Tango Victor

by Paula Mortenson

 

The young local newspaper reporter steeled herself to knock at the door of the neat little bungalow in suburban London. The tidily laid out garden featured a front door framed in roses; lace curtains peaked out at the windows.

Tired eyes gazed down at her from the doorstep. Eyes that seemed to expect trouble as the reporter introduced herself. There was a silence before the occupant stood to one side to allow her in.

The invitation to a cup of tea, almost to defer the inevitable questions left the reporter on her own in a typically English sitting room while the owner went to the kitchen. She looked around and took in the room, slightly overfilled with comfortable furniture. There were pictures of policemen and women in framed pictures around the room and a glass-fronted cabinet with neatly laid out trophies. A closer inspection revealed them to be awards and recognitions for a name that she knew. Suddenly she felt that this might not be the mere column filler her editor had imagined. This might be a real story. A story that had started years before and was almost history. It had certainly had its roots in an incident that had happened even before she was born.

Her hostess pushed the door open, carrying a tray, with all the paraphernalia for an afternoon cup of tea.

As the older woman busied herself with pouring, the reporter studied her hostess. What she saw was a shapely figure, almost perfectly reflecting how any female would like to be. Legs that were neither skinny nor plump, hips that were almost masculine, a bottom that was neat and though the waist was unmistakably trim, it was not impossibly tiny. The breasts were short of voluptuous but were almost perfectly shaped. The body, though, was displayed in clothes that belonged in a brothel. The flimsy, white see through blouse clearly showed a tiny bra that barely covered the nipples and the black leather skirt, when the wearer sat, certainly did not cover the tops of the black stockings, nor did it disguise the attachments to a suspender belt.

But the woman with the clothing of a twenty year old and the body of a thirty year old had a face that might have belonged to a forty or fifty year old. The slightly garish make up did not help nor that she lit up a cigarette immediately she sat down. Her voice revealed that here was a heavy smoker, sounding gravely and reminiscent of late night drinking dens.

"Ms Reynolds, thank you for seeing me. I wonder whether you can…."

"It’s about Gertrude Hesling, isn’t it? She is due out of prison. Is it this week, or next?"

"Well, there is some doubt whether she will be released. Particularly as the Germans and the French want her as well. Ms Reynolds…"

"Pat. Call me Pat. And you’re Sophie, aren’t you?"

The younger woman nodded, sensing that Pat wanted to tell her something. This could be her big break. That peasant of an editor, she would show him. Telling her that she was only fit for garden parties and obituaries. She could not believe there were still such men about.

The gravely voiced explained that there had been ten telephone calls that morning, all asking whether she knew that Gertrude was being released and would she care to comment. It was apparent no such comment had been made but there was a fatalistic certainty that Sophie was the first of many reporters, one or more of whom might ask more than the standard questions.

"How were you involved with Gertrude? You were the sister of Dave Roberts, the policeman that was murdered, weren’t you?"

The tired eyes misted over with tears and there was a sadness that seemed to age Pat as she searched for a tissue to dab at the mascara and then blow her nose. Suddenly, the eyes stared piercingly at Sophie and there was defiance.

"The whole story is going to come out, sooner or later. So I’d better get my version in first. Listen, you do have an hour or so to spare, don’t you?"

Sophie nodded and as she sipped at her tea, she listened spellbound as the history lesson unfolded.

Various terrorist groups had troubled mainland Europe during the sixties and seventies and Gertrude Hesling had been imprisoned for murdering a young police officer. It was unusual as it was the only time that these terrorists had ventured into Britain; most of their atrocities had been perpetrated in Germany and Italy. The name of the group is not important now. The story really begins twenty years before that when another police officer was killed, he was Dave Roberts father, Inspector John Roberts. He too was murdered and was posthumously awarded the George Medal for giving his life in tackling a gunman, saving a family at the same time. The act of heroism left his widow to bring up their son on her own.

Dave’s mother relied on her police pension, devoting her whole life to bringing up her son. Tragically, soon after Dave left school to take on an office job, she died leaving him on his own in the world. Despite a number of tries, Dave was refused entry to the police force over the next three or four years due to his slight build and eventually he made himself a successful career in the travel industry, employing his considerable linguistic talents to great effect.

The call of London took him away from the provincial town where he had been raised and ultimately allowed him to fulfil his life’s ambition. The Metropolitan police were chronically short of staff and reduced the physical requirements, allowing Dave to just meet the height demands. His talent with languages was also recognised as being important, as the tourist revolution was just beginning and policemen with such skills were in short supply.

Having completed his initial training, he served his probationary period at a central London police station. His lack of physique in comparison with the traditional beat bobby meant that he was rarely allowed out alone but remained within the station, dealing with paperwork and lost and distressed tourists of seemingly every nationality. His skills were recognised by the Superintendent in charge of the station, being commended on many occasions for his involvement in resolving problems where his skills were needed. Somehow, he did not really fit in.

