The Case Of People Who Have Too Much Time On Their Hands

'I've got a special delivery for a fat bastard' PC Moxey says, poking his head through the door of DI Ackles' tiny office. Moxey raises his right hand in front of the cluttered noticeboard, as he holds up a kebab, rolled up in fish 'n' chip paper in front of a newspaper headline about a ketchup delivery truck colliding with a burger stand.
 	'Right here,' Ackles says without casting an eye on that perpetual grin that is forever cracking up Moxey's aging face. Moxey casually tosses the kebab from the door to Ackles' desk some five yards away. Ackles catches it with a stubby hand, still silently refuses to tear his eyes away from the warming glow of his computer. A lonesome, crimson droplet of chilli sauce finds its way onto one of the many papers scattered over the messy, ill-performing school pupil's excuse for a desk. 'Thanks, Moxey. Anything good this morning?'
 	'Well, Moran caught that jewel thief a few minutes back. You know, the one who did that job in Queen's Park?' Ackles hits the enter key on his desktop's keyboard as if he had just closed a book he had been reading since the day he was born. He swivels in his chair and meets as his opaque, brown eyes zero in on Moxey's sharp and gaunt face attentively. He tries to say something like "go on" but it only comes out as a thirsty grunt. Perhaps those four coffees he had drunk for breakfast have finally caught up with him. 'Well,' Moxey continues, 'he's at reception now, having his gear taken off him. He'll be in the slammer for the night at least.'
 	'Ah, ok'.
 	Moxey inches towards Ackles' desk. 'Working on much there, then?'
 	Ackles lets some sort of cross between a chuckle and a snort leak out of him, like water vapour from a steam engine. 'No, this is my report on Ian Vaughan from the other week. You'd be surprised how little there is to tell about some neo nazi fucker who stashes guns and live ammunition in his toolshed who's already been taken down. Lafferty's still insisting on being a pain in the arse about the whole thing, though.'
 	‘Well, good luck with the whole thing, Ackles’.  Moxey turns to leave, the pale light from the unshaded lightbulb that hangs from the ceiling casting his shadow across the noticeboard.  The door opens before Moxey can reach for the handle.  A bespectacled, wafer-thin desk lackey emerges in the now open doorway, the sobering light and constant, droning noise of the outside offices bursting through and numbing all those in its wake.
 	‘What?’ Ackles snaps impatiently.
 	‘I...I’m sorry to bother you, Inspector, but there’s a man here to see you.  A Mr. David Peters...a civilian.’
 	‘Can’t you see I’m busy’ snaps Ackles, opening the wrapping tightly wound around his juicy, greasy kebab, which looks before tempting by the second.  ‘I haven’t got time to talk to plebs!’
 	‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but this one’s been sent through by Sergeant Harvey.’
 	‘Fine, send him in.  I’ll see you at lunch, Moxey.’
 	Moxey wordlessly drifts out of the doorway, the bespectacled young lad following closely behind him.  Ackles knows that everyone here in the Battersea Constabulary hates his guts, and he loves it.  Smiling at having scared another young desk lackey stiff, he takes a giant bite out of his kebab, trying to get as much of the thing into his mouth as he could as chilli sauce dribbled down his front.  Upon having debated whether or not he should surf some porn later, he hears muffled voices on the other side of the doorway between him and the outside world.
 	The door creaks open.  A pale-skinned twenty-something year-old appears in the white light of the real world.  ‘One wimp goes out, another comes in,’ Ackles muses.  This man is the ultimate caricature of a premier league pansy; three pens, one red, one blue, one black, in his breast pocket; bony, blue-veined hands; a sharp parrot’s beak of a nose; a gaunt, rocky crag of a face; brown leather shoes that would look dated on a man three times his age; slicked-back hair.  ‘Christ’ Ackles thinks,’ this guy would be a pacifist if he wasn’t too much of a pussy to take sides.’
 	Ackles motions to the chair on the other side of his desk.  ‘Please, sit.’  The man obliges him, pulling vacant swivel chair towards him.  ‘You’re Mr. David Peters, aren’t you?’
 	‘I am.’
 	‘So, what would you like to talk to me about, Mr. Peters?’ Ackles quizzed, as he reaches into his desk drawer for his notepad.  He pulls a pen from its holder next to the mouse of his computer, banging it on the desk surface to activate it.  Peters flinches at the sudden, loud-ish sound.
