On yer bike

The policeman had indulged in his obsession and was acting very strangely indeed

Ever since he was a child, DS George Cross had liked bikes. He liked their mechanical simplicity and the fact his father, Raymond, had taught him not just how to repair punctures, but to completely take his bike apart and then reassemble it. He could even service the gears.

As he grew up he started adding all sorts of things, like speedometers and racing mudflaps, to his bikes. He became interested in cycling as a sport. There were several local cycling clubs in Bristol, but he wasn’t inclined to join any of them. He didn’t like group activities. More accurately he just didn’t like groups.

In his early 20s he’d started mapping out racing routes around Bristol for him to cycle. They were like mini stages of the Tour de France, he liked to think to himself. He made sure they had the requisite number of hills and sprints and then spent several weekends trying to improve his times.

He started buying more and more expensive bikes together with all the gear – helmets, fingerless gloves, even a heart monitor across his chest so he could track how fast his cardio fitness was improving. He bought Lycra racing outfits and soon became well known to the local Lycra-clad weekend cyclist community. But he still wouldn’t join them, despite their frequent invitations.

Cross’ life was often filled with various obsessions, not all of which maintained his interest and would be discarded. He eventually gave up cycling when his bikes were stolen with irritating frequency, despite all his efforts to prevent this.

So it was quite a surprise to his colleagues, particularly his partner DS Josie Ottey, when he turned up at work one week fully kitted out in racing Lycra, with an astonishingly expensive bicycle that he insisted on bringing into the office. It couldn’t be left in the bike shed. It was far too valuable for that, he said. “What is that?” asked Ottey.

“It’s a bicycle,” he replied.

“I can see that. What kind of bike?”

“It’s a Cervelo R5 Lamborghini Disc

Road Bike.”

“And how much did that set you back?” “£18,468,” he replied neutrally.

Ottey was as shocked as everyone else. Cross then disappeared into the men’s room to get changed.

A few days later, Cross was having his regular breakfast in Tony’s café.

The bike had caused quite a stir with the regular diners who were all now fully aware of its specifications.

They were still in shock at the price tag too, which Cross didn’t seem in the least coy about. In fact, he seemed to be proclaiming it to all and sundry. Tony urged caution. If word got around it wouldn’t be long before someone tried to nick it.

There were loud roadworks going on outside the café that day. This gave the thief who arrived, driven in a blacked-out Transit van, the chance to cut through Cross’ top-of-the-range bike lock with a high-powered angle grinder. It was all over in a matter of seconds. But Tony saw it happening over Cross’s shoulder.

“George. Your bike! Someone’s nicking it. I told you this would happen,” he said.

Cross didn’t seem to be particularly bothered. He didn’t even turn around.

“Could everyone possibly take a good look at the culprit? It would be helpful if you could identify him later. I’m assuming because of the speed at which he’s able to work he hasn’t bothered to disguise or cover his face.”

“I can’t possibly give you a team of officers,

a custody van and a lorry just to retrieve your bike, George, no matter how valuable it is. Have you lost your mind?”

“I have not,” came the reply, with the kind of expression that Carson hated. It was a look that said Cross wasn’t going to elaborate any further and just expected his request to be granted. Carson had learned in the past that it never worked out particularly well for him if he ignored his eccentric detective when he was like this.

“How can you even be sure it’s there?” was the next question.

“Because I have this,” he said, holding up his phone. On it was a map of the outskirts of Bristol with a flashing red dot on it.

“A tracker is one of the first things they’ll look for, George,” Ottey observed.

“That’s why it has two. The manufacturer’s one, which they’ve already found and disabled, and the one my father put inside the frame, which is the one you’re looking at.”

The next morning Cross and Ottey were sitting near a warehouse outside Bristol

along with another van of uniformed police, a custody van and a lorry.

After a while, when people arrived at the warehouse – they made their move. Not only did they recover Cross’ missing bike, but more than half a million pounds’ worth of other stolen high-performance racing bicycles.

Apparently, over the past year, there’d been a spate of thefts of high-performance bikes in the South West. Stolen to order for export to Europe.

The police had done nothing about it, despite many cycling clubs appealing to them for help. Then they remembered Cross’ old interest in cycling and had approached him. He was delighted to help and concocted his plan, which included telling as many people as possible about the rarity and high value of the bike that the clubs had loaned him. They had now caught the gang red-handed.

The local cyclists were thrilled of course and turned up in a mass of Lycra-clad spokes at the Major Crimes Unit a few days later, wanting to present Cross with a racing bike as a token of their gratitude. Cross was unwilling to accept, despite all their pleading, as it was improper for him to receive gifts when he was simply doing his job.

“I’m sure we could bend the rules just this once, George,” said Carson.

“I’m sure you could,” Cross replied, before walking away, leaving them with their gift, his resolute principles still intact.

It never worked out particularly well for him if he ignored his eccentric detective