The Great Vacuum Robber

In an undisclosed market town in Southern England, the security guard (off-guard) stumbled out of his workstation almost face-planting, as his eyes and commitment to his job moved considerably faster than his legs were ready for. The only crime of the month was happening right in front of him and on his watch. He lunged for the door.

The arch-villain had grabbed a Dyson from the window display and legged it out of the shop and up the hill and - I shit you not - towards the magistrates court which was situated - and I shit you not again - in the same building as the police station.

Why would he run towards the law in broad daylight, carting a stolen yellow vacuum cleaner? Well, his house was on the small housing estate next door to the courts and there was a convenient alleyway that lead from the top of the high street, between ‘Your Worship’ and the back gardens on the estate.  Just 150 metres or so and he’d be able to duck into the alley and ten more metres he’d be home and dry. 

But the main reason was this: he was a bad criminal. One of the worst criminals I ever met. Not ‘worst’ because of the despicable nature of his crimes but because he was really really bad at it.

As the call came in, we’d literally just poured the tea, before sharing the customary eye roll and strolling out of the back yard past the police cars and round the corner to where the Pablo Escobar of suction was padding through his garden and in the through the back door in plain sight.

There wasn’t a police officer either on or off duty who wouldn’t have immediately a) known the identity of the vacuum villain (sorry) b) known exactly which address he was headed towards.  We knocked with authority on the door. His nervous girlfriend opened the door to a crack:

“What you want?”
“Can you go and get him please?”
“Who?” Insert Martin Freeman's favourite acting face (see below). “No. He’s not here.” Repeat face. “He’s not here.”
"Either you get him or we’re coming in to get him." We’ve just watched him run in with a hoover.” My foot was wedged in the door (one of the first lessons I learned in the job) in case she felt like making life difficult.
“He didn’t have no hoover.”
“I thought you said he wasn't here.” Not quite 'Line of Duty' but I was amused nonetheless. She stepped out of the way leaving her spirit in the doorway but resigned to the section 32 (ask H) that was about to take place.

What started as a house search quickly descended into a farcical game of hide and seek. The stolen Dyson was outside the bedroom door, sheepishly eyed by the girlfriend. We drew our batons and slowly opened the door to the main bedroom:
"We're coming ready or not, Matthew." I opened the door cautiously, ready to react. Nothing happened. My eyes darted around the room and in the same moment we both looked at the wardrobe. "Come out Matthew." Silence. "Maaa-theewwww. We've found you!" Still nothing. Even my sing-song voice didn't flush him out. "Come on! It's my turn to hide." Not professional I know but by this point we were struggling to hold it together. We moved to the closed doors.

Nodding to each other and on three, we yanked open a door each to reveal its contents. Empty but for the human-shaped lump sat cross-legged with a blanket draped over his head.
"Hello Matthew." Again, nothing. The blanket was breathing heavily so I put my baton back in the holster, deciding it would only impede my next manoeuvre. I bent down to grab the corners and with a Houdini flourish I whipped the material up in the hair and over his head.
"Ta-da!" Matthew held his hands up in submission. "Put your hands down Matthew it's not the Sweeney. Come on we've got to bring you in."

When I began writing this post (around 7pm Saturday 1st May 2021) I hadn't figured out how to frame the ending. Probably something about the comedic and no-doubt unprofessional manner in which the detail of the arrest was relayed to the custody sergeant or whatever. 

Then this happened and the ending wrote itself. 

At 7:26pm and 7:28pm I was still writing this post when I received two calls on Facebook Messenger, neither of which I answered. I rang back and we had a 2 minute conversation which consisted of a welfare check, a location check and then an apology for bothering me.

I stared at my phone for some time, followed by a longer stare at the wall. He'd called me by accident, which in itself is not unusual. Also the fact that I'd not spoken to him for over 20 years - not even via text - might not surprise you that much. If I told you he was a former colleague and we were both Sergeants together in the job it could cause a smile.

But what if I told you he was the custody sergeant on duty on the very day of the Great Vacuum Robber?

He booked him in.

Martin Freeman Acting Face

PS If you're not sure what I meant by the Martin Freeman acting face reference from the British panel show Never Mind The Buzzcocks, here it is: