by John Macrae
The barmaid, a skinny, cheerful soul wearing a blouse thin enough to draw the customers' eyes but opaque enough to prevent their disappointment, joined in. "That that story about that little girl 'n 'er Dad? Terrible, innit? "
"'N they can't do nuffink abaht it, neither.'
By now I was beginning to be overwhelmed by too much company and too little grammar. To keep them quiet, I agreed. "Yes, it's difficult isn’t it? I expect the police….” I didn’t get far.
“Police?” said my drinking friend. “Police? Don’t talk to me about the fuckin’ police, mate. Bloody waste of time, that lot. Oh, they’ll do you for speeding and send support officers round and all that counselling rubbish. But when did you ever see one walking on the beat nowadays, eh? Comin’ round to a burglary? All they do now is fill in forms and watch bloody speed cameras.”
“And persecute decent people,” chipped in the barmaid. “Did you see that story about them threatening that Christian couple ‘cos they wanted to put a poster up about them homos? Disgraceful, I call it…. And as for that little girl bein’ molested and then killin’ herself, well, you just don’t know what to say, do you?”
Law and order was obviously high on the bar agenda. I tried to back out. “ Yes; that was a sad business ... "
"Sad?" The barmaid was indignant. "Sad? It's not bleedin' sad - it's bleedin' disgraceful, that's what it is, bleedin disgraceful..…" She went off huffily to pull a pint for someone else.
"She’s right you know, “ said my drinking companion. “Dead right. Bloody waste of time, the police. Fuckin’ rubbish nowadays. But someone should do something about them paedos, that's wot. I don’t hold wiv messin’ abart wiv little kids. It ain’t right. They should never've stopped 'anging."
My new friend was clearly about to give me his personal political philosophy on the law and order issue, so I hastily drained my glass and left. The trouble was, by the time I'd got outside, the bloom really had gone off the day.
Now, you can't get personally involved in my game. That's how you end up as one of the statistics. But the people in the pub were right; it was a scandal, and the mother's desire for revenge was probably shared by about 95 per cent of the country, too. But that's the trouble with democracy, isn’t it? It makes you think you're right just because everyone else feels the same way.
I wandered around all afternoon. Did a bit of shopping. I even called in to another pub or two and then did a lot of walking. I suppose I was trying to persuade myself not to, but I'd got time on my hands, and the desire to do something constructive during my leave was strong. I was itching to do something. I reasoned that having acquired special skills at the taxpayers' expense, the least I could do was to repay them for their investment.
Why I decided to do it I'll never know. Creepy little Hepworth would have had some psychological theory, I'm sure; probably some crap about 'sublimated sex', if I knew him. He was probably a paedo himself, on the quiet. He was certainly the type. He was certainly a sicko in some way. The thought of Hepworth as a sex deviant warmed me. Now, there’s someone who really needed to see a shrink. Cheered by the idea of Hepworth as a pervert, I ambled around Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross Road looking for some decent CDs.
Anyway, by the time the commuters were rushing for their trains home, I had formed a vague idea of doing something positive. The people in the pub were right. Someone should be avenging these things. It was only justice. Natural justice. And if the police and the law couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do it, then who would stand up for people? I couldn’t get it out of my head. Nusret was in there somewhere, and Iran, and the little goatherd – poor little bastard - and a feeling of relief that they weren't going to try and court martial me and get rid of me now. Hell, I was good at what I did. Everyone said so. So do something as a way of saying 'thank you'. Quite what, I wasn't sure. But first, I had to know what the dead girl's family felt.
I looked up the family in the phone book. They lived in what sounded like a council house in Essex, out Dagenham way. I pondered my next move carefully. After all, I was about to do something unprofessional, but then if I didn't help them, who else would? The family would only do something silly again and they wouldn't get away with it. No, it had to be an outsider, a disinterested professional - someone like me
I telephoned the house from a call box. No mobile phone for me. A young man answered. His voice was flat and dispirited.
"Can I speak to Mrs Meekin?"
"No, you can't. She's gone to bed. We're not disturbing her. The doctor's given her some tablets. Are you another reporter?"
