Hartmann: Malicious Rules (Hartmann thriller series Book 1)

by Helen L Lowe

  ‘Ok, fine – let’s forget about it for now.’

  John was amused by their conversation. The way these amateurs played around the edges of sadomasochism was laughable. They really thought they knew it all. Whatever the young lady had done to this man was, in his eyes, obviously a step too far. He was annoyed with her but there was a reticence in him that was intriguing and just imagining the events of their night together, really turned John on.

  ‘How many photos do you have?’ she said.

  The man pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Ten - I thought we could ask the barman to pin one up behind the bar and we could leave some on the tables and on the benches outside.’

  The girl opened a large shoulder bag and pulled something out. ‘I thought I would take the chance to ask them a few questions about the murders - you don’t mind, do you?’

  John kept his eyes on them and saw the look of anger on the man’s face.

  ‘I specifically asked you not to bring the cassette and you promised. I can’t believe you think you’re behaving reasonably. You’re supposed to be helping me find Sam, not furthering your career.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were serious – besides, I could get some really good material for my article – and I can hide it.’ She pulled out a thin black lead and pinned one end of it under the lapel of her denim jacket. ‘No one will know.’

  The man leaned in close to her and spoke into her ear. John couldn’t hear him but from her reaction it can’t have been pleasant.

  ‘Well, that’s charming – you’re really pissing me off too. Why can’t you see the bigger picture - these murders won’t stop until they catch the killer - I’m sorry but Sam’s a junkie - he’s probably lying in an alley somewhere stoned out of his head.’

  ‘Stop right there - you’ve said enough.’

  She stood up, stuffed everything back into her bag, and stomped off to the ladies toilets.

  So she’s a reporter, John thought, and he’s searching for someone called Sam. That name rang a bell. He knew of two customers called Sam who came to the Coleherne, an effeminate creep who was here most nights looking to get laid, and a good-looking youth who was anyone’s for a fiver. And if John remembered correctly, it was money well spent.

  The man returned the photographs to his pocket, emptied his glass and walked up to the bar. He ordered a drink, a double, which he downed in one hit and ordered another. At that point, the girl came out of the toilets. She was all smiles and linked her arm in his but he shook her off and said something that wiped the smile off her face. She walked out.

  John went over to the bar to stand in the throng of men waiting to be served. He stood directly behind his target so that, when he turned away with a drink in his hand, they came face to face.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Sorry – this is getting to be a habit, isn’t it – perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is John, John Erikson.’ He held out his right hand, confident that this polite, well-educated man, with a lifetime of good manners would feel obliged to shake hands. And he did.

  ‘Julian Hartmann.

  ‘Julian, nice to meet you - do you mind if we drink together?’

  John saw him swallow hard.

  ‘If you want me to go away, I will. I was just being friendly. Besides, you look like you could do with someone to talk to.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well, you and your girlfriend seem to have parted on bad terms.’ John managed to get the barman’s attention and ordered a whisky.

  ‘John, to avoid any misunderstanding I want to make it clear that I’m not gay.’

  ‘No, of course not, dear boy - I gathered that when you were with the young lady. You don’t have to be gay to come here - it’s just a pub.’ With a drink in his hand, he started walking towards a table that a group of four men were leaving.

  He looked back at Julian. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘So, what brings you to the Coleherne,’ John said, as he sat down. ‘I’ve not seen you here before?’

  ‘I’m looking for my son - I’ve been told he comes here.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Erikson looked at the photograph and immediately recognised the rather scruffy but attractive young man. So it was him. He had taken the boy back to his flat after meeting him in the Coleherne on a number of occasions. Sam had been well paid for his services.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen him here once or twice.’

  ‘Have you seen him recently - within the last three to four weeks?’

  Erikson shook his head. ‘No, longer than that - more like five weeks.’ He took a swig of his drink. ‘Is he in trouble?

  ‘I’m just worried about him - he hasn’t been seen for a while and with all the talk of the Thames murders and a barman going missing from this pub, I decided to try to find him.’

  ‘Fuck, not that again - that’s all everyone talks about since Dave went missing - we’ve had the police here asking questions. It got a bit sticky for me at one point, with Dave being an ex of mine.’ He paused and silently cursed himself for saying too much. ‘So, what do you do for a living, Julian?’

  ‘I’m a doctor - between jobs at the moment - and you?’

  ‘I own a gym in Fulham which you’re welcome to visit, by the way.’ John finished his drink. ‘Your girlfriend looked upset when she left - was it anything serious?’

  ‘No - not really - it’ll blow over.’

  ‘Some relationships are like that - blowing hot and cold - they thrive on conflict but it didn’t look like you were too happy about it.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Julian said, before emptying his glass. ‘I have to go - it’s been nice meeting you.’ He stood up.

  John was momentarily thrown by his sudden decision but collected himself quickly and pulled a card from his top pocket. ‘This is my gym - give me a ring if you fancy a workout or just turn up and tell them you’re a special guest of John Erikson. I’ll leave a note with reception that you might drop in.’ He held out his hand to Julian and they shook hands again.