The culture in those days in the "Met" (as the Metropolitan Police, the police force of Metropolitan London is known) was of hard drinking, hard living, male chauvinism. Female officers were used almost solely for traffic duties and family matters. Officers like Dave Roberts who did not fit in with the image were teased and ragged constantly, despite their advantages in education and their better-applied intelligence. Dave had been brought up by his mother, there being few male influences on his life, other than the memory of his father. Thus his fresh faced, softly spoken demeanour created problems in dealing with other officers.

Inevitably, he became bored with his office bound existence and he leapt at the chance to join a special squad put together when it was thought that the European terror groups might operate in England. His language skills were essential to the success of the team.

In charge of the team was Detective Chief Inspector Bygrave, CB to his friends who certainly did not include Dave Roberts, nor anyone who was not a foul mouthed, hard drinking male chauvinist. Amongst the team was a female detective sergeant, Jean Reynolds. She, too was no friend of CB, and like Dave mostly stayed back at their base, dealing with paperwork (distained by the CB set) making tea and other housekeeping duties. Over the months, Jenny and Dave became friendly, finding to their surprise that they had much in common, but that they were the only two members of the team who spoke the languages likely to be useful in tracking the terror teams. CB and his cronies worked on the basis that if someone did not speak English then the answer was to shout. People always understood when you shouted and they were very good at that.

Additionally, the culture of the team branded Jean a lesbian for not agreeing to be bedded by any of the men and Dave’s quiet nature and refusal to join in the late night drinking and denigration of Jean had earned him the nickname, the poofter. There was no justification for it, just the macho attitude that failure to conform meant there had to be something wrong. The rest of the team had branded the pair of them as being the queer squad.

 

During the summer, there had been a few scares but no sight of the terrorists. Then the word came down that the team was going to be disbanded but on the last Friday of August a report came in of a hostage situation in a house full of bed sits in a run down area of North London. The favoured members of the team piled into squad cars and rushed to the scene. Dave and Jean were once again left at the office dealing with paperwork.

They listened to the radio to keep themselves updated with what was going on. Shots had already been fired and the gang was holed up in a top floor flat, holding two hostages. There was only a narrow staircase up to the upper floors, with a landing between the two flats. An attempt had been made to rush them but the line of fire from the landing had cost serious injuries to two police officers, who had been rushed to hospital.

Suddenly, the squad room door crashed open and Bygrave stormed in, screaming obscenities at the top of his voice. It seemed that the four terrorists had been calling instructions to one another but none of the police team had a clue what was being said, except for the taunts and threats flung at them by Gertrude Hesling. She had not hesitated to identify herself and had made it clear what would happen to the hostages if there were further attempts to rush their defences. Bygrave was seething with frustration but his anger had been multiplied when he realised he had to seek the assistance of the queer squad.

"Right. You, Roberts. I need a woman in there. Reynolds, lend him your uniform." In those days a policewoman’s uniform was a heavy serge material and consisted of a skirt below the knee, white shirt and fitted jacket. Jean protested, claiming rightly that such a task should be allocated to her.

Bygrave’s reply was both curt and profane but essentially instructed them to do as he told them and that no way was he going to allow a woman to put her self in that situation and that Dave was a pansy, poofter, etc and that he would look more attractive than Jenny in the uniform. They were given an hour to complete the transformation.

Jean’s mood was hardly less vicious than CB’s but she recognised that she was not going to get her way. The general idea was to get Dave into the flat in exchange for the hostages, who were both students. Bygrave seemed to have the idea that a single police officer inside the flat would somehow be able to overcome the four female terrorists. From the descriptions already received, it was apparent that the idea was little more than a hopeful fantasy on their commander’s part. Gertrude, alone, was a big strong woman in her thirties who had, according to reports fought hand to hand with two continental police officers. The list of injuries to the two officers read as though they had been beaten up by a gang. The other three terrorists were no pushovers, either.

That Dave and Jean’s builds were alike was fortunate for Bygrave had given no thought to size, nor how convincing a feminine Dave might be up close. As she gathered the necessary clothes Jean ranted on. As a Sergeant she was expected to present a "twin set and peals" image in uniform and it was some surprise to Dave when he found her hair was actually a wig. Her own hair being a bleached crew cut, shorter even than the style expected from the male constables of the day.

"It’s for the clubs.", Jean smiled wryly. "Their assessment of my inclinations was right." The shocked look on Dave’s face drew a laugh from Jean. "I thought you knew. I know you’re straight, but you know what it’s like. If there’s a sniff of any scandal, I’m out and there will be no pension and no appeal. I can have a drink problem like Bygrave’s lot and I’m OK but fancy girls and you don’t stand a chance."

Jean turned businesslike as she prepared Dave for his promotion into the Women’s section of the police. "If you get in, it’s got to be right, because you are going to be up close. So shave and then I’ll pluck your eyebrows. You’d better shave your legs as well, not that anyone can see anything through the heavy stockings we wear."

