08 June 2017
Of The Yard?
A career in detection beckons.
By Chin Chin
Thank goodness. Even in this season of electoral flimflam, someone occasionally has a good idea. Not one of the political parties; of course not. In this case it is the police who propose to recruit new detectives direct rather than forcing them to tread the beat. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Detectives and beat officers could not be more different. The latter are sensible straightforward upholders of the law whereas the latter, though brilliant, are all complicated and twisted up, often having difficulties relating to women. Look at Frost, for example. Clever chap but what an emotional mess. Then that Dr Fitzgerald in Cracker. Even cleverer but as to his relations with women… whew! Then Sherlock! But need I go on? The higher the IQ, the more hung-up. That’s the general rule. Luckily, though, there are exceptions. For example, Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey has a perfectly satisfactory marriage although he had to rescue the lady from the shadow of the noose by way of courtship. (Strong Poison if you haven’t read it, although Murder Must Advertise is even better, being, in the author’s view, one of the best detective stories ever written). A touch of St George there, very romantic. Still, it shows that the general rule is not inviolable and opens up the profession to people like me who fancy a bit of detecting and would like to have a happy home life into the bargain.
The first question of course is which sort of detective to be. In fiction they come in all shapes and sizes from moody (and very hung up and depressed) Swedes to ladies drinking tea in country villages. It is important to know which sort to go for or you won’t blend in sufficiently to pick up the clues. Suppose you were doing a bit of investigating in St Mary Mead, a place where deductions are generally drawn by acute observation through chinz curtains to the rattle of porcelain cups upon a tea trolley. To look each suspect in the eye and intone “make my day punk” would be regarded as unusual there, quite apart from the difficulties of getting a licence to carry a Magnum. Then in the violent hellholes of San Francisco the comment that you were going to rely on your “little grey cells” would probably be taken as meaning that you were going to break the suspect down in the oubliettes of Alcatraz. Neither style would do in Metropolitan London where you need to emulate someone who has done well in that particular parish. Where should we look for our mentor? Well, that is elementary; 221b Baker Street, of course.
Life has moved on since the days of Sherlock Holmes and one would need to bring his style up-to-date. A top hat, for example, may have been de rigueur in Victorian London but would draw attention south of the river or even in the cybercrime centres of the East End. No, the hat would have to be replaced by a more modern emblem of fashion, the hipster beard perhaps. Other things would have to be updated too but there is one accessory which is still common among the best detectives, a sidekick or assistant. Someone loyal but stupid. The clouded mirror in which the brilliance of the great man can best be seen to advantage.
You might think that finding a sidekick was straightforward. We are often told that British exam results are not what they should be, so there must be plenty of obtuse people around. Lots of them will presumably be unemployed so the obvious place to search for them is at the job centre.
They look at you rather oddly there if you say that you are trying to recruit someone particularly dense, and not surprisingly they ask why. Are you a mafiosi, trying to hire some sort of fall guy who will unwittingly take responsibility for your crimes? No? Well, at least someone who will get involved in your crooked insurance schemes without asking too many questions? When you explain that you are about to become a detective and are trying to find someone beside whom your intelligence will shine, they look at you more sceptically still. Really how ignorant can they be? Poirot had his Hastings; Holmes his Watson; Morse his Lewis; that is how the system works. Don’t they teach these people anything when they are training them to be civil servants? Perhaps, though, they were taught but simply did not take it in. They heard but did not observe. Perhaps indeed they are the people you are looking for. It is when you ask the job centre staff whether they themselves would like the role that their demeanour becomes distinctly unfriendly.
Alright then, the assistant will have to wait. Maybe the police themselves will be able to find someone appropriate. Still, the essence of the great detective is not in the accoutrements but rather in the way in which he views the world. You must have seen it in Sherlock. A scratched watch: it must have belonged to an alcoholic. Mud on a boot: that colour is only found on Hampstead Heath. A dirty shirt and a band of white skin on the finger. The man has recently been divorced or widowed. It seems straightforward really and one can practice in the street. Here comes someone now. He has a weary look and radiates a suppressed fury. Easy: a man who has been cheated in a late-night game of cards. That would explain both the fury and the weariness in one. He comes closer. There is something familiar about him. In fact I think he is trying to speak to me. Oh no, now I see who it is. It is the editor of the Shaw Sheet and he is furious because I have not yet posted my article.
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