Bob Bishop was scrolling his Twitter feed when the dinosaur tweet popped up. The moment he spotted the author’s name he couldn’t suppress a guffaw.
“Something tickled your fancy guv’nor?” Lauren glanced up from the adjacent terminal where she was uploading the latest target package onto Crimefighter.
Bishop pointed at the screen. “Rave from the grave,” he said, chuckling, “I can’t believe that old war horse is still alive and kicking.”
The girl came around and stood behind him, reading the tweet over his shoulder. “Bit strong. Who’s Jack Rivers anyway, bit of a nutter?”
“Job old timer,” Bishop said, “from way back when we were young and keen, Jack was the DI running the Peckham crime squad and I was a mere skipper on the relief.” Bishop wagged his head as the memories stirred, “Long long ago,” he said.
Lauren smiled down at him, “You surprise me guv,” she said, “I always assumed you were a direct entrant on the graduate ticket, you’ll be telling me you walked a beat in a tall hat next.”
“Oh that I did,” Bishop said, the recollection stirring the recesses of his memory, “wooden-top in a blue suit, Commissioner’s cannon fodder, we didn’t know any better.” He glanced at the photo ID dangling from the lanyard around his neck as if seeking confirmation of his ascendancy from the mean streets of South London: Under his mug shot and the crest of the Metropolitan Police his designation read: Robert Bishop, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Directorate of Public Affairs.
“Must’ve had a run-in with the hobby bobbies to get him riled up like that,” Lauren mused reading the vitriolic tweet, “d’you want me to check the system?”
Bishop swung his chair around to face her. Blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, trendy jumper and designer jeans, a thirty-something DCI from the Media Ops Directorate. If Jack Rivers could’ve seen himself outranked by a
girlie-girl he would have had apoplexy.
“No,” he said, “You’ve got enough on your plate as it is, how’s the old man’s baby coming along, he’s bound to want a SITREP at morning prayers.”
“Chip-n-nick?” it was Lauren’s turn to laugh, “Couple of hard men in the guinea pig group cut off their ear lobes with bolt cutters and ditched the implants. We’re going to have to tag ‘em somewhere else guv’nor.” She grinned, “Somewhere they won’t want to cut off.”
Bishop wagged his head. “It’s pretty academic anyway, we ever get it past those bleeding hearts in Strasburg it’ll be a miracle. Infringement of human rights is a capital offence these days, the legal eagles’ll have a field day.”
Lauren turned back to her terminal; she hadn’t noticed the far away look creep into Bob Bishop’s eyes as he re-read the dinosaur tweet and time shifted back to the dark ages.
“Bob – you got a minute,” The Chief Super poked his head around the parade room door just as Bishop finished briefing the two-to-ten. “Step into the office, sergeant” the old man held the door open, grinning. And as Bishop did so, remarked, “That’s the last time I’ll call you that, Bob.” He waved a telex from the Yard. “You just got made up – congratulations Inspector.” He clapped Bishop on the shoulder in an avuncular gesture, “And you’ve got a posting my son, the dream factory.”
As Bishop read the telex with mounting astonishment, the old man began to laugh:
Bishop let it sink in for a moment and then he said: “Do I have a choice, boss? To be honest I’d rather stick with the relief.”
The Divisional Commander shook his head: “Came down on a tablet of stone, Bob.” He glanced at his watch, “Oh and you’d better look sharpish; get over to the Yard and report to the fifth floor. Don’t look so shell shocked, your wagon just got hitched to a star.”