 	‘Well, Inspector, I’m a trainee teacher at King’s, and I’m on a work experience assignment at a high school in Vauxhall...’
 	‘Go on’ Ackles interrupts, perhaps rudely.
 	‘Erm...well...I’m a...er...I’m a classroom assistant there.  I lend a hand in Year 10 history lessons and...well...’
 	‘...well?’
 	‘Well...let me show you...I brought copies.’  Peters stands up awkwardly, fidgeting with the back pocket of his trousers.  He pulls out two pieces of A4 paper, folded into quarters, and flings them onto the desk along with a plethora of pocket fluff.  Ackles picks one of them up, unfolding it carefully.
 	‘So, what’s this then?’ Ackles asks.  ‘All I see are a couple of paragraphs of incomprehensible jargon...’  Ackles squints at the piece of paper, holding it up closer to his face.  ‘I think I see the word “Vietcong” here...’
 	‘That, Inspector, is meant to be an 800 word essay about the Chinese intervention with the Korean War.  Now, look at this’ says Peters, pointing to the other folded up piece of paper.
 	Ackles unfolds the second paper, standing up so that he can read it in the light.  He turns to the blinded windows, his back to Peters, reading.  After a minute’s silence, Ackles lets out a stuttering, astonished cross between a gasp and a sigh, unable to control himself as the paper drops from his grasp and onto the floor.
 	‘So, what do you think of it, Inspector?’ Peters asks.
 	Ackles pauses to catch his breath again.  ‘It’s...it’s brilliant’.

‘So what exactly are we dealing with here, Ackles?’ Chief Inspector Cohen asks, scribbling on the open notepad in front of him.
 	DI Ackles, hands clasped together behind his back, paces pensively up and down the office.  ‘Don’t you see, Chief?  This is linked somehow; the recent upsurge in perfect marks for all the GCSE students in the locale, the unusually compelling articles in the local rags, the excellent CVs that employers have been getting since the start of the month, the influx of novellas and anthologies being sold after dark on the street corners.  I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Chief’.
 	‘Do what you must, Ackles’ says Cohen, pencilling in some extra touches on the masterpiece he had drawn on his notepad (Robocop with an unusually large head wrestling with a giant goose).
 	‘OK’ Ackles affirms, as he makes hurriedly for the door.  ‘I’m going to go underground and ask some questions.’  He hauls the door open as he makes a swift exit.

Ackles pulls his car up outside the Old Brown Cow.  He can see the large, round figure of Kenneth Simpson through the window, sitting at the bar sipping a pint of bitter, ogling the steaming-hot brunette barmaid.  ‘I guess tying the knot just doesn’t change some people,’ he thinks as he climbs out of his car and bursts through the double-doors sealing the entrance to the pub.
 	‘Kenneth Simpson as I live and breathe!’ exclaims Ackles, his short and blubbery arms outstretched to greet the man.
 	Simpson gets to his feet and smiles nervously at Ackles.  ‘Inspector, please, I’ve told you all I know; can’t you just leave me alone like you said you would?’
 	‘My dear boy!’ Ackles exclaims as he pulls up a seat on the barstool next to Simpson.  ‘Do I need a reason to see a man who’s given me as much priceless information as much as you have over the years?!’
 	‘Please, Inspector, any one of my associates could be watching me here; they’d kill me if they ever caught me talking to you.’
 	Ackles places an arm over Simpson’s shoulders, playfully pinching his cheek.  ‘Which gives you more than enough of a reason to tell me what I want to know so I can get the fuck out of here, eh.’
 	Simpson pours the remaining contents of his pint glass down his throat.  ‘What?  What do you want?’
 	‘I’m looking for dealers in plagiarised literature on this side of the Thames.  Tell me something good.’
 	‘Plagiarised literature?  Christ, Inspector, that could be anyone anywhere!’
	‘I see.  Am I going to have to lock up your brother for smuggling guns in from Belgium again?’
 	‘Look, Inspector, I really haven’t heard of any copyright theft rings here or anywhere.’
 	‘Well, thanks for wasting my time, Simpson’ Ackles mutters as he gets to his feet and turns to leave.
