TWENTY - TWO

22

The tower block has internal stairs and an out of order lift that serves all levels.

The entrance smells of disembowelled bin bags, cat piss and wet newspapers. Victoria Usheava lives on the third floor.

I watch as twelve officers in body armour climb the stairs. Four more use the lift. Their choreographed movements seem overblown and unnecessary, considering the suspect has no history of violence.

Police no longer knock on doors. Nowadays, they dress up in body armour and break the doors down with battering rams. But, again, privacy and personal freedom are not as important as the safety of the public. I understand the reasons, but I miss the good old days.

The lead officer reached the flat and pressed his ear against the door. He turns and nods, and Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton acknowledges. A battering ram swings in an arc. The door disappears. The arresting group halts. A snarling Alsatian lurches at the closest policeman, who ste