  ‘Ok, thanks, I might do that.’

  John watched him walk up to the bar and show Bob, the manager, one of the photographs. Bob nodded his head and said a few words, no doubt confirming that the lad was a regular at the Coleherne. He took the photograph to pin up behind the bar. As Julian walked around the tables, speaking briefly to people sitting at them and showing them the photograph, John speculated on his sexual orientation. He had ruled out him being straight because of his reaction when they squeezed past each other earlier – he was sure it wasn’t just him who felt the chemistry. Bisexual was possible, especially as he had walked in with a girl on his arm but if he was gay he must be either still in the closet or in denial.

  When Julian walked out of the pub, John felt quite bereft but consoled himself with the hope that Julian’s curiosity would overcome any nerves. He wandered over to the bar. ‘Another whisky for me and whatever Colin’s drinking.’

  Bob poured a whisky and prepared a long blue cocktail. ‘I thought you’d pulled with that guy - what did you say to make him run?’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ Erikson said, with a confident smile. He picked up the whisky and the strange looking cocktail and walked up to Colin who gave him a sickly grin and linked arms with him.

  ‘I knew you’d come to your senses eventually,’ Colin said.

  ‘Yep - any port in a storm, you old queen.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Outside the pub, the customers had spilled out onto the pavement and Julian had to push his way through to the tables. He didn’t have any luck when he distributed Sam’s photograph and looked around for the bill-board the barman had mentioned. He had just finished pinning it on the board, using spare drawing pins from other posters, when someone tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face two men wearing suits.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir.’ The taller one, who was wearing a cre
ased dark blue suit and a red food encrusted tie, flashed a police ID card in Julian’s face. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’

  They held him firmly by his arms, guided him through the crowd and into a narrow passageway that ran down the side of the pub.

  ‘You were seen having a long conversation with John Erikson. Have you known him long?’

  They had released his arms and he instinctively took a step back but they stepped forward forcing him back against a wall.

  Julian thought they looked more like thugs than policemen. ‘Could I see your ID again, please?’

  They did as he asked and held them up in front of his face. They worked in CID, DC Jenkins was the taller man with the dirty tie, and the other one was DS Cooper.

  ‘Answer the question,’ Jenkins said.

  ‘No - I’ve only just met him - why?’

  ‘You seemed pretty friendly with him for the first meeting.’

  Cooper started to search the right inside pocket of Julian’s jacket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Dr Julian Hartmann.’ He read from the driving licence.

  Jenkins searched the left inside pocket and pulled out the photographs of Sam. ‘You seem to have a lot of photos of this young man - is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘No - he’s my son.’

  ‘And why would you have so many photos of your son?’

  ‘He’s missing - I know he comes here sometimes so I wanted to ask if anyone here recognised him.’

  The policemen exchanged a look.

  ‘You’re coming down to the station,’ Jenkins said.

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘But I haven’t broken any law.’

  ‘I’m sure we could think of something; soliciting, immoral earnings, conspiracy to corrupt public morals.’ Jenkins yanked Julian around to face the wall. ‘Hands on the wall - higher.’ He kicked Julian’s legs further apart and frisked him. ‘I expect you think I’m touching you up - you fucking queer.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’ Julian managed to say before he was punched hard in his left side, hard enough to make his legs buckle. The handcuffs went on behind his back before they dragged him to his feet and Cooper held him still while Jenkins used him as a punch bag.

  * * *

  Paddington Green police station.

  Julian was charged officially in the police station and hearing the charges read out by a policeman in uniform made it hit home. He was fingerprinted, photographed, and his personal belongings were checked and taken away. Jenkins and Cooper seemed in a hurry to wrap things up and dragged him off towards the cells before the Duty Sergeant had finished asking them questions about the arrest.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Jenkins cursed and glanced at Cooper but they stopped and turned Julian to face a smartly dressed man walking towards them.

  ‘Just a queer from the Coleherne, Gov,’ Jenkins said. ‘He was fighting in the alley behind the pub - must have propositioned the wrong guy. Then the idiot freaked out when he was being arrested.’

  The man went up to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper. He read aloud, ‘soliciting, importuning and conspiracy to corrupt public morals, resisting arrest and assault of a police officer.’ He turned back to take another look at Julian. ‘Have you called the police surgeon?’

  ‘It’s just a few bruises, Gov - looks worse than it is,’ Jenkins said.

  Julian was getting a clear message from their boss that he didn’t trust his men.

  ‘I’m DCI Chase,’ he said to Julian. He glanced at the charge sheet. ‘And your name is Julian Hartmann – is that your real name?’

  Julian nodded.

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ Jenkins said.

  Chase gave Jenkins a penetrating stare. ‘And he was fighting outside the pub?’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Yes, Gov - it took both of us to haul him off the other guy.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to bring the other man in?’

  Jenkins and Cooper looked sheepish.

  Chase stepped closer to Julian and looked at the wounds on his face. ‘That cut on your eye looks nasty – looks like it needs stitches – not sure about the lip. Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  ‘I think one or two ribs may be broken.’