 	‘Wait!’ Simpson calls just before Ackles reaches the door.
 	‘I’m listening’ Ackles says, still facing the exit.
 	‘It might be a link to what you’re looking for, it might not.  There’s a society of beatniks that lives around the docks.  I can give you a street name where you can usually see them hanging out at nights.’
 	‘Beatniks?  Would this have anything to do with the poetry buskers on Tower Bridge?’
 	‘The very same gang.’
 	‘The smashed-up hotdog stands?  The one-man anti-war protests?  The upsurge in the sales of Jim Morrison records around central London?’  His interest well and truly piqued in such a glorious link between cases he had been keeping an eye on for months, Ackles turns back towards Simpson at the bar and sits down again.

Against the tall, overbearing brick wall and in the pale glow of the street lamps, the shadows of Sam, Winston and Gemma are all cast against the cold, dark and starless London night around them.  The three of them are standing in a total silence broken only by the sound any one of the three of them exhaling tobacco smoke.  It is at times like this that the law-abiding world seems ever more far apart from this one.
 	In the light of the street lamp, Sam watches Gemma some fifteen or twenty yards from him, as she plants the sharp heel of one stiletto boot placed casually against the vertical brick edifice behind her.  The orange tan of her fishnet-encased legs, not to mention her shiny leather skirt glow in the night.  A red mini speeds past her before it screeches to a halt a hundred or so yards up the road so that it can reverse back towards her.  The window of the driver’s seat rolls down as a grizzled, age-worn face on a shiny bald head pokes its way out into the night, smiling sleazily.
 	‘Hey Gemma, you’re on tonight!’ says the stranger.
 	‘Hello there, gorgeous,’ Gemma replies.  ‘How much you got on you?’
 	‘Thirty quid, love.  Take it or leave it.’
 	‘What for?  A CV?’
 	‘No, I’ve got to write a review of the new Cribs album for the NME.  I need you to do it for me.’
 	‘Not for thirty, love.  Forty-five if you’ve got the basics planned, fifty if I have to go back to yours and listen to it myself.’
 	The man pulls out his wallet and rustles through it, pulling out a couple of notes.  ‘Forty, for you to come back to mine, listen to the album and write the review.’
 	‘Sorry love.  Can’t do it.’
 	‘Fucking hell!’ the man cries.  ‘Alright, let me find a cash machine.  I’ll be back in a minute.’  The car drives off into the night as Gemma pulls a bottle of whiskey from her handbag and takes a swig.
 	Winston takes another drag of his cigarette before discarding it onto the road.  He looks up at Gemma.  ‘That journo try and rip you off again?’ he asks.
 	‘It’s weird.  Usually he’s OK,’ she says.  ‘Maybe he’s actually learnt something from all the shit I’ve written for him; he’s obviously not desperate’.
 	Some yards away, Sam paces to the edge of the road in front of them.  ‘It’s because you look like a fucking hooker, Gem,’ he says.  ‘The more bookish you look, the less vulnerable you are.  Here, I know a few teachers who owe me a favour around here; let me see if I can get one of them to buy you a suit like mine.  I mean, we’re all writers and we’re all in the same boat here, so we may as well try and look the part.’
 	‘Oh, hello.  Looks like you’ve got company, Sam,’ Winston says suddenly, pointing to another car coming to a slow halt in front of his fellow writer, the engine still running, humming as it tears open the silence of the night. Sam takes off his sunglasses and places them in the breast pocket of his shirt. He stares at the darkened window of the car in front of him as he strokes his thin chin strap beard pensively. The window lowers as a round and chubby face with a slick, soup bowl haircut pokes itself out into the open.
 	'You there, beardie!' yells Ackles. 'You look fairly intellectual. Just how intellectual are you?'
 	Sam cautiously walks closer to Ackles' car. ‘As intellectual as the cash you've got on you, friend.'
 	Ackles looks hastily through his wallet on the dashboard and pulls out a thick bundle of notes, flashing them at Sam. 'I've got half a grand here, and you can have it all if you can write a stage play.'
 	'Interesting,' Sam affirms. 'What's this going to be about?'
 	‘How about you come back to my flat so we can talk about it?'
 	'You didn't answer my question, friend. What do you want this play to be about?'
