to depart from long established tradition and were replacing the blue shirts with white shirts. "That's all well-and-good," he said to himself. "But how can we continue to be called 'The Boys in Blue' if they do that?"

He was glad that in this respect the Eastern Counties Police Constabulary was more old-fashioned. They were even resisting, at least so far, the new craze for replacing Police Constabulary with the new

mot du jour

"Police Force."

He doffed his helmet. He was going to start working in a new department following his promotion to Sergeant. He would have to serve as a uniformed sergeant for at least a year before being transferred back into the CID, which was part of how they ensured every officer had a good knowledge of all aspects of police work.

He knew that when, if, he was promoted from sergeant to Inspector, he would have to spend a year as a uniformed Inspector before becoming a Detective Inspector.

He had found the exams to become a police sergeant relatively easy, but the exams to become an inspector of police were a little harder. Although it was not exactly common for someone to take the course for sergeant and inspector at the same time, it was not unknown, but there was always a gap between being promoted from sergeant to inspector.

Should that promotion happen, for he had met a couple of hardened and embittered Sergeants who, for one reason or another, had never been promoted to Inspector, though they had both passed their Inspector's exams. Promotion in the police was never an automatic sure thing. He knew that, but would guard against complacency as much as he could.

When he had first applied to join the constabulary he had bemused his interview panel. He had earned a BSc in Criminology at the Eastern Counties University, which had changed its name when the Polytechnics were abolished; previously, it had been the Brigdeacre Polytechnic.

The members of the interview panel had presumed that he was applying for a Fast Track Promotion Route, which he pointed out, was not the case.

He looked at the three officers on the interview panel; there were two grizzled looking sergeants and a female inspector.

"No, thanks. I'd not like to be on the fast track programme. I just want to join up as an ordinary Police constable and work my way up through the ranks by my own efforts."

They looked at each other. Eventually the inspector asked, "Why?"

He gave them a disarming smile before replying: "Because of officers like you three. I bet you weren't fast tracked, were you? You joined up as constables and worked your way up through the ranks. You didn't take any short cuts to skip quickly through the ranks, so you were able to learn everything you could learn, everything you needed to learn as you made your way up through the ranks, being mentored by older and more experienced colleagues.

"You are the type of police officers I want to emulate, not those who played leapfrog with the Fast Track Programme."

They all nodded.

After several seconds one of them said, "You obviously have something or someone in mind that has made you think this way. This won't go any further, I think you can have our words on this." His colleagues nodded in agreement. "But do you have any particular cases in mind?"

Probert nodded before speaking. He knew he would have to choose his words, carefully.

"Yes, a couple of cases, but the main one on my mind is that of Frank Jones down in the Met. Obviously, when that man was shot by members of his squad, it was not his direct responsibility, but some of the lecturers at my university were former Met Police officers and when we discussed the case, they raised the question as to whether or not Commander Jones was a fit and proper person for the job, and if his decision making abilities had been compromised by his fast tracking through the ranks.

"They concluded that, on balance, they probably hadn't been, but I and some of the other students weren't totally convinced. Me, because I wanted to make sure I would become the best copper that I could become, and if that involves harder work as I make my way through the ranks, then so be it."

He passed the interview with flying colours.

He had met his wife-to-be at a University dance; she was training to become a teacher, Jennifer "call me Jenny" Miller was an absolute peach of a girl. Six inches shorter than Richard, who was just over six feet in height, they made an excellent couple on the dance floor and at a variety of social events at the University, so nobody was surprised when they got married.

It was a quiet wedding, just family and close friends, all crammed in to St Asaph's, the rather small but perfectly formed Church in Bridgeacre.

At the reception he brought her to tears of love by singing the 1968 Donovan hit,

Jenifer Juniper

, to her:

"Jennifer Juniper

Jennifer Juniper

Jennifer Juniper

Jennifer Juniper, vit sur la colline

Jennifer Juniper, assise très tranquille

Dort-elle? Je ne crois pas

Respire-t-elle? Oui, mais tout bas

Qu'est-ce que tu fais, Jenny, mon amour?"