"No, I'd just like to help, if I can."
"Well, she's had enough for one day." His voice softened slightly. "I'm Wayne. Wayne Meekin. Do you want me to give her a message?"
Of course, the seventeen-year-old brother - the papers had mentioned him. "Is your father there?” I asked.
“No. He’s still banged up with the filth. Fuckin’ police. What’s this about, anyway?”
“Look, just tell your mother that I can help her. Ask her to ring this number at half past nine tomorrow morning. Have you got a pencil?"
There was a pause while he went and got something to write with. When he came back I gave the number. It was a call box near Charing Cross, but he wouldn't know that. When he had got it clear, I rang off before he could chat. The less he knew the better.
I went off to my flat and cooked scrambled eggs and had it with a rather tired salad and a bottle of some kind of Muscadet in front of the television. The Standard had been wrong; according to the news, the party hadn't split. Everyone seemed disappointed. But the PM was definitely in trouble.
As I dozed off, I thought to myself what a stupid stunt I was thinking of pulling: I mean, having a go at some paedo weirdo… I must have been barking. Best forget about it. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t ring back in the morning. No, let it drop... Stupid idea. Must drink less lager..
Then the newsreader said something about the early newspaper headlines and jolted me back to reality. I was awake.
“….the Express headline, “You Call this Justice?” refers to the Crown Prosecution Service’s insistence on bringing charges against Bill Meekin, the 43 year old father of Sandra Meekin who died last week. Other papers comment on the case. The Sun’s headline ‘Scandal!’ also reflects the widespread public indignation over the Home Office’s statement….”
It seemed that someone really did need to do something about it all, after all. I’d better see what they said in the morning.
Next morning, still feeling a bit of a clown, I went to the public phone box. Of course, it was being used. I might have known. Hadn’t these people got bloody mobiles? I drifted away and watched it. To my relief, the woman came out and I got in with about thirty seconds to spare. I might as well not have rushed. I studied the tits and bums on offer all over the inside of the box. Some of them were really quite tasty. Personally, I fancied the busty Ukrainian called Helga. By twenty five to ten the mother still hadn't phoned. I was just about to call it a day as a stupid idea anyway when it rang
"Hello?" The voice sounded querulous and had a trace of East London. She repeated the number. It was Mrs Meekin.
"Yes, it's me; I phoned last-night. I spoke to your son. Wayne."
"Who are you?"
"Mr Smith," I lied. "Alan Smith."
"Oh. What do you want?"
"I thought I could help you. Over Sandra."
There was a long pause. She seemed non-committal.
"Are you a reporter?”
“No. I’m not. But I can sort out your little problem for you…”
“How? What problem. I mean, it's a bit late, isn't it, now? What can anyone do to help now?"
I took a deep breath, then committed myself. "Did you mean what you said - in the papers?"
"About what?"
"Getting your own back. Revenge?"
Her response shook me. She actually laughed. "Oh, that. I suppose you say funny things, don't
you, when you're angry, I mean. It's too late now. Bill wanted to get him, and Wayne still says daft things, but the police have warned us not to be silly. Well, it would be, wouldn't it? And it wouldn't bring Sandra back."
Bill was the husband, I assumed. She sounded a pretty sensible woman to me. Nevertheless, I persisted.
"No, it wouldn't bring Sandra back, but if someone else were to fix this bloke, Spicer, the one who did it, would you still say that? At no risk to you, mind? Or Bill?" There was a long pause.
Then she said, "Who are you?" Her voice had gone quiet.
“No-one, Mrs Meekin. I'm just a friend. Alan Smith; and I'd like to help - if that's what you want."
This time the pause was even longer. "What do you mean, fix him? What could you do?" She almost whispered.
"What would you like me to do?"
"Would you ... well ... get into trouble?"
I laughed; after everything I'd done in the service of HMG, and everything she'd gone through, she was still worried about getting someone into trouble. But who could blame her?
"No, I won't get into trouble."
"But why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do it for me? Why do you want to do it for us?"
