Pond.
‘Been like a bloody madhouse,’ he added, picking up his loud hailer. ‘I don’t know what’s got into the kids round here. This is normally a quiet district. For London.’
It was then that, back at the shop, my burglar-alarm went off. I would recognize that dreadful whooping anywhere. I was into my car and belting down Wheatstone High Street before I knew what I was doing.
And, in my headlights, I saw them running out of my gate. Two slim figures in trainers, jeans and bomber jackets. They turned for a second to stare at me, shielding their eyes against my lights.
And for some reason I went berserk. I mean, I’ve always hated burglars, especially with regard to my shop, because it’s my living. If they burgle the house, well, it’s just kids after videos to sell for drugs, and you can replace a video with the insurance money. But if they go for the shop, they’re pros, and they’re after the things you’ve sweated over . . .
But that night . . . they were running along the pavement now, pinned by the lights against the high walls . . .
I had a sudden mad desire to flatten them against that wall; to never have to worry about them again. They were . . . no more than insects . . .
It was lucky for them they had a car waiting with the rear doors open. They vanished inside; the car revved up, smoke spouting from its exhaust . . .
I aimed straight for it. And almost forgot to slam on the brakes.
I can’t have been doing more than fifteen, when I hit it. I felt the seat-belt tighten across my chest. Then the massive front of the Volvo was driving the rear end of their car along the bricks of the wall in a brilliant shower of sparks. Crushing it up like an egg. I could see it was a Citroën AX they’d got; by comparison with the Volvo they’re not very heavily built.
A sudden silence. Then I was out of the car. Somebody tried to get out of the front door of the AX. I slammed the car door on his extended leg, and heard with joy a squeal of pain.
Then a policeman from the Pond had hold of me, was shouting at me, shaking me. And slowly I came back to my senses.
It was two in the morning before it was all sorted out, and then the duty inspector took me into his office. He was much younger than I was; in fact he didn’t look more than a sixth former, with his chubby rosy cheeks. But his face was solemn. Very solemn.
‘All’s well that end’s well, Mr Morgan.’ His tone quite belied his words. ‘Nobody hurt, beyond cuts and bruises. By a miracle. And we mustn’t expect too many miracles, must we, Mr Morgan?’
He was talking to me as if I was a kid.
‘I’m entitled to make a citizen’s arrest,’ I said, nastily.
‘It’s only a miracle it wasn’t a citizen’s multiple murder. It’s lucky you’re not in the cells now. What the hell did you think you were doing?’
‘I suppose I misjudged the distance. But they were getting away. Like they so often do with burglaries. Even with our magnificent police force . . .’
He just stared at me. Then he said, ‘Are you a violent man, Mr Morgan? All we have on our records about you is one case of drunk and disorderly.’
‘That was the week after my wife died.’ That made him flinch a little. But he didn’t like me any more for it.
‘You had no evidence they were even burglars . . . then.’
‘Running out of my gate at gone eleven, with the burglar-alarm going? I hardly imagined they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.’
‘They could have been passers-by, trying to help.’
‘Why did they go running, then?’
‘Perhaps they panicked and thought you were going to knock them down. They say they were very frightened. They say they thought their last hour had come . . .’
‘But they were burglars.’ I wasn’t letting him get away with anything. The nerve, looking me up in criminal records . . . as if I was a common felon.
‘Yes, luckily for you, we found tools on them that constitute an offence in themselves. Which gave us grounds to search their homes. We found enough. They won’t bother us now for a bit . . . but you bother me a lot, Mr Morgan . . .’
‘We’d had a lot of