new TV show, the crime appeal thing, first one was on the other night?”
“You mean Crimewatch, guv’nor?” Bishop had made a point of watching the pilot and had been impressed.
“That’s the one, not a patch on Dixon, but you might do yourself a favour if you got ‘em to feature the Eastgate misper. Could do you a bit of good with CID,” he tapped the side of his nose. “There’s always more than one way to skin a cat in this job.”
Bishop could see the cunning in the wily old bird’s suggestion. A touch of telly tinsel might well appeal to the prima donnas and from what he’d heard, they were up a gum tree with the Eastgate job anyway so there was nothing to loose.
“Good idea, guv, “ Bishop returned the Div Commander’s smile, “I’ll get right onto it, who’s the SIO?”
The old man’s smile broadened into a grin. “Jack the Zipper,” he said reaching down into the bottom drawer of his desk and producing a bottle of Bells and a couple of glasses into which he poured generous slugs of whiskey. “Time for a stiffener eh Bob.”
Jack Rivers, AKA Jack the Zipper, so nicknamed for his nervous habit of fiddling with his flies, was a dapper little man with a sandy comb over, a toothbrush moustache and a natty line in suits. He ruled the roost on the Divisional crime squad, the glamour end of Peckham CID with a largely free hand to roam at will provided the detection rate was maintained. Across the pavement blaggings were their speciality and their arrest rates were spectacular as most of the villains in the Borough would testify. The three o’clock knock, conducted with a sledge hammer was the heavy mob’s calling card of choice, and yanked out of bed with the dew still on him, the luckless villain would awake to the time honoured caution murmured in his ear: “Get your trousers on son – you’re nicked official.”
But business in the robbery department was slack and so the squad DI, casting about for some other juicy crime to keep his lads busy sank his teeth into the Eastgate misper, banking on the probability that it could turn into something a bit tasty which could earn maximum brownie points. A long shot to be sure, and one which Jack the Zipper soon began to regret, for instead of a quick result and a face banged up in the fairy, the denizens of the Eastgate estate were giving him the run around.
The Eastgate misper was a sixteen year old scrubber with an inclination to put it about a bit who had been AWOL for best part of a week before her family raised the alarm, squealing she had been abducted. Police enquires were pretty relaxed until the doting mum who had form as long as your arm for shoplifting called the South London Press who took up the cudgels on behalf of her “little angel.” The nationals picked it up and when the Sun produced a nearly nude study of the teenage jail-bait under the screamer: Keystone cops stumped!! the story went viral and the Yard went ballistic. Briefing his troops to get out there and kick a few backsides, Jack the Zipper was heard to murmur that he wouldn’t be too disappointed if the little sweetheart turned up dead in a dumpster. And he was not best pleased when into this vortex stepped the newly minted minder.
“I thought you were supposed to protect us from this mud slinging,” he growled at Bob Bishop, flinging a copy of the Sun down on the desk, “I’ve got the old man breathing down my neck now wanting to know why we haven’t cleared this job, paparazzi camped outside the nick and to cap it all some free ranger managed to sneak into the canteen..”
“Free lance,” Bishop corrected him from his glossary of newfound knowledge.
“What?”
“That journalist,” Bob Bishop explained, “they’re called free lance on account of they don’t work for a particular paper. Those ones are called staffers, oh and the only free rangers are chickens.”
“You taking the piss, Bob,” Jack the Zip scowled. “Next time I see Luxton, I’m going to give him what for,” he paused briefly recalling how many times he’d slipped the Sun’s chief crime reporter, Tony Luxton, AKA The Prince of Darkness, a few juicy titbits in return for a drink and a backhander, “I thought he was a mate of mine and then he stabs me in the back like this,” he jabbed a finger into the by-line under the banner headline and muttered: “I’ve a good mind to get Traffic to give him a pull for drink drive.”
“Suckers law,” Bishop sighed, recalling the wisdom of a PR sage who’d briefed him during his indoctrination, “Get too cosy with the press and just when you least expect it they’ll do the dirty on you, that’s suckers’ law. And it’s pretty well filled the political graveyards.”
