The Adventure p.3 - Recruited onto a Police Chase
I heard the call of duty, and boy did I respond
Let me recap you. I went on a cycle around Brittany. Complimented Frenchmen on the orange clothing they were wearing. Disturbed a man’s dog-walk. Provoked rage in a hippie-hating bus driver. I disclosed to you my goal of becoming the ‘Ronaldo of social skills’. We left off with me having arrived back in Saint-Malo, off to get Thai Food as soon as I cycled that last 0.2km to get to the auspicious 50 km mark. But my plans suddenly changed…
I blithely cycled up the side street, feeling excited for that red curry, or would it be a Pad Thai? All of a sudden, I heard a banging as I approached a crossroads. I looked to my left and saw a man, maybe in his 50s, quite overweight, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. He was banging at the window of a car with what looked like a hammer. This made me pause, it was strange behaviour, but I thought it must be nothing. It was 5pm, still broad daylight and we were pretty central. I thought that perhaps he owned the car, had lost his keys, and really needed something out it, his wallet, his phone. I was confused but cycled on. Saint-Malo is extremely low in crime, and, again, it was broad daylight, on a fairly busy Saturday afternoon.
I got down the road and cycled back up, 50km surely in the bag by now. I looked again at that side street. The guy was gone, the car window shattered and a puddle of glass chunks were on the road. Something moved in my peripheries, and I saw a man fall over, get up, and then turn the corner onto the main road. It was the same man who I had seen hitting the window. Like Sergeant Angel in Hot Fuzz, I burst into action. I followed him on my bike as he lingered, tried running (couldn’t) and tried to hide himself among the shops. I thought about taking a photo of him, but didn’t want to provoke. I got a good look at him though, and looked into his eyes, not completely symmetrical with a yellow tint that made him look drugged or perhaps slightly ill. I stayed watching him for about 30 seconds before heading back to the scene. I decided to call the police, and as I did so, the owner of the car came out as well as her neighbour.
The operator told me plain-clothed officers were coming to my location. I hung up the phone and told the women that I had called the police. They thanked me and said they had heard a banging and that, when they came out, the culprit abandoned his looting and fled the scene. Moments later, a small, black Peugeot with tinted windows came into the little road. The window was rolled down - there were two men in the front. The driver wore a red sports tracksuit jumper. He looked at me intently before asking “c’est toi le témoin?” (are you the witness?). I nodded. He told me to get in the car and the rear-passenger door opened. I hopped in next to another police officer, secretly grinning to myself that fate had provided me with a perfect ending for the piece I was going to write.
There were radios dotted in the glove compartments and what looked like a great canister of gas. I looked for some gun to play with - I couldn’t see any. We sped off very quickly, and the driver told me I was going to point out the robber to them. I told them he was a 50-ish looking guy, around 180cm, black trackybottoms, short grey hair, little greyish beard. He had a bit of a belly too. The driver slammed on the brakes, pointed at someone and asked “Is that him?”. I said it wasn’t. He shouted “you sure?” and I said “I’m sure”. The driver told me that this guy had robbed 16 cars in the last week - they had to catch him. Saint-Malo is very safe, they obviously wanted to keep its reputation intact. I thought about a teasing - “crime doesn’t happen in Sandford” - Hot Fuzz remark, but it didn’t seem like the right moment. The officer next to me showed me photos on his phone of suspects - did any of these guys resemble him?. There was one picture which showed a balding guy. I was about to tell him that he wasn’t as bald as that, but I paused. I looked at the officer and noticed that he didn’t have much hair left on his head. I wondered how I should respond without making my interlocutor feel insecure. Five seconds elapsed, I fought with myself over what to say. Every man is tormented, at points, about his hairline. I didn’t want to PTSD my fellow hair loss brother. I searched and searched through my inner archives of French vocab for a nicer term than “slaphead”. I couldn’t find any and blurted out “he wasn’t as bald as that” and looked despairingly at the officer - so sorry to have been forced to say the b word. He repeated what I said as if he were processing the information. I saw the slightest glimmer in his eyes hinting that he thought I, like our man, was a fool and possibly - a wrong’un.
We scoured the area I had last seen him in, back and forth, through the little side streets. The two other officers who weren’t driving frequently got out to look in spots where the man could be lurking: among the shelves in Carrefour, down a little alley, in a bar on the road. If you’ve been to France a lot, you’ll know what I mean when I say that the bar was a shoddy little place, where people buy cigarettes, lottery tickets, and cheap booze. These establishments don’t really care for aesthetics. And so a perfect place, though fairly obvious, for our man to be hiding in.
As they searched, it was just me and the driver in the car. He really threw the car around, he darted ahead of the traffic, went through red lights. I felt like asking him - “My dear chap, would you mind not driving like such a lunatic.” He also stopped erratically to pick up the other two officers, who suddenly appeared like ghosts near the car - masters in the art of concealing themselves on the street. Our man was nowhere to be found. As they spoke with each other, becoming increasingly annoyed and frustrated, I surveyed the cops who I was riding along with. I chuckled to myself when I looked at them. If you were to produce a Netflix crime-series, you couldn’t possibly cast better looking undercover cops. They were all slightly different. The driver had short dark hair and stubble, the guy in the passenger seat had longer hair, was muscular, and a had little beard. Sat next to me was the balding chap who squinted as he spoke. They all were slightly tanned, in an unhealthy-looking way. Wrinkles lined their faces speaking of the fatigue from their job, and thousands of cigarettes smoked to relieve the stress of chasing bad guys. They all had grim expressions. I was delighted to be seeing the real thing. I rested my head against the headrest, closed my eyes for a second and let the situation wash over me.
It became increasingly apparent that we were too late, the culprit had vanished. The officers became frustrated and annoyed. True to their casting brief, they started saying the most un-PC things in French “Fucccckkkk, that little faggot has gone - that fucking pisses me off”… “We got here in two minutes and the wanker has already disappeared.”… “The fat bastard can’t have got very far, he’s too fat to run.” I felt happy to realise that some police officers do hold true to their stereotype. Then again, maybe they’d just had a long day and were being a bit loose-lipped.
It became clear that we weren’t going to catch the bad guy on this occasion. They decided to let me back out at the crime scene. I collected my bike and cycled in pouring rain up to the Thai restaurant. As I sat down with a plate of food, I felt a contented tiredness settle over me. It had been great to go out on my own and explore Brittany - God’s own country. I also enjoyed the surprise ending to my day. When I had been in the tinted Peugeot, it was such a surreal experience to be pointing at members of the public and saying whether they were a criminal or not. It makes me think of the next time I walk down a street, there could be four people in the back of car, looking at me, getting ready to jump out and make an arrest. But I try my best to walk along, head on my way with honesty and a clear conscience - willingly naive about the depths of state surveillance.