  Chase looked over to the Duty Sergeant. ‘Call the police surgeon - this man’s not to be interviewed until he’s been checked out.’ He turned back to Jenkins. ‘Trent and Cooper can do the interview - you can come with me.’

  * * *

  Julian waited for an hour in the medical examination room, sitting in a chair with handcuffs digging into his wrists behind his back. A non-responsive uniformed officer was standing by the door staring straight ahead like the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace. When the door opened and a man carrying a medical bag walked in, Julian didn’t look up because every movement set off a myriad of pain signals to his brain. A few words were spoken and the police officer removed the handcuffs before leaving the room.

  ‘Julian.’

  Julian peered up at the man standing in front of him. ‘Joe - what the hell are you doing here? Are you the police surgeon?’

  ‘Yes - that’s why I’m here - and you?’

  Julian shook his head in despair. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘I think I might - I’ve seen your charge sheet - you’ve got a nerve after the way you made me feel the other day.’

  ‘They’re lying . . .’

  ‘I’m not interested, I’m here because it’s my job to see if you’re fit enough to be interviewed. Stand up.’

  Julian struggled to his feet and stood still while Joe helped him to remove his jacket and shirt.

  ‘Christ - what the hell happened to you?’

  ‘I was beaten up.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the bruises - what about the bites, scratches and . . . are those whip marks?’

  Julian sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable, d’you know that - lie down on the couch.’

  Julian sat down on the couch and carefully manoeuvred himself into a horizontal position.

  Joe started to feel along the bruises that covered his stomach and rib-cage, pressing firmly over the major organs of the liver, spleen and kidneys and over the ribs themselves. Julian didn’t make a sound but he was in severe pain.

  ‘You’ve got cracked ribs on the right and I think a fractured rib on the left, but I think the blows have missed anything major. He checked all Julian’s vital signs and spent several minutes listening to his breathing with a stethoscope. He cleaned up the eye and inserted four stitches into the cut but told Julian that the lip would heal on its own. The injury to the jaw hadn’t weakened any teeth. ‘I think most of the damage is bruising, the blow to the left side could mean trouble - but all your vitals are ok. You know what symptoms to look out for.’ He started packing his equipment away. ‘It would be a good idea to go to a casualty department tomorrow for an X-ray.’

  Julian sat on the edge of the couch and watched Joe wash his hands at the sink. ‘Joe, I’m sorry about the other day.’

  ‘You know, I never had you down as a hypocrite.’

  ‘Joe - you can’t believe that . . .’

  ‘That what - you’re a queer - like me?’ Joe searched in the medical case and took out a bottle of codeine tablets. He put two in Julian’s hand and gave him a glass of water. When he took the glass off Julian he dropped the bottle into his hand. ‘Here - keep them. If you think the pain is bad now you’re going to get a shock when you wake up tomorrow.’

  The door opened and Cooper came in. ‘Is he ok?’

  ‘Not ok but fit enough to be interviewed. I’ve given him something to help with the pain,’ Joe said, sitting down at a table to write. ‘I’ll leave the report with the Duty Sergeant.’

  Julian was handcuffed and taken into a small interview room, and the non-responsive Queen’s guardsman was back.

  * * *

  The hour-long
wait, Julian presumed, was customary practice to prepare the accused for a barrage of questions so that, in their anxious and demoralised state of mind, they were more compliant. He didn’t know if it had worked or not but by the time Cooper and another man entered the room, he was definitely pissed off.

  The uniformed officer left the room. Cooper sat at a table with a folder and notebook in front of him. The other man pulled a chair away from the desk and placed it directly in front of Julian.

  ‘I’m DI Trent,’ he said. ‘I believe you’ve already met DS Cooper.’ Trent had the look of a crow, with a thin but very prominent long nose, black hair slicked back with hair cream, and small dark eyes.

  ‘Dr Hartmann, do you know why you’ve been arrested?’

  ‘Could you take the handcuffs off, please.’

  ‘It’s policy for handcuffs to remain on when the charge involves violence.’ He looked over at Cooper, who was busy writing.

  Cooper stopped writing and read from the top sheet in the folder. ‘Soliciting, importuning and conspiracy to corrupt public morals, resisting arrest and assault of a police officer.’

  ‘We have witnesses that can confirm you propositioned them and tried to give them money,’ Trent said.

  ‘They’re lying.’

  ‘Are you calling the police officers liars?’ Cooper said.

  Julian didn’t answer.

  ‘We have two police officers who say you assaulted one of them – they’ll swear to it in court,’ Trent said. ‘For someone in your position, this could have serious implications for you. Which hospital do you work at?’

  ‘I’m between jobs at the moment. Until last week, I worked at Queen Alexandra Hospital in Cosham, Hampshire.’

  ‘Did they find out you were homosexual - is that why you left?’

  ‘I’m not homosexual - and even if I was you have no right . . .’

  ‘We have every right, Dr Hartmann; we have every right to question someone who is suspected of immoral behaviour in a public place.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And a possible murder suspect.’

  ‘Murder suspect? You can’t be serious.’