“Well I’m digging mine now, Bob,” Jack the Zipper moaned, suddenly deflated, “You know the old man, with all this song and dance going on, if I don’t get a result double quick, the fifth floor’s going to hang me out to dry.”
“That’s why I high tailed it over here, Jack,” the minder gave him a reassuringly soothing smile, “get you some brownie points, put you back in the old man’s good books.”
The glimmer of hope in Jack Rivers’ puppy dog eyes confirmed it for Bishop, that wily old buzzard of a Divisional Commander had been right, this was the opportunity to make his mark. If he could grab Jack the Zipper by the balls, metaphorically speaking, hearts and minds would surely follow. Seizing the moment he produced a hip flask thoughtfully filled with Jack’s favoured single malt tipple, poured a generous slug and outlined his plan.
When the Crimewatch Outside Broadcast (OB) crew arrived at the factory, Bob Bishop took them to the last confirmed sighting of the girl on the corner of Belvedere and Eastgate Drive where witnesses claimed she had been abducted. It was a cold gritty morning with a chill wind rasping down the canyons between the drab high-rise blocks of flats. As far as the eye could see, a concrete and asphalt wasteland was interspersed with muddy oases devoid of grass where forlorn stunted trees stripped of bark by the jaws of pit bulls struggled to survive. Here and there this dismal vista had been enlivened with lurid graffiti aerosoled onto the concrete, vivid loops and whorls spelling out hideous obscenities. This was the notorious Eastgate Estate where police patrolled mob handed in riot vans ever mindful of the neighbourhood’s adopted slogan: Abandon hope all ye who enter here!
Against this monochrome background the TV crew made an interesting study as they unloaded their gear from a convoy of Volvo estate cars. The cameraman and second cameraman always worked together, like Siamese twins, humping tripod, stacks of magazines, and assorted paraphernalia, and then, with loving care, the camera itself. They both wore blue jeans, rigger boots and fur trimmed anoraks. They both had angular faces and unruly blond hair. They looked about sixteen years old. The sound engineer hefted a Nagra recorder the size of a small suitcase and waggled his pistol mike this way and that checking ambient sound levels through the cans clamped over his ears. He wore an old grey fleece and was lost to the world as he twiddled knobs and checked gauges, his eyes reflecting a happy yet vacant expression, An electrician who looked ready for anything in a camouflaged combat jacket followed the other three around like a shadow, his jaw working mechanically on a wad of chewing gum. But the focal point of the crew was Dirk Lombard, the producer, an incredibly tatty wartime flying jacket draped over a plaid lumberjack shirt, his eyes roving incessantly as he worked out camera angles in an attempt to reconcile reality with the demands of his shooting script. A continuity girl carried the schedule on a clipboard and kept the crew supplied with mint imperials and chocolate éclairs from a large handbag. Across the street a single decker bus converted into a chuck wagon sidled up to the kerb and right on cue began to exude the aroma of frying bacon, In sharp contrast to the eager young faces the old man who emerged from the bus clutching a Styrofoam cup of tea looked hopelessly incongruous with his snowy white hair and spectacles dangling from a cord around his neck. He wore a shabby corduroy suit, down at heel brogues and a floppy bow tie. He had to be pushing seventy.
“See,” Dirk Lombard explained when Bob Bishop asked the all too obvious question, “On this show, the creative’s got control. We give the scenario the once over, and if it flies off the storyboard hammer out a sc
ript, work out a tight filming schedule and then pull a crew together from accredited freelances.”
He peered at Bishop to make sure he had grasped this nuance, popped a mint imperial and said: “See, the last thing we want is a director peeking down the camera shooting sunsets and falling leaves and generally buggering up the schedule, only the ACTT’s got us by the short and curlies; we’ve got to have a five man crew minimum, sometimes six if the electricians are bloody minded and squeal for a driver, otherwise the union’s going to black us. So nobody moves a muscle without a director.” He paused again to make sure the minder was getting all this, then he said, “So we pick up some guy who won’t cause us problems and blow a bloody great hole in the budget. See, Donald over there, he’s a nice old guy, all he’s interested in is bee keeping, he’s got a director’s ticket and his per diem is rock bottom so he’s pure gold.”
