I was once told a funny story by a friend of mine who had, at various times, been involved in – how can I phrase this – the importation and wholesale distribution of south American pharmaceutical products.
We were sat talking in the company of a lovely brunette escort girl who was working for one of the agencies that I ran in Spain. I tried not to mix with the girls other than for work. Ibiza escorts are not always as much fun as you would think.
Anyway, the story was about a driver who was supposed to drive non stop from Dover to Manchester. But instead he stopped at a motorway services and fell asleep with his engine running. And since he was parked in a disable bay, a passing police car took an interest in him. They walked up and knocked on his window.
At the rap on the window, the driver bolted awake with a start and jumped up. PC Davis signalled for the driver to lower his window. He saw the driver reach to the door and then buzz the window down.
Davis might only be three years in, but he knew a flap when he saw one and this guy was practically shitting himself. He was either off his face on something or up to something. He looked over the top of the car roof to Swinton and gave him the nod. He asked the driver to turnb the ignition off and then said “Evening Sir” polite as English Police usually were, “Is there a problem?”
“Err no, why? Why would there be a problem?” as a Channel port, Kent got its fair share of everybody, and Davis was as aware of jumping to assumptions as anyone. But a male, late twenties, wearing a track suit and with a wicked scouse accent, parked up with the engine running, at three in the morning? And jumping out of his skin? Obviously not everyone from Liverpool was a drug dealer. But, well, you know.
But take it slowly.
“You are parked in a disabled parking bay, Sir. And have obviously been so for some time. You are aware that is an offense?”