by Ian Williams
On that same Sunday evening at 8 p.m. PC McGeorge and her fellow officer PC Greg Robinson arrived near 57 Abbey Road. It was a busy evening. The Salt House pub was packed. The customers were enveloped in the warmth of the pub tucking into their fish and chips with mushy peas and Salt house burger and chips accompanied by wine or beer and sometimes both. A few hardy souls were sitting outside. Their acceptable decibel level when interacting with each other increased with each passing round of drinks. As the two policemen got out the noise levels dropped and the owners of the Italian deli and Chinese takeaway opposite the Salt House pub craned their necks to see which way the officers were heading.
They walked up to the green wooden double doors of 57, which was sandwiched between an Albanian café and an off licence. There were a number of Albanians in the coffee house and PC Robinson wondered what they were talking about as they stood in the doorway and pressed the buzzer for flat 3 57a Abbey Road. PC McGeorge rang the buzzer at least three times until someone answered.
‘Ello’ barked an annoyed voice at the other end of the comms link.
‘Hello sir, is that Richard Bird’
‘Yes it is, who wants to know’
‘We need to talk to you Sir, I am PC McG….’ There was a click as the line went dead.
PC McGeorge kept trying the bell but to no avail. Finally she said ‘Go on then Greg do your stuff’ and with that PC Robinson took a couple of steps back before launching himself at the door. It was quite an old door and as his six foot two inch seventeen stone frame connected with the wooden door the small metal hinges gave way with a resounding ping as screws went flying before the door slammed into the wall, leaving an indentation in the plaster wall behind.
They made their way slowly up the beige carpeted stairs, keeping their backs against the cream walls which had various black lines and indentations where numerous tenants had scraped the wall with their TVs, sofas, pictures and boxes of junk they lovingly referred to as ornaments and possessions.
Flat 3 was on the third floor; however the front door was on the second. PC Robinson took over this time; loudly knocking on the door and announcing in a booming voice ‘Mr Bird, open up this is the police. We would like a word with you about an ongoing investigation.’ There was silence. PC Robinson was not amused. He had no time for criminals, if he had his way they would all be shot which of course would make life much easier….everything was always very black and white with Greg Robinson.
Finally PC McGeorge moved PC Robinson to one side and shouted at the door ‘Mr Bird, we need to have a word with you about the possible murder of a James Benjamin Langan. He was found dead this morning and you were possibly the last person to see him alive. We are not here to arrest you but we would like to ask you a few questions.’ As they waited for an answer the stairwell lights went off. PC McGeorge found the switch. It was a timer switch which seemed to time out every thirty seconds. This was annoying. Lisa McGeorge also noticed that the fire alarm button was right next to the light switch. That seems ridiculous thought McGeorge; any idiot could press that in the dark instead of pressing the light switch. That would be an absolute nightmare waiting to happen.
On the other side of the door in flat three there was a pause as Bacchus mulled over the options and possibilities, a momentary silence and then Bacchus spoke incredulity ‘JB is dead…that’s impossible, I only saw him twelve hours ago and he was passed out on his sofa in the office.’
‘Please Mr Bird; we only want to ask you a few questions. We can either do this the hard way and I can call for backup and have you arrested or I can ask you a few questions now and we can be on our way.’
Richard Bird aka Bacchus thought for a minute and decided to risk it, he opened the door and requested they sit on the stairs and chat although he had to be brief as if he got caught talking to the police there could be problems for him. Once agreed, the heavy white fireproof door was slowly opened fully and the two police officers stepped inside. The hallway was narrow, with a small bathroom to the right which contained a white suite and laminated wood flooring. To the left were a few steep stairs with the same heavily worn beige carpet that was on the stairs as they entered the building. Richard Bird was sitting on the top steps looking down. He was a relatively small man, about five foot six, slim but relatively muscular with a hard face and some scars on his neck and arms where he had clearly been in a few scrapes. The small diamond earring in his left ear glinted in the light from the upstairs skylight and the gold Rolex, bracelet and rings showed he had certainly made some money from somewhere. The look on his face was a mixture of trepidation, fear and disgust.
As Bacchus was keen to get rid of the police he quickly opened up and explained how he and JB had been friends for a few years now and were drinking buddies. They had been out ‘on it’ all afternoon watching the football on Sky Sports just round the corner from where Bacchus lived. It was a classy Irish pub where the locals seemed near to deaths door and the only sustenance their bodies encountered were the ten daily pints of Guinness which acted as both a solid and a liquid. The pub had been full of Arsenal fans. They had been lured there by the promise of a big screen TV and cheap pints of lager. As Arsenal had romped to a 4-1 win the generosity of the supporters had spilled over at full time and pints were bought by the tray load and handed out to anybody in an Arsenal shirt. JB and Bacchus had entered into the party spirit and ordered a solid round of whiskies which were dispersed and dispensed with as quickly as they were poured. The round had come to £200 but JB didn’t care, his team had won and he was happy. Once the pub had started emptying at about 3 p.m. they had sauntered off into town to keep the mood and the drink flowing before heading back to the Honey Club for some more drinks from about 7 p.m. On questioning, Bacchus admitted there had been cocaine present but that he did not know where it had come from or whose it was but he had partaken as a way of keeping the party going. He verified the story from the head barman, and also that of Jake Hurry, manager of the Honey club and the two lap dancers Crystal and Phoenix. He clearly stated that at about 5 a.m. and definitely no later he had left and taken a taxi back to St Johns Wood. He had got the taxi outside of Paddington train station at the taxi rank there and there were cameras all over the station so this would be easily verifiable.
Just as the questioning was coming to an end PC McGeorge’s radio sparked into life.
‘PC McGeorge are you there over, this is DI Carragher’
PC McGeorge quickly went out the front door into the stairwell and spoke quietly into her radio careful to turn down the volume so only she could hear his words.
‘Are you with Bacchus McGeorge’ said Ian Carragher anxiously.
‘Yes, what is it guv’
‘Arrest him; we need to put him under some pressure. I am getting a search warrant. I think he is selling illegal firearms or drugs and we need him brought in now. Something is definitely not right. He was the last person to see him alive and we need answers. He has a dodgy record and if we can find something on him that should pressure him to tell us more’
PC McGeorge turned off her radio and opened the door. She gave a careful nod to PC Robinson who in one motion grabbed Bacchus by the sole of his expensive Nike trainer and pulled him down the stairs. Bacchus had no time to react. He thudded down the stairs as his head hit four steps in quick succession. In the same motion PC Robinson grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him over, shoved his knee into the small of his back and took out the handcuffs.
Bacchus, AKA Richard Bird let out a small shout as the knee slammed into his back, and as he lay there with his face shoved into the worn out beige carpet PC McGeorge read him his rights. And now Bacchus was concerned, as upstairs in the small bedroom just lying on the bed were three more Browning Buck Mark 5.5 handguns which an acquaintance was coming over to pick up, not to mention assorted other weapons and bullets which were stashed all over the flat. Bacchus gulped as his thought processes began to kick in and he realised he was going to jail for a very long tim
e…..
Chapter 5 – Ian hated Jeremy Kyle