Rogues and Vagabonds

It was easy, too easy, for once the harbor area felt as if nobody was watching, certainly I saw no-one in the vicinity of the quayside buildings. The boatbuilders shed was a squat, nondescript building roughly constructed of wooden boarding and tar-paper roof. The door proved to be little barrier, my pick easily popped the lock and I slid in unobserved from the street. The large, unlit space was dominated by a large object hidden by thick, greasy tarpaulin. It was not a boat, that was certain, the object was nigh on twenty feet tall and only six to eight feet in length, it lay on pallets, thick hawsers rudely wrapping the tarpaulin. I stared for what seemed minutes, unwilling or unable to move. Finally, I steeled myself and made a step forward. At that point the lights came on and three of the local police men came forward. The loathsome Constable Edwin Hargreaves was at the head of the pack, he advanced on me with his sap beating a tattoo on his hand. His grin was a leer and I cowered as the sap was swung at my neck. That night was to be my rough introduction to police custody.