by L M Krier
‘I don’t take them out, ever,’ she told him defiantly, totally in the role.
‘Shall we go and sit down and fill the forms in, then I can explain to you why it’s necessary? And why I can’t let you take part unless you do? Trev, if you could start the warm-up, please?’
He guided her to a low bench, further down the gym, out of earshot, pausing to collect the clipboard and forms he kept for signing up new members. They sat down side by side, talking quietly. The other members were too busy with Trev to take any notice.
‘You have me convinced,’ Ted told her. ‘We’ll need to fill these in for form’s sake, excuse the pun, and you will have to take the piercings out, but you know that. So, anything useful so far?’
Jezza slowly started to take out her piercings as she spoke, making it look reluctant, automatically putting them into the soft exercise shoes she had on and had removed for the purpose. Ted knew she would have proper kickboxing gear because it was her sport, but she’d opted for a close-fitting T-shirt and leggings. She would have stood out too much in expensive, proper clothing.
‘I’ve been hanging around areas where the little charmers seem to congregate. I’m glad I know how to protect myself, otherwise I would have lost my mobile, even though it’s a cheap one, and possibly a few teeth.’
‘Don’t put yourself in any danger. Risk assessment, remember. At the first sign of things getting out of hand, you get yourself out of there.’
‘It’s fine, honestly. They’re like a pack of feral animals. As long as you show no weakness, they’re not brave enough to do anything. They’re after soft targets, which I’m not. Especially once you’ve shown me some nifty self-defence moves.’
‘First rule is always not to put yourself into a situation where you need them. Flight is always better than fight.’
‘Yeah, just remind me how you got that scar on your left hand,’ she told him with a cheeky grin.
‘I mean it. Your role is purely to try to identify the members of the gang, not to finish up as a victim yourself. Is there anyone who stands out so far?’
‘There’s a girl called Tara. She’s a right gobby mare, who seems to be a ringleader. A lot of the others are scared of her. We had a bit of a square-up, early on, but nothing more. As soon as I get any more on who she is or where she’s from, I’ll make contact. Other than that, I’ll just see you here next week.’
‘Remember what I said. You don’t put yourself at risk, at any time. Right, we better get this form filled in. It’s starting to look suspicious, us just sitting here. It shouldn’t take me that long to persuade you to take your piercings out.’
It felt strange to Ted, having one of his team witnessing a side of him he normally kept private. As he expected, Jezza was a quick learner and her existing skills meant she was good at what he was teaching her. She also stayed faithfully in character, quick to fly off the handle if anyone got too close or even looked at her in the wrong way.
Before the juniors finished and the seniors started arriving for their judo session, which Ted and Trev always joined in, the young members always wanted the two of them to demonstrate some fast work together, using their judo and karate skills, with Ted throwing in some of his Krav Maga moves. For some of them, it was the highlight of the evening. Ted felt a strange reticence, in front of Jezza, but he couldn’t disappoint the youngsters and any change from the normal pattern would look suspicious.
When they’d finished and Ted had picked up his towel to wipe the sweat from his face, which the exertion had produced, Jezza sauntered casually past him to collect her shoes and her piercings.
‘I hope we’ll see you again next week, Jas?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Ted,’ she replied, then, in a much lower voice which only he could hear, ‘Morning briefing will never be the same after witnessing that.’
‘That was amazing,’ Trev said on the short drive home after their judo training. He’d walked down earlier but Ted, running late as usual, had driven straight to the dojo, after phoning Trev to ask him to take his kit bag there for him.
In the work setting, Ted was obsessively punctual and a stickler for the same from officers under his command. With his personal life, he was always playing catch-up, sometimes to Trev’s annoyance, although he was used to it by now. Especially as he hadn’t been able to resist dropping in on the latest murder scene on his way to the dojo, although Jo and Megan Jennings were there and had everything under control. Bizzie Nelson, the senior Home Office pathologist, was in charge as it was a possible murder enquiry, and she took time to exchange a few words with him.
