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‘We don’t do that,’ said the female duty officer, as she drained her can of Tizer.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘We will continue our search, and if we find any of the boys we’ll frogmarch them in here so you can arrest them. I know this sort of thing is pretty far down on your list of priorities, but it matters a hell of a lot to some of us.’
‘You can’t do that. If you bruise them, their parents will accuse you of assault. You can only detain them.’
‘Then we will detain them, and give you a call. By the way, they are the same lot who smashed up my bike a few months ago and who scratched the paintwork of a neighbour’s car just before Christmas, and who regularly shout abuse at the priests when asked not to throw their crisp wrappers on the pavement. We all know who they are, and I’m sure you do, too.’
‘Never assume you know who they are,’ she said. ‘Did you actually see them?’
‘Not on this occasion, but two decorators did and they described them to me. It’s them all right, and the sooner we catch them the better it will be for everyone.’
The decorators and I spent the next hour combing the area. I hated every minute of it. I could almost understand why my cleaning lady, who has lived on the Surrey Estate most of her life, says she never sees a bobby on that particular beat. Apparently, they are too scared. In one refuse shed we found a smartish-looking suitcase which must, until recently, have belonged to an innocent passer-by. In another were the remains of a mountain bike.
Then we found it. It was standing in a dark and dingy outside storage room on the ground floor of one of the tower blocks. The kids had smashed it up, and fingerprints were clearly visible on what remained of the rear box that once housed my helmet. I ran back to the police station and told them the good news. I said that they should come out and make a note of the fingerprints and, in the process, they would get to see where these three rascals stash their stolen goodies.
‘We don’t do that,’ said the same duty officer.
‘What do you mean, you don’t do that?’
‘We don’t even visit the scene of a home burglary any more unless there are exceptional circumstances.’
‘But don’t you want to get the fingerprints so that if and when you catch them you will have some evidence? Don’t you want to get a proper description of what they look like from the decorators? Don’t you want to be seen to be on the case?’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ she said. ‘But you’re welcome to report the crime, and I suggest you do if you intend to claim on your insurance.’
Never mind the insurance. I wasn’t finished, and neither were the South Africans. I told the officer that we would leave the bike where it was and hide. We would wait for as long as it took for the criminals to return and then we would spring them. I would then call the police station so that someone could come to arrest them. It wasn’t a difficult plan.
‘In fact,’ I said, ‘why don’t a couple of you lie in wait for these kids instead of us? At least we won’t be accused of taking the law into our own hands.’
‘We would have to get a surveillance certificate before we could do something like that,’ she said.
So I wheeled my smashed-up Vespa back home and thanked the South African decorators for their help. By now, almost three hours had passed. Three completely wasted hours – unless, of course, you happened to be a Battersea vandal. In which case, you would have had a most enjoyable Monday afternoon: the thrill of the chase, a free crash helmet, some fresh air. And it must have been satisfying to know that the police – or whoever it is who decides how the police should operate in modern Britain – had played their part in providing such good entertainment.
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