Standing on the corner of Upper Bank Street the new Sergeant breathed in the chill as the January night swirled around him; a fog slicing its way up through the alleyways and side streets like ghostly fingers before his eyes.
"Just once more round the block" Peter thought as his lungs infused with the icy air, his beat so indelibly imprinted in his mind that he was sure he could walk it backwards and blindfolded. "Back to the station, cup of tea and out again…."
Poplar had been quiet tonight and there was nothing of any significance to report. If anything, Peter was quite thankful that the population was still recovering from their New Year celebrations and hadn't felt the need to be out tonight. Drunks were no longer falling out of pubs now – well at least in not so significant numbers; there was no more raucous singing and no more of the girls down Cable Street trying to give his officers on patrol a 'New Year' kiss and offers of more besides.
With these new stripes came fresh responsibilities to his shift and even though he was only a fortnight in, Peter knew that he had to set an example. He also had to keep an eye out for those perhaps less experienced probationers too and if it meant a few choice words with the locals, then so be it.
Not that Sergeant Noakes was adverse to a celebration or two when the mood took him, but preferably not when he was in uniform. The endless days of walking into public houses with sticky floors, being sworn at just for doing his job and finding the Station House cells overflowing before the shift had even started destroyed any feelings of jollity.
Still, a nice quiet night had been had so far and glancing at his watch, Peter stepped off the curbstone onto the cobbles and across the road intent on just checking that all was clear around the docks. He had walked barely a hundred yards, only hearing the clumping sounds of his own boots as he tramped along, when he saw a familiar cycling figure appear from a side street.
Sister Julienne stopped as soon as she saw him, returning the 'Good Morning' that he uttered.
"Everything well Sister?" Peter asked as the pair stood; the Sister wrapped up in a heavy coat, woollen gloves and a scarf wound tightly around her neck.
"A peaceful night, I think Sergeant" she responded, glad too for Mrs. Lewis' quick and easy labour, so straightforward she was now back on the short road to Nonnatus earlier than expected. "Am I to take it you will be joining us for breakfast?"
Peter had been on nights this week, due to knock off in a couple of hours and breakfast was indeed calling. Lodging at Nonnatus though, Sister Julienne had found she had almost had to persuade him to join them at the dinner table.
"If you don't mind Sister" he replied, still feeling slightly nervous of imposing his presence around the table or in Nonnatus in general for some inexplicable reason. He knew that he wouldn't be allowed to get away with it much longer but at the moment it felt quite disconcerting.
"Not in the least Sergeant" Sister Julienne replied. "There is always a place at the table set for you, rain or shine. Please don't forget that". He was part of the walls, ceiling and floor of Nonnatus now, had been for a while, and the Sister really hoped that he might recognise it one day. Maybe then she, or indeed any of the other women who lived there, would stop having to consciously invite him to eat with them or sit with them if he wished rather that squirrel himself away upstairs.
Peter nodded as with another smile the Sister departed. Perhaps in time his hesitance may wane but he was not quite there yet.
Dark unlit buildings towered over him as he continued his walk towards the docks, the far too familiar odour of something he really wouldn't want to describe filtered across the street. A light at last burnt in the security hut at the gates ahead of him, yet it was of no real surprise the hut was empty as he stuck his head through the open door. Peter held his tongue. So much for keeping the streets of Poplar safe when the guards willingly depart their post more often than not.
This part of the docks was on his usual route and he knew the back alleys and cut-throughs like the back of his hand too. The water, to his right, sparkled in the moonlight; such a shame that it was filthy and full of well…anything you could think of really and most things you wouldn't want to ponder at all.
With nobody around it seemed he had the place to himself. The docks were so busy during the day and in an hour or so it would start to spring back into life, but approaching four o'clock in the morning, the peace was almost eerie. Peter took a glance at the sky; the vast expanse twinkling above him as stars littered every aspect of his view. Quickly he coughed away the tight lump that appeared in his throat at the thought unbidden that clattered forcefully into his mind. Was Freddie was asleep under that vast expanse of sky too or being the devil in dungarees for his Mumma?
'Twinkle, twinkle little star….' The boy's giggly voice floated around his head from that telephone call yesterday. It was their ritual established since they moved to the Lodge, Freddie singing as he sat on the attic window ledge and Daddy counting the stars. Two days. He'd be back with them in two days and it couldn't come fast enough.
Something suddenly shot past his feet, a flash of fur moving fast over the cobbles; undoubtedly a rat as it disappeared from sight. Peter sighed, this time grateful to be distracted from the thought of his family even if it was down to the local pestilence.
He continued to walk along the edge of the dock watching the water as it rippled from the slight breeze, still conscious of the silence as he cast a glance to his left.
Most of these warehouses were empty now, long gone the days of sugar and cotton being brought into the docks. Mostly now it was just ships full of sailors. 'Pox ridden sailors' as Sister Evangelina had once said. 'Infecting our streets! Haven't we got enough problems to deal with of our own without all those foreigners spreading disease?!'
Peter smiled. She was probably right.
Out of the corner of his eye though he noticed a door, open slightly and swinging gently on its hinges. 'Probably just been left open by accident' he thought, strolling across and intending on just closing it over. Nobody used these warehouses anymore; mostly kept locked to avoid the tramps taking up permanent residence.
That had been his purpose until he saw the rusty padlock on the floor, discarded possibly too carelessly, but clearly severed with what may well have been bolt cutters. He nudged the padlock to one side with his boot, the cut edge catching the street light and paused carefully by the door.
He knew full well that if he whistled for support if there was someone inside it would only serve to draw attention to him. It was probably only another drunk or a tramp anyway and moved them on would be that more than practised routine that didn't need several pairs of hands.
Peter listened by the door for a moment longer, but heard nothing. He pushed the rotting wood; tips of his fingers just resting, ears open to the slightest scratch of a footstep or a fleeting breath, but yes, still silence. Whoever had forced that padlock seemed to be long gone.
He sighed and took a step inside, vision adjusting to the darkness that seemed full to the brim with shadows. A faint smell of cheap alcohol – more like methylated spirit – coasted across for a moment but it was gone as soon as it was there.
All these years as a copper in Poplar he had fine-tuned an eye and ear for trouble and a sixth sense that had been reliable so far so, once again, he had no reason to doubt it. A few steps later, casting a glance smashed wooden boxes piled high and a floor dusty there was clearly nothing to steal. Whoever had broken that rusty old lock clearly thought there was but they would have been most sorely disappointed at the lack of booty.
Pretty sure there was nothing to see he took one quick look around again, not to see the object that from somewhere came crashing down on the back of his head.
The last thing he remembered was the scratch of feet, hurried feet, and the warehouse door banging shut.