He thought he'd never be that happy ever again.

When he joined the Eastern Counties Constabulary, it was one of the few remaining constabularies that offered subsidised police housing, so P.C. Richard Probert and his new bride were able to move in to a two bedroom house owned by the ECC at a rent that was markedly below the market rate.

It wasn't a furnished house, so they spent several very happy weeks kitting it out, carpets, rugs, furniture, electrical goods, a TV, all of which were bought from small independent retailers, for these were the last of the good old days, before large out of town shopping malls, based on the American model, crippled or killed many of the town-centres.

They were very much in love and were saving up for a place of their own at some point in the future. Neither Richard nor Jenny wanted children, so that wasn't a distraction from their career goals.

Jennifer's career pretty much mirrored Richard's. She quickly became the Head of the English Department (youngest ever, in fact) whilst Richard's promotions were equally as swift.

He had served as a probationary officer and by dint of hard work, he was able to move from being a Bobby on the beat to become a Detective Constable.

Dressed in plain clothes as a DC, he was well within his element. It was great being able to put into practice what he had learned during his time on his criminology BSc, which had been awarded by Eastern Counties University, when most other colleges were granting BAs in criminology. Richard felt more comfortable with a BSc after his name rather than a BA as it felt, somehow, more impressive.

The only fly in the ointment had been the arrival of a new headmaster at Bridgeacre Secondary School, which was where Jenny was the head of English.

On the day of his arrival at his new school, he held a staff meeting during which he had managed to upset every member of his staff.

Later that evening over spaghetti bolognaise in their kitchen, she vented her anger to Richard. "The man is an utter prat! God knows how he became a teacher, let alone a head master! He was rude, obnoxious, condescending, a male chauvinist pig and without even an ounce of charm! I can quite see why he is single! I wish he'd not come back from Australia!"

When she ran out of breath Richard interjected, "But apart from all that, he must have had some bad points, surely?" Jenny burst out laughing and seemed to be in a slightly better mood.

Over the next several months there was also a skeleton at the feast in the form of Dr Robert Jacobs, head master. Richard received regular updates on the 'Good' Doctor." Who he had upset, who he had slighted, etc.

Eventually mentions of Jacobs ceased. Richard couldn't remember how this came about, if the mentions had petered out or had stopped abruptly. This pleased Richard for he had fairly quickly arrived at the conclusion that his wife did not want him to respond to her complaints with sound advice or words of wise counsel: She just wanted to vent her spleen, and Richard, as her husband, was the lucky fellow so chosen. This had continued for about a year. Until it had ceased.

With his letter of promotion in his hand, he walked down to the kitchen and Richard noticed that she had left her packed lunch that he had prepared for her. He shook his head, grinning. That was unlike Jenny to be so forgetful. He put the letter on the table.

On an impulse he decided to take the packed lunch to her office at the school. "Don't want her tummy rumbling during afternoon lessons!" he said to himself.

The school was only a five minute walk away from their home, it was across a park, which was crisscrossed with public footpaths.

What Richard did would be impossible, later, due to British schools all having massive steel fences with controlled access gates, but back in the day anyone could walk off the street, go straight into the school buildings and walk through the corridors until they found the classroom or office that they wanted.

The school was based on a quadrangle design with gardens in the middle and the classrooms on all sides of it, except for one side which was made up of office and admin rooms. Extra classrooms had been added to the school in the 1960s, along with a gym and a new assembly hall, but the main school had been built just before the outbreak of World War II.

The school seemed unusually quiet, but then he realised that the 300 pupils would be at lunch in the school canteen, which the assembly hall was turned into at lunchtime. The few pupils who did see him goggled at him. He grinned, realising that he still had on his new uniform.

