The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More(13)

        ‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said. ‘I asked him.’

        ‘’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?’ my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.

        ‘That’s more than likely,’ the policeman answered. ‘Anyway, you’re a witness. I’ll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,’ he snapped, holding out his hand.

        I gave him my driving-licence.

        He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded book of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.

        ‘Now you,’ he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. ‘Name?’ he snapped.

        ‘Michael Fish,’ my passenger said.

        ‘Address?’

        ‘Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton.’

        ‘Show me something to prove this is your real name and address,’ the policeman said.

        My passenger fished in his pockets and came out with a driving-licence of his own. The policeman checked the name and address and handed it back to him. ‘What’s your job?’ he asked sharply.

        ‘I’m an ’od carrier.’

        ‘A what?’

        ‘An ’od carrier.’

        ‘Spell it.’

        ‘H-O-D C-A- …’

        ‘That’ll do. And what’s a hod carrier, may I ask?’

        ‘An ’od carrier, officer, is a person ’oo carries the cement up the ladder to the bricklayer. And the ’od is what ’ee carries it in. It’s got a long ’andle, and on the top you’ve got two bits of wood set at an angle …’

        ‘All right, all right. Who’s your employer?’

        ‘Don’t ’ave one. I’m unemployed.’

        The policeman wrote all this down in the black notebook. Then he returned the book to its pocket and did up the button.

        ‘When I get back to the station I’m going to do a little checking up on you,’ he said to my passenger.

        ‘Me? What’ve I done wrong?’ the rat-faced man asked.

        ‘I don’t like your face, that’s all,’ the policeman said. ‘And we just might have a picture of it somewhere in our files.’ He strolled round the car and returned to my window.

        ‘I suppose you know you’re in serious trouble,’ he said to me.

        ‘Yes, officer.’

        ‘You won’t be driving this fancy car of yours again for a very long time, not after we’ve finished with you. You won’t be driving any car again come to that for several years. And a good thing, too. I hope they lock you up for a spell into the bargain.’

        ‘You mean prison?’ I asked, alarmed.

        ‘Absolutely,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘In the clink. Behind the bars. Along with all the other criminals who break the law. And a hefty fine into the bargain. Nobody will be more pleased about that than me. I’ll see you in court, both of you. You’ll be getting a summons to appear.’

        He turned away and walked over to his motor-cycle. He flipped the prop stand back into position with his foot and swung his leg over the saddle. Then he kicked the starter and roared off up the road out of sight.