The wind rushed past her; a strand of hair tickled her cheek. But Cheryl didn’t see anything. All she could hear was the pounding in her ears and the scuffle of feet getting away from her up ahead.
She pumped her arms harder; urging her legs to move faster. Her heart hammered, almost protesting her orders. But her heart took second place to her brain and gut.
The perp swivelled to the right, and a loud crack and rattle was the only motivation she needed. Cheryl didn’t slow down as she skidded behind the perp, then saw him perched upon a gate, trying to enter a fenced-off area. The perp, uncaring of the ‘Keep Out’ sign, had his leg hitched over the top of the gate, ready to hop off it to the other side.
Cheryl lunged, and the man jumped. But she grabbed his trouser leg and yanked.
The iron gate rattled, and Cheryl used her other hand to grab the man’s upper thigh. She pulled at him and—
‘Aaarghhhh!’ A scream reverberated through the night. Her eyes fell to the reason for the perp’s agony. In their wee tug of war, he’d smacked himself down on the pointy edge of the fence.
She grimaced. With his position atop the fence – his legs spread out wide leaving his man parts millimetres from the very pointy edges of the gate – it had to hurt. Still, eejits who enjoyed evading the police got no mercy from her.
‘When I said, “Police, stop,” I meant it.’ She gave the man’s trouser leg another yank. He groaned, then whimpered. ‘Come on!’ It was two hours past the end of her shift, and her stomach had now begun its protestations for dinner.
She’d stayed back to finish the grunt paperwork her boss, DCI Payne, had left for her. Being the newest member of the team and a transfer from Edinburgh to boot, she had to pull her weight.
But when she could no longer hold her hunger pangs at bay, she’d left the station only to see this eejit lurking about, trying to smuggle his friend out of custody. Damn. Alcohol made some men think they could achieve the impossible.
In Glasgow, she’d seen the side effects of that more than in any other place. No matter what anyone said, bams in Glasgow were in a league of their own.
The perp whimpered again. ‘I cannae move.’
A click-clacking of footsteps droned out his further moaning, loud as it was. It alerted Cheryl to not one person but a couple of people approaching her. Still, the clomp-clomp didn’t bother her. She’d recognise that heavy footfall a mile away – after all, she’d clomped around in those torture boots as a uniformed officer not that long ago.
The day she’d become a member of the CID, she’d swapped the uniform for a trouser suit. Clad in a suit, she might look stuffy, but tight sleeves trumped those trainers any day of the year.
‘Inspector?’
Cheryl didn’t let go of the perp, ensuring his sensitive bits hovered closer to the pointy edge of the gate. He could try to kick her and leg it – it had happened before – but the drink… Well, sometimes it helped coppers out.
She summoned the cavalry. ‘Here!’
They emerged from the darkness, heads bobbing, their yellow jackets glowing. The wind blew their smoky breaths away.
Two uniformed constables came to her side. One got hold of the man’s leg.
‘Get him down. He was—’
‘Peters!’ A fourth person joined them.
Cheryl grimaced. DCI Payne. What was he doing here? That long crooked nose appeared first through the darkness, then the unsmiling face.
Despite the dim light, his eyes glinted making him appear unfocused. He wasn’t drunk – rumour was the man didn’t drink – though his scruffy jaw, now wrinkled with age, never seemed to be clean shaven.
And the man liked his cologne musky.
He stepped up to the side of the gate, hands in his pockets, not panting like the rest of them. She wouldn’t put it past him to have stridden all the way instead of running to catch up. ‘Take that bastard and throw him in next to his pal.’
Another set of footsteps rushed into the alley. Unlike the previous set of officers, these had their flashlights on, sweeping them over the alley and the people.
Cheryl blinked and looked towards the ground, noticing the puddles under their feet, and the shards and pieces of broken white and green glass scattered all around. And the pile of soaked cardboard boxes alongside discarded food and vomit.
A regular feature on a Sunday morning, even if it was just past midnight. Who was she kidding? According to her stomach, it was still a food-less Saturday night.
Cheryl looked up at the perp, still sitting astride the gate, and almost groaned. Oh no, oh no, no, no, she hadn’t.
