When Duty Isn't Enough
Author: Firebird
Rating: K+ (may change)
Disclaimer: Neither Hot Fuzz nor its characters, settings etc. are mine (although I wish Nick was). Original characters are, as the name would imply, original and belong to me.
**
He walked alone along the empty streets. He hadn't realised it was so late: the sun was well down, which meant it had to be well after 9pm, and he was still switched on. Still thinking away. Breathing deeply, he acknowledged that he needed to switch off, but struggled to decide how. Danny's action movies worked to a degree, but there was always that part of him that was busy analysing - and criticising - the procedures depicted, and wondering just when anyone would get around to processing any of the paperwork they had incurred, or simply drawing often-unwelcome parallels between the fictional scenarios and his own cases and circumstances.
There were lights on at Danny's as he walked past, but he resisted the urge to stop by. Danny was entertaining Sarah Johnston, who worked at the new garden centre, and Nick had no wish to be the fifth wheel in the budding romance that was offering his friend a comfort and solace which he never could.
His own house was dark and silent. He had considered getting a dog, but it was too much of a commitment given the hours he worked. Maybe a cat...
He put some leftover vegetable stir-fry in the microwave and ran a glass of water from the tap. Taking his plate and the glass he wandered through to the living room and switched on the telly. A quick flip through the channels confirmed that, once again, there was nothing on worth watching. He considered watching one of his slowly-growing library of DVDs, but rejected the idea in favour of a book and an early night.
***
As usual, he rose early the next morning and downed a glass of fresh orange juice before heading out for a run. Arriving back at his house, he noticed the 'Sold' sign plastered across the 'For Sale' notice on the cottage neighbouring his. It must have been put up the previous day, and gone unnoticed when he returned home in the dark. He wondered who the buyer was, and offered up the silent prayer of every police officer, everywhere: 'Please, just let them be law-abiding.'
A quick shower, a bowl of high-fibre cereal, and he was on his way out the door.
"Morning Sergeant," he greeted his surly desk-sergeant, who grunted in reply. The rest of the regular Sandford Police Department were gathered in the main office, ready for their morning briefing.
They had been aware for some time that Operation Dog-rose was drawing to a close, with many of the outside investigators having already left Sandford, and the announcement the previous day that investigations were now complete had come as no surprise to the team. He sent the Andys off to knock on doors and ask questions about a recent stabbing in the high-street (not another murder, thank God, but only because others had been quick to intervene), and told the rest of the team to pick up their patrol schedules from Turner if they hadn't already done so. The Sandford Police Department covered a large area of the countryside, and gone were the days when the team could more or less ignore the outlying areas in favour of staying close to town and the pub. Nicholas had made it clear that he expected them to drive down every road and past every farmhouse at least once a week, on an irregular schedule, and it was testimony to the new-found sense of purpose and discipline in the department that no-one had raised any serious objections to this.
He dismissed them and headed for his office, aware that someone was following him. He turned at the door.
"Bob?" The oldest member of the department nodded to him.
"I's wundrin' 'f-ah c'ld 'ave wurd?" he asked. Nick mentally translated this as "I was wondering if I could have a word?" and nodded, gesturing towards the chair opposite his desk.
"Of course. Have a seat."
He looked at the man opposite him. According to the personnel files, Constable Bob Walker had been a good officer once upon a time, before Frank Butterman began his insidious reign of terror. Then, like Nick, he had seen his questions, suspicions and conclusions quietly ignored or openly mocked, and had his sanity repeatedly called into question, until he himself began to wonder whether he was going mad. Eventually Frank's tactics had worked, and Bob had sunk into a twenty-year stupor of quiet desperation as he tried to do his duty under a commanding officer who was determined to prevent him from discharging it.
On the day of the shoot-out, the officer he had once been had been shaken awake and raised his head once more, and since then Bob had worked as hard as any of them to ensure that the conspirators would meet justice. But he was not the man he had once been, and the last two years had taken their toll. Nick had a feeling he knew what was coming.
"'m not's yung's ah us't be, "he began. 'I'm not as young as I used to be.' "Allas say ah did best bah Sanf't, bu' truwth's ah hild mah pis. Knew summat's wrang, bu' did nufin' 'bou'tit. Troid t'pu tha roit las'tw yars, bu's anly s'mush baddy c'n tak. Naw't inves'tion's ower 'hink's 'bout tahm' retoied."
Nick's mental translator whirred for a moment as it tried to process this chunk of more-or-less unintelligible garble, and finally came up with 'I've always said I did my best by Sandford, but the truth is I held my peace. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't do anything about it. I've tried to put that right in the last two years, but there's only so much I can take. Now that the investigation is over I think it's time I retired.'
He nodded.
"It's been a hard time for all of us, Constable, and I've appreciated your dedication throughout this investigation. I'm assuming you've thought this through?"
"Aye."
"In that case, I'll begin processing the paperwork."
"Than'kew sorr." Bob rose and headed for the door.
"And Bob?"
"Aye?"
"For what it's worth, in my eyes you've more than redeemed yourself in these last two years."
The older man smiled. "Than'kew sorr," he said again.
***
'Police have today confirmed that investigations into the notorious Sandford Conspiracy, in which the Neighbourhood Watch Alliance in the village of Sandford, Gloucestershire, perpetrated a twenty-year reign of terror against their own citizens, are now completed. A spokesperson for the police, Inspector Nicholas Angel, announced that charges will be laid in the deaths of sixty-eight individuals, although it is likely that the true death toll is much higher. He again urged anyone with ties to Sandford dating from any time within the last two decades to contact their family or local police department to reassure them of their safety.
'It is likely to be some months before the trials of the Sandford Twelve begin at London's Old Bailey, and it is believed that, if convicted, many of the conspirators will face life in prison without the possibility of parole.
'Inspector Angel is, of course, the man responsible for uncovering the conspiracy and – '
Nick turned off the news. He did not need to hear another heroic profile of himself. He wasn't a hero. He was a police officer who had been doing his duty, that was all.
That was all he was.