I have driven from location to location trying to follow and anticipate at the same time. I have got the wrong final choice of location so I have a short journey to get to the correct spot. I have been monitoring and the pursuit vehicles have seen me plotted up or moving around to try to get in a position to be of help. Comms call me to see if I can make my way to location X. I have already arrived, the evil that is self deployment. Tut tut.
The pursuit was followed by a short footchase after the decamp on the edge of the Britannia Estate. Across the sports field and along the cycle track. As twocker 1 turned off the cycle track he must have seen the plotted up unit and dived for cover in the first garden.
I speak to the twocker footchase unit and he thinks where twocker has gone but does not know. He is guessing. He tells me what he thinks I want to hear but this is no good.
Where was he last seen ?
How long ago ?
Have you or any other officer been anywhere for a look ?
How much containment have we got on ?
Don’t get in the way of the dog.
Unless it is spot on I prefer to rely on my canine companion to work it out. I have got a last area for the sighting as twocker 1 disappeared from view off the cycle track into the Estate. Twocker 1 has not gone far and is in one of the gardens in about a hundred and fifty yards of the Britannia’s finest domiciles.
Matey is out, harnessed up and led to the end of the cycle track.
The track is located quickly, but it weaves about a bit as we go into the road, into the first garden and back onto the road. This is likely to be twocker chasers rather than twocker himself.
My mate has worked it out. Past the first garden and then there is a definite determination that tells me that my mate is onto the right stuff. I follow him, following the smell of twocker, along the road, going into every open gate. To check out the garden ? Who knows ? If only he could speak, he could tell me. I watch him and he tells me anyway, in his own silent way.
He continues, knocking off each open garden gate and then lurches into the undergrowth at the front of one of the houses. Already the curtains are twitching. Likely to see if they can rescue one of their own before the net closes.
Too late. The net is here, in their front garden and slammed shut, tightly shut.
The growl and deep bark tells me all I need to know. A quick flick of my torch confirms the tread on the bottoms of the Nike trainers. The barking signals to the troops that the team effort has been successful and I hear the distant beat of the approaching apprehension squad.
I signal the twocker to crawl out slowly and remain in his prone position on the floor. I give him a seconds worth of mag-lite to take away his night vision in case he decides to try for another lap but with the close proximity of canine dentistry he decides that the welcome security of some of my operational colleagues is a safer bet. He is led away.
I send my mate into the undergrowth and he lies down. My mag-lite confirms gloves, a small torch and some tools, hastily deposited in an effort to discard them.
Already there is another call. We have to go. I make some notes and we hit the road to the next job.
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