‘This shouldn’t tax your team too much, Edwin.’
She lapsed into first name terms as they were out of earshot of anyone else.
‘It all looks straightforward, from my point of view. A single stab wound to the neck with a screwdriver, which is obligingly still in place, and which hit the carotid artery. I believe the girlfriend has admitted it, so I think it should be simple for both of us.’
‘I didn’t dare look at Jezza. I would have giggled and given the game away,’ Trev continued. ‘I would be rubbish working as any kind of undercover operative. But she’s incredible. She really did look exactly like any of the others, when they first joined.
‘By the way, don’t forget I’ve got karate club tomorrow, then I’m going to do my first volunteer stint teaching English on Friday evening, so you’ll have to fend for yourself. I’ll make you something to leave ready. Just make sure you eat. And make sure you phone Annie when we get home. Or Skype her. She was hinting how much she’d like to hear from you.’
Ted knew Trev phoned Annie every day, for reports of how she was doing. He felt guilty that he hadn’t made the time himself. He’d managed a quick call to both Bill and Jim before he’d even called his own mother. Work always got the better of him, somehow.
When they got back, Trev forcibly sat him down in front of the laptop, called Annie, had a brief exchange with her in Welsh, which he was clearly picking up rapidly, blew kisses at the screen, then went to make them both something to eat while Ted talked to her.
He felt awkward, sitting there, staring at her on the screen. He would have preferred to use the mobile. Looking at her, seeing the fading bruises on her face, the sight of her wrist still in plaster, made him feel guilty again, as if he should have been able to prevent it from happening.
He asked inane questions – how was she feeling and did it still hurt – then mentally rebuked himself for the empty words.
‘He’s been arrested and charged now. The thing is, mam, you’ll have to come back for the court case. You’ll be called as a witness, in case he pleads not guilty, and I’m afraid you have to attend. You don’t have the choice.’
Seeing her worried face, he went on hurriedly, ‘But don’t worry, one of us will come and collect you and you can stay here. You don’t want to be on your own at the house. And I’ll do my level best to get time off to come to court with you. It’ll be all right, mam. I promise.’
The bottle of Scotch on the table was still half full and the wheelchair was upright but his father was on the floor yet again when Ted got home. It was slightly later than he’d planned. He’d stopped for just a quick one with the rest of the team after work, which had somehow turned into two. Or perhaps even three, he couldn’t be sure. To be on the safe side, he’d left the car in Openshaw again and come home by bus and on foot.
‘Sorry I’m a bit later than I intended, dad. Let’s get you up and sorted then I’ll do something about some food. Do you fancy fish and chips, for a change?’
No reply.
‘Dad? Or a Chinese, maybe? Dad?’
He knew, before even he crouched down next to him. A copper’s instinct. Knew before he took hold of the outstretched hand that it would be as cold as marble to the touch and as unyielding.
Mechanically, he felt for a pulse at the throat, although he knew he was wasting his time. When had his father’s neck got to be s
o skinny, so scrawny?
Ted stood back up and took the bottle from the table. Then he sank slowly to the ground so he was sitting next to his father. He stretched his legs out in front of him, unscrewed the bottle and put it to his lips. He didn’t like Scotch. It tasted as bad as he anticipated.
‘I’m so sorry, dad. I’m sorry I was a rubbish son to you. You were a brilliant dad. You were always there for me, when I was a kid. After mam left. Even with all your own problems. You never let me down. I should have done better for you.’
He took another, longer, pull at the bottle, grimacing at the taste.
‘I wanted to tell you that I’ve met someone. At the dojo. Just recently. Well, not met, exactly. I’ve just seen him. I’ve no idea if it will ever come to anything. He’s way out of my league. I think you’d have liked him. He talks posh, but he’s interested in everything. You could have talked about literature and politics together. He’s much younger. I’ve not been out with him, just drinks with the others from the club. He doesn’t even know how I feel about him. Not yet, anyway. But I’m going to try, to see if I stand a chance. I’ve finished with Philip, just in case. I don’t want to two-time anyone. I just wish you could have met him.’