One of the things that had been picked on by CB had been that Dave had a very light beard, hardly needing to shave every day. In addition, though he was relieved that none of his colleagues knew, was that having been brought up by his mother with little or no male influence he had adopted certain little female habits. He allowed no hair on his arms or legs and he regularly used hand and facial creams to keep his skin soft.

If Jean thought she was going to shock him with a few bits of underwear she was mistaken as in the final two years of his mother’s life he had done everything for her, including all her laundry. What did surprise was the vicious panty girdle he struggled up his hips. "The final frontier," smiled Jean, "all the girls are told to wear one as a defence against men!"

The bra was stuffed with socks though it’s material was so heavy it could have kept it’s shape without. Jean worked away for twenty minutes before she was satisfied. As she stood back she smiled, "Real butch. If you were the genuine article I could go for you in a big way." Dave’s blush was interrupted by Bygrave impatiently rapping on the door of the women’s locker room. "Just five more minutes, Sir. Just hang on there, Davey, I just want to change."

In a trice, Jean stripped and produced from her locker clothes that would have embarrassed a hooker. Skin tight, leopard skin pants, a top her breasts constantly threatened to tumble out of and the highest pair of stilettos Dave had ever seen combined with garish make up to give little doubt of the profession that was being portrayed. As Jean called out to Bygrave to see his new woman sergeant she whipped out a pair of handcuffs and fastened herself to Dave.

There was a row of monumental proportions between Jean and her boss. He demanded she release herself, she refused. He swore she replied even more foully. He accused her of deliberately seeking to mess things up, she accused him of incompetence and much worse and then switched tack by suddenly becoming calm. She explained she was playing a tart who hated the police and who was happy to volunteer as a hostage replacement to avoid going to prison. The keys to the manacles had gone missing so the policewoman and she came as a pair. Bygrave was by now desperate, his chance for glory depending on two people he hated and despised but now feared, as he recognised they had courage, deliberately putting themselves in mortal danger. However, they were, in his eyes, the most expendable of his team so suddenly he agreed.

There was tension in the streets surrounding the run down old house where the terrorists were blockaded in. The tension increased further when they were loaded into the back of a police van to be deposited at the front of the house. Negotiations had already taken place for the exchange and they were hustled to the landing where the two police officers had been wounded. Guns were much in evidence as the handcuffed pair edged forward and the two student hostages took their place on the landing. Strong grips pulled them into one of the bedsits and the door was slammed shut. Jean played her part magnificently, seemingly convincing Helga and her unit that she was what she claimed. There seemed to be no question of Dave’s identity. They had expected that the handcuffs would keep them together but within minutes bolt cutters had been produced and one was taken to the other flat.

It had been midday when they had entered the flats but by midnight the tension had increased unbearably and Dave was aware that the makeup was wearing thin, he could feel the beginnings of his beard and he needed the toilet. Helga never rested, constantly checking for movement and watching every move. As the hours passed Dave became aware that Helga watched him in a strange, intense way. Through the night her concentration on him increased. First looking at him from the far corner of the room and then, as she paced back and forth, coming close. It was as though she was coming to a decision, A remark was exchanged between the terrorists in a slang version of their native language and eventually Helga stood over the uniformed figure and hauled him to his feet, before dragging him off to the bathroom.

They had barely gone for ten minutes before the raid came. There were shots in both bedsits before quiet fell.

Pat’s tears flowed in the North London sitting room recalling the events of twenty years before.

"So Helga killed Dave in the bathroom?"

Pat shook her head. "Helga had taken what she thought was a policewoman to the bathroom because she wanted sex with her."

"But it wasn’t a woman."

"No. Helga was not pleased about that. She took her revenge on Dave, though. She inflicted terrible injuries to him and more particularly his manhood. "

"But.."

Pat looked the reporter in the eyes. For the first time in twenty years she admitted what had really happened. The attack had been a complete shambles. There was little or no light and no one had realised that Jean had been moved to the other flat. The two terrorists and Jean had been shot, with CB to the fore, waving his revolver in all directions. In the other room only one terrorist had been discovered and as they burst into the bathroom they had discovered Helga doing terrible things with Jean’s truncheon.

Dave’s injuries were so fundamental there were doubts whether he would survive.

"But Dave died. Helga was convicted of his murder,"

"The cockup was so embarrassing that Bygrave covered it up. No one wanted to admit they had sent a young inexperienced copper in drag into such a situation. And no one wanted to admit what Helga had done to Dave."

"But what happened to him?"

"Jean was buried as him. There were no relatives to worry about. Dave was sent off to see the best surgeons they could find but they all agreed there was only one solution."

Pat quietly explained that Dave had no brothers, nor sisters and when pressed where Dave was now she only smiled through her tears, " Dave’s middle name was Patrick?" She somehow turned the simple statement into a half question, hinting but not saying.

The young reporter carefully closed the gate behind her, turning to wave to the sad figure standing at the window. Who cared, she thought to herself, whether the idiot editor thinks I am incompetent. It is a great story but Pat deserved to live her life in peace.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Paula Mortenson. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.