 	'I want it set in Rotherham during the miner's strike, and it'll concern a fifty year-old yoga teacher's dream to sit neck deep in cranberry juice. How about it?'
 	Sam pauses to think. 'Four-hundred and fifty'.
 	'Done'. Ackles opens the door to the passenger's seat next to him. 'Get in'.
 	Sam walks back to the wall where he has left his rucksack before moving to climb inside Ackles' car. 'Good luck tonight guys,' he says, having turned back towards Winston and Gemma briefly before getting into the car.  ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
 	'Have a good time, Sammy' Gemma says, smiling as she waves Sam goodbye.
 	'Don't do anything I wouldn't' says Winston.
 	Sam wordlessly gets into the car as Ackles closes his window again. Sam sits in the passenger's seat next to him and puts a cigarette in his mouth after Ackles eases his foot onto the accelerator. 'Can I smoke in here, friend?'
 	Ackles presses a button just below the radio near to the gearstick, opening the window fully. 'Knock yourself out,' he says, folding the bundle of Sam's fee neatly in two and pressing it into the latter's open hand. 'Enjoy yourself with that lot'.
 	'Thanks,' Sam mutters as he lights his cigarette. 'So, do you a plot outlined then? Or am I starting you off from scratch here?'
 	Ackles arches his neck into peculiar angles, as though he is trying to make contact with someone who is on the other side of a brick wall that stands between them. 'No, not at all,' he says, peering into his wing mirror. 'I've got a brainstorm of the whole thing back at my flat. We're not far away now'.
 	Sam exhales smoke from his cigarette through the open window next to him. It billows and glows a murky silver in the neon lights of the street outside. 'Well, so long as you don't want to keep me too long. I've got to be back at my hostel in the hour. Have you ever bought intellectual property like this before?'
 	'Nope. This is my first time. I'm a little bit nervous to tell you the truth,' says Ackles.
 	'Well, it may seem scary for the first-timer, but soon it'll be second nature'.
 	A streak of red lightning flashes from behind the car before the brief wail of a siren gives this shitstorm a clap of thunder. Ackles slows the car to a steady halt. Sam's neck twitches from left to right several times like some sort of clockwork toy before the harsh reality of the situation dawns on him. Before he can try the handle on the door, a chubby hand grabs him by the shoulder as he feels the cold, hollow metal of a pistol pressing firmly into the back of his neck.
 	'Don't even try it'.
 	Sam freezes still with the gun skewering him as the red lights continue to flash from behind the car. A hand extends from the sleeve of a fluorescent yellow jacket and rests on the frame of Sam's door. A familiar, tired and aged face appears in the open window and scans Ackles' catch with its cold, hazel eyes. 'This is our guy then, is it Inspector?' PC Moxey says, having turned his gaze to meet Ackles' eyes.
 	'About bloody time you showed up!' Ackles snaps. 'I was about to start driving in circles. Where the bloody hell were you?!'
 	Moxey opens the door and grabs Sam by the shoulder and pulls him out of the car. 'Alright, alright, keep your hair on you old bastard'. Ackles gets out of his car while Moxey presses Sam face first against one of the back seat windows. As he pats Sam down and searches him, Ackles walks up to the scene of the action, picking up the cigarette that had dropped out of Sam's mouth as he was pulled out of the vehicle. He takes a drag and exhales smoke into his captive’s face. Unwilling to struggle, Sam stands perfectly still and silent while Moxey reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands it to the Inspector. He unfolds the brown leather and looks at it a while.
' 	‘Mr. Sam Wallace, I arrest you on suspicion of illegally selling the use of your brain,' Ackles continues as Moxey clips a pair of handcuffs around Sam's wrists. 'I'll just take my money back if you don't mind'. Moxey starts to walk Sam towards his police car. Ackles puts a hand on his shoulder to whisper in his ear. 'See that he gets a nice room. Tell Chief Cohen I'll accept the knighthood in the morning as well'.
 	'Whatever you say' sighs Moxey before walking back to car, being careful to lower Sam into the back seat before driving into the night back to headquarters. A cloud of smoke floats through the windless night and up towards the bulb of the streetlight above him, as the orange spark of a discarded cigarette flies from Ackles' fingers through the air and meets its demise on the pavement. He then climbs into his car and drives off into the night in search of the nearest pub.