"I thought you wanted to fix this bloke. Get revenge for your Sandra. That's what the newspapers said."
“We ain’t got no money.”
“I don’t need money. I just wanted to give you a bit of justice. Revenge, if you like.”
This time the pause was so long, I thought the line had gone dead.
"Are you still there, Mrs Meekin?;'
"Yes ... " Then her voice cut in again, venomous and different. "Yes, I'm still here."
She was angry now. "Yes, Mr Smith. Or whatever your name is. Oh yes, I want revenge. Someone should get that bastard." The voice was shrill and bitter. "Fuckin’ fix him good. Sort him out. If you're really serious, get him; leave him with something he'll remember till his dying day. So he'll remember what he did to my little girl - to Sandra." She broke down crying, and I hung up quickly.
I'd got my answer.
CHAPTER 8
Spring, London
Disposing of human rubbish isn't as simple as many people imagine.
By human rubbish, I mean people, of course.
First of all you have to find them, then identify them - a mistake in identity can be embarrassing to all concerned - and only then can you go into the gritty business of deciding what to do with the customer, target or mark: call him what you will. I know; that's what I do.
Spicer was no exception. Like Mrs Beeton said, 'First catch your hare.'
I rang Directorate Special Forces' official liaison officer at the Met in Scotland Yard, and asked for a trace, purely in the line of business, of course. Harry Plummer was a grizzled sardonic copper who wouldn't let his right hand know if his left hand was cut off. He and I had had a few beers on odd occasions in the past, and we got on well. At least, I think we got on well. With Harry Plummer it was hard to tell...
He didn't know I was on leave, and between jobs. Group is forever running checks for the security people in the Kremlin down at Headquarters 22 SAS, or Counter Revolutionary Wing's database, so he didn't think it was odd. Harry Plummer did the devilling with the police national intelligence computer at Hendon and MI 5, and a couple of days later came back with the usual list. I'd taken the trouble to embed Spicer's name in a list of others and when he passed me the print-out in his office, he was quick to point out Spicer's form.
"This one's interesting. It's that bloke Spicer, the one who was in the papers for molesting that twelve year old. You know, her old man's waiting trial for doing him. Weird business."
I affected surprise. "That's odd. Not our usual run of business. Are you sure you've got the right one?" I made a play of checking through my notebook. "Here we are. Spicer, Alfred Charles, born 22 November 64, at Rugby."
"No." Harry Plummers's honest policeman's face contorted into a mixture of puzzlement and contrition. "No, this one's Spicer, Albert Charles. And he was born at Chelmsford ... date - um - 14 April 50."
We looked at each other, he genuinely puzzled, I pretending incomprehension . I let him work it out; this sort of thing was always happening with the new Hendon computer and NCIS. The Home Office and Security Service went bananas over duff lists about three times a week.
"We've given you the wrong one." ,
"Never mind." I drew a line through the computer entry for Albert Charles. "It was probably our fault. Can you double check ALFRED Charles Spicer?"
He took down the details and we parted amicably. Harry was only really content when he was one up on the department, the National Criminal Intelligence Service and Hendon. Since the new computer had arrived, he was usually a very happy man.
I took the computer sheets back to my flat and deleted the 'erroneous' entry with a thick black felt pen after copying the details into my notebook. Then I put the rest into a special delivery envelope addressed personal to me at Group, with a note asking for them to be brought forward on my return. Thanks to the Hendon computer's print out I could now read up on what the NCIS Database had to say about Spicer in great detail.
He made depressing reading. Albert Charles Spicer was a typical child molester, if there is such a thing. Not that I'm any authority. But I’d checked it all out in an Internet café. In his forties, he had achieved little, and failed at much. He was married, childless and according to the crib sheets, had received treatment for clinical depression on-at least two occasions. He had twice been questioned about unsavoury sexual incidents in the past, and was given to buying pornography. One alert copper in Kent had even described him as a potential paedophile. But of course the Met hadn’t listened to that. I noticed grimly from the press summaries on the internet that Spicer had taken his last holiday in Bangkok. He lived in a council house and worked as a warehouse supervisor for a supermarket chain.
