Harman-Smith sank back into his chair. The establishment was loyal to those within its confines but harsh to those who broke the rules. Writing pointless reports and meeting ministers had wasted his morning. In his opinion, most middle-ranking civil servants strolled around all day with their thumbs up their bums. He knew he was doing a good job and that they didn't understand. He was the head of a team that produced results. His team swept up the scum and deadbeats who filled the streets with drugs. When the system fails, you have to compensate accordingly. Bend a few rules but never break them. The rules were anything the regime of the day accepted. He strongly defended their methods, stating that undercover agents were the key to opening the drug trade door. He had always done his duty to the police force and his country. Now those same officers were changing the rules. If there was a problem, the damage limitation exercise had begun. He left the Ministry Building and walked out into the street, knowing those at the top would deny all knowledge if anything went wrong.
Fuming, he returned to his car. Harry, as always, was there waiting, and he told him the news.
"Great! Fucking great! Screw them. It's not like the old days; now you have to be PC and fart correctly. It's coming to the point where I don't give a toss anymore. Tell me, are you hungry? There's a nice pub at the end of the road where Jones' lives. It's on the riverside, and we can watch the world go by."
Harman-Smith sighed. "Why not? Yes, Harry, too much has changed. As you said, if something needed doing in the old days, you damn well did it. What the hell happened to common sense?"
"My old school teacher had a saying...the trouble with common sense is, it ain't so common."
Harman-Smith nodded as he drove across the Hammersmith flyover. Turning left into a street, and stopped the car close the kerb.
A traffic warden watched in amazement when a vehicle stopped on treble red lines. He moved with a company sergeant major's precision towards them.
Harry dug deep into his jacket pocket, searching for his warrant card.
"You can't park there!" the warden bellowed. "Move, or you'll get a ticket."
Harry opened the window. "Where else do you suggest we park?" he asked politely. "We're working."
The warden opened his ticket pad and began to write as Harry got out of the car. "Hey, Adolf. Before you feel a bigger pratt than you are, would you please look at this?"
The man peered at Harry's warrant card, shut his pad and muttered, "I'm only doing my fucking job," and as if still on the parade ground, marched away.
Harman-Smith locked the car and strolled to the parapet overlooking the Thames. He gazed at the multiple masts swaying with the wind and tide. Moorings such as these cost a fortune. How had that villain Jones managed to find and pay the rent for a flat in this location?
Together they walked along and entered the Rutland pub. Harman Smith pointed to an empty table beneath a couple of oil paintings. Harry settled into a chair opposite his boss.
The good looking barmaid smiled, waited, took their order of two ploughman's, and two pints of bitter. In less than ten minutes, she placed their order in front of them. "Enjoy," she said as they watched her glide away.
When she had gone, Harman-Smith smiled at Harry. "Not many of them to the pound."
"When she bent over, guv, the temptation was irresistible."