He walked along the corridor to his wife's office, he opened the door only to be confronted by a sight that he had never expected to see. On a large, low table next to a two seater sofa was a picnic of food, which, he presumed, had arrived in the Fortnum and Mason picnic hamper that was in the room.

"No wonder she didn't bother to take the lunch I made for her!" he thought. And whilst that did hurt him, it was nothing to the severe pain at what else he saw, which was his wife, his dear, sweet Jenny, being fucked over her desk, with her stocking clad feet waving in the air as she laughed with her lover.

Of course, Richard's immediate reaction was to think that she was laughing at him, her husband. "Police Sergeant Cuckold," he thought, bitterly.

This had all happened in a matter of seconds, and when Jenny realised that her husband had walked in on her and her lover, she gave a squeal. "Richard!" she shouted, almost as if she was angry with him. In fact, thought Richard, she was angry with him. The bloody cheek of her!

"What are you doing here?"

"You forgot the packed lunch I made for you, so I walked over with it to surprise you."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Go back home. We'll talk later."

In the meantime her lover, who Richard recognised as the hated Dr Jacobs, was very still and very quiet, remaining between her legs.

How long this Mexican standoff would have gone on is debatable, but there was a sudden kerfuffle from the corridor outside the office and the voice of a boy shouted: "Shit!" He scrabbled away, horrified by the sight of his two teachers, "Miss" and "Sir" copulating on the desk, apparently watched by a policeman who was forlornly clutching a foil wrapped bundle.

This incident galvanised Richard into action and he rapidly left the office and the school, heading back across the park.

He had said nothing, although something like a thesaurus of verbs for "slut" was running through his mind.

Part way through the park, he suddenly felt overcome by the sea of emotions that were threatening to wash away his sanity.

Sobbing, he sank down on a park bench. How long he was there he had not a clue, until suddenly a small hand touch his shoulder. "Sergeant, are you okay?

He looked up and saw the face of an angel. Actually, it was a young blond girl in the senior year uniform of Bridgeacre Secondary School.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said.

"No, you're not fine, are you? And before you say anything, I know I just used a double negative, but I don't care, so there!" She saucily poked her tongue at him, grinning.

"Look, I know what happened. My little brother told me and a group of my mates when we had just finished dinner. It was him who saw them. He was beside himself!

"I don't know what your stupid wife thought she was doing, but with Doctor Nasty? Blimey!"

Richard shook his head. "Don't I know you?"

She smiled, "Oh, wow! You do recognise me! Yes, you gave a talk at the school about the Police Cadet Programme, and because my Dad was a policeman for a few years before he was invalided out due to a back injury, and because you spoke so well, I have signed up as a Policed Cadet. I start training in September."

He rallied at this. "That's wonderful news, but I still can't place your name?"

She shook her head, grinning. "Under the circumstances, that's hardly surprising. My name is Donna Maltravers, I'm 16 next birthday, and one day I'm going to be a police sergeant just like you!"

He stood up, shook hands with her and said: "Donna Maltravers, eh? I will watch you progress through the police with interest. Speaking from a police point of view, you dealt with a difficult situation with a good deal of tact and diplomacy. Well done! And thank you."

He took his leave of her, she wandered back to the school and he hurried back home. He had no intention of being there when Jenny, when

Jennifer

, got there.

Once back home he swiftly packed up as much of his clothing and any of his police stuff that wasn't stored in his locker at work and put it in his car.

He phoned the police station and asked to be put through to Inspector, Clive Styles. He explained to Inspector Styles, who was already becoming something of a mentor and a good friend to him.

After he had told him what had happened, Inspector Styles made the appropriate remarks. Unfortunately it wasn't the first time he had had to deal with such a case. "Did you hit the bastard, Rich?"

"No, I wanted to, but I resisted the temptation, thank God!"

"Is there anything I can do for you, mate?"

