Fell Purpose by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page A

Slider arrived, and was plainly spoiling for a chat, so it was some time before Slider was able to get down to the matter in hand.
    Sweyback’s name owed more to Nabisco than Quasimodo, as he had revealed during an etymological discussion at a junket they had both attended: in fact, he was as tall and straight as a reasonable man needed to be, taller and more heavily built than Slider, only somewhat under-endowed in the follicular department – something that was often on his mind. Slider had more than once heard his treatise on Why Bald Men Don’t Get On (subheading No Bald Man Will Ever Be Prime Minister Again). Sweyback regarded Slider as a bit of a soul mate, largely because it was unusual for an older copper to remain at station level rather than levitating to the SOs, or copping out to the cushy desk jobs. When they turned up at the same do, as happened from time to time, Sweyback would hasten to Slider’s side with the glad eagerness of a German tourist spotting a sausage, and would bend his ear about the sheer awfulness of the Job these days.
    The last such occasion had been a seminar on Policing By Intelligence, and Sweyback reverted to it now, dunking his Abbey Crunch in the PG Tips, and reeling out a few things he had thought of since and hadn’t had a chance to air to anyone yet.
    ‘Policing By Intelligence? What we need is policing with intelligence, but fat chance of getting any of that these days! You know what the other thing means: crouching over a computer all day, never going out on the street, fiddling your figures to make it look as if you’re doing your job properly. You can’t police from a desk. But these youngsters don’t know what I’m talking about. Do you know, I haven’t got a single person over thirty-five on my firm? I’m saddled with kids still wet behind the ears, and of course that’s the way they’ve been brought up. If it’s not in the computer they don’t want to know. You talk about knowing your own ground and knowing your own villains and working up your own snouts, and they look at you as if you were talking Chinese. You know what I mean, Bill. You’re like me. We’re from the old school. I’m a copper’s copper, and I’m not ashamed to say it, I don’t care who’s listening. But the Job’s going to the dogs. I don’t know why I carry on sometimes. They won’t let you catch criminals, and when you do catch them, the CPS won’t prosecute. Did you see that statistic in the paper the other day? Only fifteen per cent of serious crimes end up with a jail sentence.’
    Slider listened patiently – he agreed with much of what Sweyback said, but hearing him saying it was a useful lesson to take on board about not sounding like a disgruntled old fart. He waited for him to run down (it was never much longer after the ‘I’m a copper’s copper’ bit) and occupied the unused part of his brain with wondering whether Duggie’s teeth were natural or not. They were so white and even, it either suggested tremendous lifelong care, or the old Royal Doulton job.
    Eventually Sweyback reached the bit about having had it up to here and thinking about early retirement, and Slider was able to say, ‘Go on with you, you’ll die in the saddle. What would you do with retirement – play golf and collect beer mats? You’d miss Woodley South too much.’
    ‘Miss it? It’ll be the death of me!’ But it was enough of a reminder. Sweyback pulled himself together and said, ‘You’re interested in one of my home-grown villains, aren’t you? Young Michael Carmichael.’
    ‘Yes, what can you tell me about him? What’s he like?’
    ‘Cocky young devil. Too much of this.’ He flapped his hand in the ‘mouthy’ gesture. ‘Too clever for his own good, that’d be my verdict. He’s bright enough, could have made something of himself, but like all these kids he’s lazy – wants everything now . So he goes the easy route.’
    ‘He’s been in trouble for possession, I