On the beat Pete (3)

The Chief Inspector called me into his office.

“Take a seat Pete,” he said amiably. He was sifting through a big pile of papers on his desk, it’s funny, in a world where the computer is king the paper files never go away. Some things never change.

“You’ve been working a lot of overtime lately,” he said.

“Yes, we all have, with the riots, the house clearances and everything, we’ve all been at it all day every day.”

“I know it’s very stressful, I hate to be putting my force through this, but you appreciate I have no choice.”

I nodded agreement. I had no idea why he’d called me in and the fact that he was being nice made me suspicious. I’d been speaking a bit out of turn to some of my colleagues about the tactics used during the emergency. The tigers released into crowds of looters and the innocent people being forced out of their houses. My complaints had clearly reached the ears of the Chief Inspector, which worried me immensely.

“You live in Catford don’t you,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“That’s right,” I said, “I rent a flat there.”

“There are a few houses going spare at the moment, more central. The new legislation allows empty houses without an owner to be requisitioned for emergency staff like yourself. I think I can arrange a house for you. The great thing is it’ll be yours outright, a home of your own, not just for the emergency.”

“How come it’s free?”

“The last owner died with no family and without leaving a will. In normal times the money would end up being spent on four separate sets of lawyers as distant relatives squabbled over ownership, this is a much better system all round. It looks after the people who look after everyone else.”

“Thank you,” I said, “I don’t know how to begin to tell you how grateful I am. If only there was some way to show my appreciation.”

He waved his arm dismissively. “You don’t have to do anything, just continue to do the good work.” He combined these words with a hard stare, which I understood as meaning that my criticisms had to stop.

He handed over the paperwork for my new abode.

“It’s just a one bed house,” he said,” but it’s got a small garden, very central, a bit of a result really.”

I nodded agreement, as I concentrated on the details of the property.

I recognised the address. It was the house we’d removed Josephine Harris from the previous week. Clearly she hadn’t made it, despite our best efforts to help the tiger had got to her. The perfect illustration of why what we were doing was so important.

I picked up the keys, said “thank you” to the Chief Inspector and left the office on a high. I was a property owner.