It wasn't much to go on, so I devoted the next three days to working on him. That wasn't easy, as he'd left his Dagenham council house abruptly - which wasn't surprising - and had moved elsewhere. Normally, finding his new address would have been child's play, but I didn't want to draw any attention to myself, so I was deprived of the usual resources. Eventually I picked him up by broken cardboard crates in his old council house's garden which had a local removal firm's name on the side. One quick telephone call to them elicited his new address and I could stake him out.
Next morning I did just that. I dressed the part.
The only way to disguise yourself in England is to be conspicuously ordinary as a working man. A pair of blue overalls and an oyster tool bag did the trick. I gummed on a scruffy moustache, stuck a plaster on my cheek and walked with Spicer to the train.
We rode all the way to the office together and I got a good look at him.
He looked like a child molester. He was thin and ferrety, with slicked back hair. The eyes slid around all the time like fried eggs in the pan, evasive but staring, and his narrow lips were wet from constant licking. He was obviously a smoker, and the bitten nails added nothing to the charm of his nicotine-stained fingers. At one point he gazed fixedly into the next carriage. He couldn't tear his eyes away and I manoeuvered myself round to follow his gaze.
A group of school girls had got on at the last station and were giggling silently through the glass. Spicer was rivetted and his lip-licking had gone up by about fifty per cent. In my business you meet some unpleasant characters, but I don't think I've ever met anyone quite as slimy as Albert Charles Spicer.
As we got off, my distaste increased. He shot out so fast that he actually brushed past me, and as we walked down the platform I could see why. He was following the school girls closely and as I caught him up was speaking to one of them. The nasal East London vowels whined as he pretended he didn't know the way locally. The girl looked scared, then rushed off to her friends, who giggled behind their hands and disappeared up the steps. Spicer loved it. The bulgin
g, muddy coloured eyes followed them and his lip licking was now off the scale. It was pretty obvious that he intended to start his little games again and had learned nothing from the court case.
Out of the blue, I felt sorry for his wife - how could she still live with the creature?
I gave him the tail on and off for another two days. It was a hell of a way to spend my leave, but it was interesting. A bit of practice really, like one of those exercises at the Manor, years ago. He was a totally predictable hare, and I formed a good idea of his habits. Twice more he stopped and talked to school girls. On one occasion he tried to put his hand on a girl's shoulder as she pointed out the route to him. I was on the other side of the road and couldn't hear what was said, but I had a fair idea. She dipped her shoulder and backed away and as they parted Spicer leered. It's the only word to describe how he looked. He'd have to go, I decided. It was clearly only a matter of time before he tried it on again with another girl, less wary than the rest. He really would have to go.
By now I'd given up a good chunk of my post-Heinemann leave to faffing about Spicer. Now I had to make a key decision; how, where and when? The where and when weren't difficult, but the how was. I didn't want to exceed my mandate; Mrs Meekin didn't want him topped. That would probably be easiest. Much as the greasy bastard deserved it, the guy hadn't killed anyone directly. So I had to devise something that would 'make him think about young Sandra every day for the rest of his life'. Over a cup of coffee in my flat I hit on the answer. It was unorthodox, but would make the point more effectively than anything else. Besides, it could give a whole new twist to the saying 'an eye for an eye'. It actually made me laugh out loud.
Smiling to myself, I pulled out a clean sheet of paper and drew out a standard special forces target appreciation. It’s not secret – you can buy whole books on how to be an undercover SAS man now, thanks to some of the gobby bastards who had left the Regiment to pursue literary careers - or to show their long-suffering editors how to make loadsamoney out of a gullible public. If everyone who claimed they were in the SAS had really been in the regiment or had done half the stuff that they claimed they’d done, we’d have a surplus of SAS hard cases. UK would have no defence problems at all. It still makes me piss myself every time I see some second rate ex-SAS corporal asked his opinion on British defence policy in some place he’s never served. Even if he had, it was just as a lowly grunt, however medals they hung on him. And he’s commenting on what the government should do? But that’s TV and books on the SAS for you…