"Yes, please. I can't stay at the house with her, is there any space left in the single officer accommodation in Dale Street?"

Back in the day, as well as providing housing for married police officers, they offered accommodation to single police officers. There were single rooms, a shared bathroom and toilet and a shared kitchen and a common room with a TV set. It was very similar to the Halls of Residence back when he was at university, so, if there was a room available, that would be acceptable to Richard.

"Actually," said Clive, "I think there should be, because that single PC we had on secondment from the West Midlands Police went back to Coventry at the end of last week, and he was in the police accommodation. Leave it with me, and I'll see what I can do."

It was good to have friends, he thought, as he put the receiver down in its cradle. Especially when you find out what a damn slut you wife is.

When she arrived home later, she quickly realised that she was alone, that her husband had left her. "Only to be expected," she thought. Then she saw the official notification of his promotion to sergeant on the kitchen table. "Oh, crap!" she said to nobody in particular. "I buggered his special day up."

She hadn't got a clue where he was or when she would see him or hear from him again. This was in a time before Instant Messaging, when mobile phones were large car phones only ever seen in cars driven by wealthy Private Eyes like in the American-made Mannix TV series, and when email was unknown outside of a few university geeks.

Jenny sat down on the sofa in the living room and cursed her bad luck when her poor husband had caught her with her lover.

The next day, all hell let lose at the police station as a man was making a scene in reception. The duty desk sergeant was trying to calm him down, with limited success.

It transpired that his son was a pupil at the Bridgeacre Secondary Modern School and he wanted to make a compliant about the headmaster.

A PC took him into a room and took notes as the man vented his considerable spleen.

Apparently his son had gone to the office of his English teacher to collect some homework and he had seen his teacher and the headmaster having sex over the desk in her office.

He'd ran off and told his sister who was a couple of years older than him.

Later that afternoon, the headmaster had called him into his office and had threatened to 'beat the shit out of him' (the headmaster's own words) and would ensure that he was taken into foster care if he told anyone what he had seen.

The result was that the boy had wet himself in fear and was now traumatised at home, too frightened to go to school.

When Richard heard about this he was furious. "I wish I had punched his bloody lights out!" he said to Clive.

"You know that wouldn't have helped, because he'd have looked like the victim, not the perpetrator."

"That's true," said Richard, nodding. "Anyway, I spoke to that boy's sister yesterday, well, at least I'm presuming it's his sister. Donna Maltravers. She told me her brother had seen their shameful display and had run off and told Donna and her friends. I think in scaring the boy, the headmaster was trying to bolt the stable door after the horse had gone."

Later that morning, Richard phoned the firm of solicitors in town called Cardew, Royston and Hatcher. He was able, miraculously, to book an appointment with their Mr Cardew.

Roger Cardew was a shrewd old cove. He was in his late 70s, but was still practising law with a gusto and energy that made some of his younger colleagues wince.

When Richard told the story of how he had found out that Jenifer was being unfaithful to him, he shook his head. "And presumably you had no clue that she was stepping out on you?" asked Mr Cardew, sympathetically.

Richard confirmed that such had been the case.

"You'll be wanting a divorce?"

"Yes, I do. How do we go about that?"

"Well, it's a curious fact about divorce in Britain, but there is only one set of grounds for the granting of a divorce. The test is, has the marriage irretrievably broken down? If so, a divorce will be granted.

"How long have you been married?"

"Just had our third anniversary, as it happens."

"That's good. Because under the 1973 Matrimonial Causes Act, the length of time a couple had to be married before a divorce could be filed for was changed from five years to three years."

"How do we proceed?"

"Just leave all that to us. I've taken some pretty copious notes, I'll pass these on to my secretary and we'll have the petition for divorce ready by the end of the week, naming her lover as the correspondent. We'll handle serving the papers on them."

After work (which was basically going through what his new role as a sergeant would be) he went back to the house that he had shared with Jenny.