While the crew was setting up Bishop strolled across to test his newfound insight into television custom and practice.
“How’s it going?” he asked the old man.
“Too windy by half,” the blue veined nose sniffed at the air.
“Oh, affects the camera, does it?”
“Plays havoc with the hives,” the old man said.
“See,” Dirk Lombard increased the trajectory of the minder’s learning curve, “we’ve got a good camera team here, straight out of the combat zone, so no messing about with sunrise through the trees or dew on blades of grass. Just in, get the job done in one take and get out in double quick time. That’s all you need when the meter’s running – pure gold.” He reached into the continuity girl’s handbag and helped himself to a chocolate éclair.
When the electrician called the mandatory break, the crew trooped off to the chuck wagon for doorstep sized bacon sandwiches which gave Bob Bishop the opportunity to track down the Squad DI who was pacing the street corner like a caged animal, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his silver grey Vicuna overcoat, mumbling to himself. Elevator heels added a good couple of inches to his height. From the moment he knew he was to appear on TV Rivers had been endeavouring to achieve a Martini-ad style of dress, an illusion spoiled by constant fiddling with his flies, a nervous habit which had earned him the Jack the Zipper sobriquet. Rivers scowled at the returning TV crew with growing apprehension.
“What’s going on, Bob, you told me this would all be done and dusted by now.”
“Relax, Jack,” Bishop said, “they’re just going to shoot a little wallpaper and pick up some wild track.”
Rivers blinked at the double talk. “Shoot wallpaper? Sounds like a bloody freak show to me.”
“It’s OK,” Bishop said, “It’ll only take a minute, then we’ll get this show on the road.”
“I told you,” the scowl deepened until the eyebrows met, “I don’t want any mucking about…”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Only take a minute, you said,” Rivers protested, surreptitiously fiddling with his flies, “we’ve been hanging about for hours already.”
“Take it easy, Jack,” Bishop sought to soothe him, “takes time to set up a sequence like this, you can’t rush it.”
“Bloody fiasco,” Rivers muttered beginning to get cold feet and butterfly flutters as the moment for him to go before the camera approached. “I’ve got proper police work to get back to, Bob, you’re going to have to get someone else.”
“Jack, Jack, ” Bishop placated, “Trust me, will you. You’re the SIO, this is your moment to shine. Think of the brownie points with the dream factory. Think of the fan mail.”
“What fan mail?”
“Responses to your appeal’s what I meant. New leads, generating lots of actions, maybe even a result. Wouldn’t that be something? The first crime solved by telly, you’ll go down in the folk law of The Job. The first telly detective.”
Rivers absorbed all this soft soap as he fingered the zip of his trousers. “I don’t want any trick questions..”
“Jack, don’t worry, it’s not a hatchet job and we’ve got guiding light from the fifth floor, remember?”
“Or clever stuff.”
“There won’t be, its all taken care of.”
Rivers lurched back a step, teetering on his raised heels, and gasped: “What are you staring at, Bob?” He clutched his throat. “It’s my tie isn’t it?”
“What?”
“You don’t like my tie, do you Bob, “ Rivers cried. “Oh Christ, I knew I should have worn something else, you think my tie makes me look ridiculous, I know you do.”
“Your tie looks fine, Jack, looks fine to me.”
“It’s the suit then, I knew it! I should’ve worn the pin stripe!”
“Jack, relax will you, you look great. Now just calm down, it’s all OK.”
River’s grabbed Bob Bishop’s arm and asked desperately, “What’s shooting wallpaper got to do with anything?”
Bishop disengaged himself and walked over to where the crew were setting up, wondering whether media minders in other lines of work had to smooth the feathers of prima donnas like Jack Rivers. He hadn’t bulled up Jack the Zipper as the greatest detective since Sherlock Holmes for nothing. He tapped Dirk Lombard on the shoulder: “Hey Dirk, my guy’s champing at the bit, what’s the hold up?”
The producer turned to him with a tortured expression. “We’re looking for something to set up the piece, an establishing shot, you know, something evocative, something that tells the story from the off.”