The whisky didn’t taste quite so bad now. He was getting used to it. It helped him. It felt right, sitting here, talking to his dad. He wished he’d spent more time doing it, especially of late.
The insistent trilling of his mobile phone finally dragged Ted out of a profound sleep. He opened bleary eyes, found himself lying on the carpet, looking into the sightless eyes of his father, less than two feet away from him.
Cautiously he rolled onto his back to take the phone out. His boss calling. He couldn’t make out the time displayed on the screen. His vision was not yet fully cooperating. His tongue was thick, making it hard to articulate even the simple, ‘Hello?’ with which he finally answered the call.
‘Where the bloody hell are you? You missed briefing.’
Ted tried to sit up. Decided it was a bad idea, then turned to his other side, hoping to make speaking easier. At least it meant he wasn’t having to look at his father.
‘Sorry, boss, I was just going to call you. My dad died.’
There was a pause. Ted could sense the suspicion behind the silence from his cynical boss.
‘Are you pissed, sergeant?’
‘A bit, sir. But my dad is dead.’
‘Right, take the rest of the day off. Sort out what you need to. And for god’s sake, sort yourself out. Getting pissed is getting to be too much of a habit. This is your last warning. Any more of it, and you’re off the team. Whatever the reason.’
‘Sir.’
‘And sergeant? I’m sorry for your loss.’
For some reason his words made Ted well up. He struggled to his knees then got unsteadily to his feet. He only just made it to the kitchen sink before the vomiting started. Great gut-wrenching heaves which had as much to do with self-loathing as the alcohol. Once the retching stopped, he drank a glass of water, which promptly came back. It took several attempts before he could successfully get much-needed liquid into his dehydrated system.
He went back into the living room to retrieve the now empty whisky bottle, then took it and hurled it into the ceramic sink with all his force, so that it shattered into pieces which flew up all around him.
Then he took out his mobile phone and called the doctor.
Chapter Sixteen
Chief Constable Jon Woodrow was Ted’s kind of copper. He’d been fast-tracked, largely because of his outstanding management skills, but he’d still been a front-line policeman, and a good one. He sported an impressive scar down one side of his face, a legacy from arresting a villain with a history of violence who was wielding a broken bottle.
There was no side to him, no airs and graces. He was medium height and, as Ted’s dad would have said, there was more meat on a budgie’s lips. He played squash, like a demon, whenever he got the opportunity, and he was good at it. Ted had played him once at his invitation and been soundly thrashed, although he was fit and no slouch at it.
Woodrow liked Ted. He knew he hadn’t had it easy through his career. He deplored discrimination of any type in the force but he was not naïve enough to believe that it had yet been completely stamped out.
Ted admired Woodrow. He knew he was more than just a political animal, the likes of Marston, and had got where he was on merit. He respected him, too, even when he’d been on the wrong end of his wrath a time or two. He took that from him, because he knew Woodrow had been an outstanding copper, not just a pen-pusher going through the motions.
Ted had just finished updating all present on the latest developments from Wilmslow at the morning briefing at Central Park. He mentioned the number plate change and his hope to find out more if they could identify where it had taken place and get a lead on the second vehicle.
‘So with resources already stretched, you want to waste officer hours on scrabbling about in lay-bys looking for … what, precisely, Darling? Inspiration?’
Marston’s tone was openly scornful. It was unfortunate for him that he spoke at the precise moment the door opened quietly and the Chief Constable walked in. Every officer present immediately made to rise, but Woodrow waved them down and walked across to Marston.
‘Good morning, Mr Marston, ladies and gentlemen. Please don’t let me disturb you. I needed a word with DCI Darling, so I thought I’d just gatecrash your briefing to see what the latest developments are with Operation Croesus.’
