by Robert White
DIRTY
by
Robert White
The characters contained in this book are fictional and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved under the Copyright Act 1976
Acknowledgements
Firstly, I must point out that this book is in no way auto-biographical.
Although like the main protagonist here, I did patrol the streets of Preston in 1981 and continued to do so for fifteen years, I was fortunate enough never to encounter Police Officers or Lawyers like some depicted in these pages.
Indeed, my experiences were the total opposite. I was fortunate enough to work alongside some of the bravest men and women I have ever met.
Yes, Police Officers are human and suffer the same failings as all reading this, but I am proud to say I found the vast majority of officers to show great integrity and compassion in their daily lives.
The early 1980’s cast a dark shadow over the North of England and people turned to crime for any number of reasons. Therefore, I would also comment that not all criminals would be off my Christmas card list.
Some however, should rot.
I would like to thank my wife for her unrelenting support and guidance during the writing, editing and proof reading of this novel. Writers will concur that it is a lonely business and without Nicola, this novel would never have been published.
Robert White.
‘Poverty is the Mother of Crime’
(Marcus Aurelius)
one
David Stewart stopped walking and listened. His steady footsteps and rustling uniform made it difficult to detect the exact cause of the tinkling noise he was sure he’d heard two or three streets away.
Was it a drunk kicking a stray bottle or a window breaking?
A lone dog barked. And there was silence again.
The Copper pushed his gloved hand deep into his overcoat and removed a Maglight.
He inspected it, checked it worked, even though he knew it did and headed for the alley that would take him toward the suspicious noise.
His beat, Callon Estate was notorious.
When it was built by the Local Authority in the mid fifties, it had housed hundreds of mill workers that sweated their bollocks off for a pittance. David Stewart figured that maybe they were the ‘good times’ for Callon. Those jobs were long gone. In fact, Thatcher’s current Government was in no mood to give in to the Unions, and most of the houses he walked by were home to the unemployed.
On Callon, the black economy reigned.
As if to rub salt in the wounds of the jobless occupants, the once vibrant factory buildings on Dundonald Street still loomed derelict over the rows of dilapidated housing. Chain-link fences and barbed wire surrounded the old mill. Various Councils had made vain attempts to keep the kids out. But the gangs that roamed Callon, some as young as five years old, found their way in, and stole or vandalized anything of value. Holes appeared in the fences faster than they were repaired. It was a playground in everything but name.
The estate had been gaining a reputation for the last five years and despite Moor Nook, Grange Park and Avenham already fighting it out for shit hole of the eighties; Callon was as dismal and dangerous area of Preston Lancashire you would want to come across.
Dave had followed the mysterious glassy sound through the back alleys and walked slowly along Nevett Street. One lone street-lamp was left intact, which was of little help. His new Maglight was needed more to avoid the numerous dog turds, kids’ toys, and various bits of burnt out Ford Cortina, rather than find the errant thief or drunk responsible for the noise that had disturbed him.
He stood perfectly still and watched the white frost of his warm breath disappear into the chilled night. Once again there was silence. He pushed the backlight button and checked his near new digital watch.
0207hrs 9 March 1981.
Dave pointed his torch at his Doc Martins and checked for dog shit.
Katie’s place, warmth and a brew were in order.
He surveyed his beat with his own working class eyes. The semi-detached, rendered houses were grey and doleful. Large patches of damp formed on the gables giving the homes a camouflage effect in the half-light.
He noticed the odd bedroom curtain twitch as he paced slowly to his destination. Coppers never went unnoticed on this estate, no matter what the time.
Occasionally he came across a well-maintained garden, probably the home of some retired couple who had lived on the estate all their lives and refused to move.
It reminded him of his own scheme over the Pennines in South Yorkshire. His family home had been little different. Dave’s mother and father had been fiercely house-proud despite the desperate conditions that surrounded them. The poverty Arthur Scargill promised to remove was still present, and Thatcher, together with Norman Tebbit and his infamous bike, was looking to make it worse.
Much worse.
Dave felt the early morning chill despite his heavy uniform and turned up the collar of his overcoat. He was unsure if it was the cold, or the memories of Barnsley that made him shiver.
Severn House was what Dave’s father referred to as an ‘old folks home.’ Insanely, the Council had built the Sheltered Housing Village, smack bang in the centre of Callon. Katie worked the night shift and was the savior of all wet, cold and pissed off policemen. David Stewart fitted that bill perfectly.