“You know, Dirk,” said the first cameraman, “When we were in Sarajevo, we shot this great sequence to set up the story.”
“Those guys kicking this kid,” said the second cameraman.
“We came in from the rubble, some burned out motors,” confirmed the first cameraman, “panned through the dust from a passing truck and then zoomed through the heat shimmer right in on ‘em, beautiful shot.”
“Yellow filter all the way,” said the second cameraman.
“I see it!” Dirk Lombard exclaimed excitedly, “the futility of life eh? Solid gold.”
“What happened to the kid?” Bob Bishop asked, picturing the brutality in his mind.
“What kid?” said the first cameraman.
“You know, the kid they were kicking.”
They looked at him as though he was crazy.
The minder cleared his throat and shrugged deeper into his coat. “Look, Dirk,” he said, “I don’t want to hurry you or anything, but I’d appreciate it if you’d do the interview with the DI pretty soon, he’s beginning to hop around a bit and I think he’ll go off the boil if you leave him too long.”
With the haunted look still in his eyes, Dirk Lombard agreed to bump the interview up the schedule and sucked thought fully on a mint imperial as the continuity girl coaxed Jack Rivers into signing a disclaimer. The camera crew set up facing a gaunt block of flats on which was aerosoled the single word Anarchy, the A enclosed in a ragged circle.
When Jack Rivers was in position the soundman crouched down by his knees and thrust the wind socked pistol mike towards his midriff. The second cameraman held a clapperboard in front of the detective’s face and marked the shot. The first cameraman squinted into the eyepiece and said “running” and they were away, swinging into their routine. Even the white haired director seemed vaguely interested in what was happening.
“Jack Rivers is one of the UK’s foremost criminal investigators,” Dirk Lombard began with oily familiarity, “Yet the abduction of this young girl may yet test his mettle as a crime buster. So tell me Jack, is this the most baffling case of your career to date?”
Jack Rivers opened his mouth but no sound emerged; his fingers tightened around the zipper of his trousers and his eyes rolled heavenwards as though seeking divine guidance. This was not the question they had rehearsed for the sound balance, when they had asked him to repeat what he had for breakfast, but River’s, his mind blank, could only stumble through his earlier answer.
“Aaagh, cornflakes
, toast, coffee…”
“Hold it!” the first cameraman raised his eye from the viewfinder and gestured towards the block of flats. On the lower balcony a woman was putting out washing on a line. “Washing coming out of his left ear,” said the cameraman, “We’d better start again.”
By the time they had repositioned, beads of sweat had slicked Jack Rivers’ forehead and Bob Bishop thoughtfully loaned him a handkerchief to mop his brow. The director wandered off to sit on a wall and stare into the distance.
“Running,” said the cameraman and the shot was marked.
“They call Jack Rivers Britain’s toughest detective,” purred Dirk Lombard, “Yet the sight of a distraught mother whose little angel has been snatched from the street brings tears of compassion to his eyes. Tell me, Jack, how many of these child abductions have you investigated?”
Rivers exhaled the breath he had been holding for an eternity, gasped for air and began to gabble in a high pitched reedy wheeze, “Aaagh, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, coffee…”
First cameraman raised his head again. “Sorry, Dirk,” he said, “Hair in the gate, we’ll have to do that one again.”
Bob Bishop couldn’t bear the third attempt at the interview. He went over to where the director was sitting, staring at one of he tower blocks.
“Just like bees, you know,” the old man said.
“What is?”
He gestured towards the block, “Just like a bloody great hive.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Bishop said, “but I suppose you’re right.”
“Oh yes,” the old man said, “there’s a lot more to bees than meets the eye. Did you see my documentary, Sting of the French Black, by any chance?”
“Must’ve missed it,” Bishop apologised.
“Pity,” said the old man, his gaze returning to ponder the vertical village.
After a while Jack Rivers came bounding over, grinning hugely..
“Piece of cake, Bob,” he said, “Nothing to it, anytime you want another interview for the telly give me a shout. Think I’ll stick around and watch the rest of the show.”
As they prepared to film the reconstruction Dirk Lombard’s expression grew more and more haunted.