In reality, I could think of a few things I’d have preferred to be doing than standing in the rain in the middle of the night, catching pneumonia. Things like cleaning out a blocked drain bare-handed. Watching snooker on a black-and-white TV. Being doorstepped by a Jehovah’s Witness early on a Saturday morning while suffering from the mother and father of all hangovers. The surveillance op was a pain in the arse to begin with; having the Sunday Courier turn up didn’t help. And the weather was the last straw. I was soaking wet already from wandering around South London in the dark, which didn’t improve my mood as I came up behind the silver Ford. The only thing to be said for the rain was that it made me almost invisible – and the reporter was looking in the wrong direction anyway. I knocked on the passenger window twice, hard, and had the pleasure of watching him jump out of his skin. I held up my warrant card where he could see it and pointed to the ground until he got the message and the window slid down.
