The Final Countdown

Mentally I felt prepared for my final day. I even had my farewell speech lodged in my mind should I be called upon to use it.

I had no idea what my future held. This in itself was intoxicating. I had spent my entire life playing safe and planning ahead. Apart from my divorce, all the changes to my life had been steady and controlled as far as possible. Now I could see roughly 6 months ahead, to the end of the Vietnam trip. Beyond that was just a haze. It was a terrific feeling. Although blue is the colour most usually associated with British police officers, I felt that my career had more than a hint of beige about it.

When people found out that I was studying for a degree in creative writing they naturally assumed that in my thirty years as a cop I had a wealth of exciting experiences logged away and ready to convert into the next best-selling novel. Not so. Like most police officers I have a few tales to tell: the guy who came at me with a knife; a year spent on the miners’ strike; guarding the Pope when he came to York; dealing with sudden deaths; and sundry other tales of human misery that sometimes left their mark upon me. Once I guarded a middle aged bloke in hospital after he had taken a near fatal overdose. His wife had been found dead at the marital home and he was suspected of murder. He was recovering but the paracetamol he had taken could still cause severe liver damage and cause him to die. A doctor imparted this information to the prisoner and I could see that he was visibly shocked by it.

‘So, I could still die?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, firmly.

As soon as the doctor left the room I asked our friend a few casual questions, just in case he died on my watch. His wife had been found dead in the bath, having being drowned. Was it murder or would he claim it was a crime of passion, a sudden act of violence that was not intended to kill and could be classed as manslaughter? He revealed to me the existence of a letter to his sister that the inquiry team knew nothing about. In the letter he apologised for what he had done. Crucially, the letter was written and posted the day before he killed his wife.

Realising its significance, the sister had not revealed the existence of the letter to the detectives who questioned her about her brother. When confronted she duly produced the letter and it was a vital piece of evidence in securing a conviction for murder and a mandatory life sentence.

I received a bollocking from a Detective Sergeant working on the case for talking to the prisoner.

‘You should have left it to the CID,’ he chided.

As stories go it’s not a bad one and I am sure most cops could tell you very similar ones. It’s not going to get me any invitations as an after dinner speaker though. Unlike some of my more colourful police colleagues who have endless tales to tell about their exploits in the CID or the Regional Crime Squad, taking out whole gangs of well organised criminals or tracking murderers to the far side of the globe.

I observed that the officers who held entire crowds enthralled with their anecdotes were also the ones who simply could not leave the police. Many had foregone their marriage, sometimes more than one, to give their all to the job they were passionate about and seemingly couldn’t live without.

Compared to such living legends, my career was very bland indeed. By leaving and throwing myself into an uncertain future I saw that for once I was in a position to make my life more colourful. Whether I was being bold or reckless didn’t matter. I felt very good about myself.

A visit to the photographer made me realise just how far I had already come in preparation for my big day and the new life that lay ahead.

I have a picture of myself in my uniform as a very young police officer. I had it taken professionally as a Christmas present for my proud parents. I decided that it would be a good idea to have a similar photo taken of me in my Chief Inspector’s uniform. I also opted to have a few photos of me in casual dress whilst I was there.

The photo shoot went well until I changed into my casual clothes. I put on some trousers I had bought only a year previously. They hung off me like a clown’s costume and were a good 6 inches too big in the waist.

When I got home I went through my wardrobe, threw out most of my clothes and took myself off on a shopping trip to buy new, trendy clothes that fitted me.

As my final day at work approached, I felt like a new man. Or at least an old one re-cycled.

Next time - Goodbye to my old life