‘DCI Darling was just outlining the switched number plates, sir ...’
‘Yes, I heard what was said,’ Woodrow cut in smoothly as Marston shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘Please continue, DCI Darling.’
‘Sir, it is a long shot, and it will probably take a lot of personnel hours, but we clearly need to trace the second vehicle. It’s potentially a valuable lead. It could, of course, be anything – car, van, motorbike. There must have been an accomplice somewhere as Bacha, if it was him, couldn’t have turned up to meet Mrs Ashworth with a pair of plates under his arm. And somebody must have dropped him off to meet her. I doubt he went there on the bus.’
‘This is probably a stupid question, but why has Bacha not been on the radar before? If Kateb has been under surveillance, there must have been contact between them.’
There was a brief, awkward silence, in which Marston glared around the room, willing someone to come to his rescue with a suitable answer. Inspector Neil Smith from Fraud risked putting his head above the parapet first.
‘Sir, from the enquiries so far, we think that Kateb knew he was being watched. That might well be why he brought in Bacha, if he did, and why he kept him at a distance. It’s possible they only spoke by phone, and if Kateb had a pay as you go, we wouldn’t have known. We had a trace on the numbers we knew about, but that’s all.’
‘Let me just say, at this stage, that although this case, to date, has not represented the GMP’s finest hour, we do not operate a blame culture within this force,’ Woodrow told them all. ‘Mistakes have been made. Serious ones, tragically resulting in the death of an innocent woman. Measures will be taken to make sure they are never repeated. But we are moving forward, not dwelling on the past. There may very well be disciplinary procedures following the conclusion of the operation, but they are with a view to preventing any such errors being repeated. There will be no witch-hunt.
‘So what is the plan, going forward, to trace Bacha? Chief Superintendent?’
Ted didn’t know if Marston played any type of racket and ball games. He doubted it, from the size of his girth. He certainly knew how to bat a hot potato of a question right out of his court to land squarely in Ted’s.
‘DCI Darling?’
‘Sir, I think the key to this might possibly be family. We know that when Kateb moved to France, it was with extended family. So there’s a chance that some of them moved to the UK as well as him. Bacha could just be staying in a hotel somewhere;
he may even have gone back to France already. We haven’t found him listed anywhere as an airline passenger on a return flight, yet, but we’re still looking. He could, of course, just have hitched a ride with one of his father’s lorries.
‘But it would be worth looking more closely into the family tree, to see if there’s someone on the fringes we’re not yet aware of. It seems as if they are a close family network. I would suggest that’s a line worth exploring, at least.’
‘It sounds to me as if the enquiry is now going in the right direction, Mr Marston. Talk to me about the personnel budget whenever you need to. I’ll leave you to get on, ladies and gentlemen. DCI Darling, come and find me in my office when you’re done here. The coffee up there is considerably better than what’s on offer down here.’
Ted wished he dared get his phone out to snap the furious expression on Marston’s face as the Big Chief went out of the room, once again motioning to those present not to bother standing. Marston remained tight-lipped for the rest of the briefing, which passed off without incident. Ted thankfully made a speedy escape, sprinting up the stairs to Woodrow’s office.
The Chief Constable’s secretary tapped on his door to let him know Ted was there. She ushered him in as instructed, then went to make the coffees the Chief asked for and bring them in.
‘Come in, Ted, sit down,’ Woodrow was informal now it was just the two of them. ‘How are you getting on with Marston? And it’s just you and me now, so I want the true version, not the spin.’
‘I don’t think he’s my number one fan, sir, but it’s workable.’
Woodrow was looking searchingly at him, while Ted held his gaze.
‘Seriously, Ted, if there is a problem, I would appreciate you telling me. If it needs to go no further, it won’t. But after so many years of refusing to give any input for Pride, you can’t blame me for being suspicious at your sudden change of heart. That’s not to say I’m not grateful. I really am. But the motives behind your about-turn intrigue me.’