She made the most glorious hot buttered toast and tea. More importantly to Dave, she was a friendly face on a beat where coppers were as popular as a fart in a space suit.
Rumour had it, that at one time Katie gave the odd passing copper a little more than tea and toast, but to Dave, who was still four hours from the end of a 12 hour foot patrol, the tea and company, would be just fine.
At the time of its construction the community project was a novel design, with thirty or so one-bedroom semi bungalows, each with a small garden surrounding a warden’s house in the centre. Each house had direct contact with the warden by alarm 24 hrs a day. An emergency cord was situated in every room; if any of the elderly residents had a problem, they could pull the little orange handle and the warden would come to their aid. That was ok when the place was built. What the council hadn’t banked on was the rapid demise in both the moral and financial condition of society surrounding the poor old dears come the present day.
The elderly residents had major problems when they left their front door. If they didn’t have the luxury of a car, the nearest bus stop was ten minutes walk if you were good on your pins.
Not good on the Callon Estate.
As Dave approached, he studied the Warden’s house and saw the telltale light burning in the rear. Katie was up and about. Dave could taste the hot sweet tea already.
The young Policeman knocked lightly on the back door of the residence. Seconds later he heard the shuffle of feet. There was a brief pause as Katie checked the spy hole in the door.
“Only me Katie!”
Dave shone his torch at himself to aid her. He could see his breath again and figured he looked like something from the new Halloween movie he’d just seen on video.
After various locks and bolts had been undone, Katie opened the door and Dave gave his very best smile. Her dark hair was tied back to reveal a round, once very pretty face, devoid of make-up.
She drew heavily on a Dunhill, which, in Dave’s experience, seemed to be permanently fixed in the corner of her mouth and had caused a deep wrinkle on that side.
“Can’t be too careful love,” she said exhaling smoke over him. “The little bastards on this estate never sleep. They’d rob the pennies from a dead man’s eyes they would.”
Katie was Preston born and bred, but like many of the town’s residents, was descended from Irish stock.
The town of Preston had been a trading post for hundreds of years and the sea link between Preston and Dublin was only dwarfed by its big sister 23 miles away in Liverpool. Katie had family in all three cities.
Divorced, much to her father’s disapproval, and approaching fifty, she was still an attractive woman. With a little help from Max Factor, she still managed to turn a few heads in the local pubs around the town, even if the heads were a little thin on top these days.
She wore a dark blue overall, which Dave noticed was a little too tight at the chest. A pair of pink fluffy slippers completed the picture.
“Get y’self inside lad. It’s bloomin’ freezin’ tonight.”
She closed the door behind Dave, re-applied two of the four locks and rubbed her hands briskly to warm them.
Dave loped into the lounge, removed his heavy uniform overcoat and made himself comfortable in a much worn, all enveloping armchair.
“All quiet Katie?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Aye, so far, I’m not countin’ any chickens just yet though.”
Katie turned and made for the kitchen, her slippers making shuffling noises on the recently bleached linoleum floor. Dave listened to the familiar household sounds and, minutes later, she returned with the obligatory tea and toast.
“These evil little villains ‘round here will be the death of me, Dave.” Katie sat down heavily on an even more dog-eared sofa. “We’ve had three bungalows done over in the last week; all in the early hours. My residents are terrified.”
“Yeah I heard someone is active.” Dave bit into his toast. It tasted heavenly. Simple things for a simple guy he thought.
Katie smiled at the young officer; his use of the jargon she had heard used by older, more experienced officers amused her.
“You’re starting to sound like an old hand Dave. We only get the new ones, y’know, the sprogs, on this patch.”
Dave looked a little hurt, but it was true. Only the younger officers got Callon as a foot patrol beat. The more experienced coppers avoided it like the plague.
“I’ve nearly two years in now Katie.”
She maneuvered her matronly figure behind Dave and ruffled his hair, in a vain attempt to flirt.
“You’re a baby. Eat your bloody toast.”
He did as ordered and bit into the hot buttered slice.
Dave’s police radio burst into life. The young officer put down his toast and listened. He waited for the transmission to end and then answered his control room.
“239, I’m 5 away, over.”
A violent domestic dispute had started on the estate. Dave was just minute’s walk from the house.
“I’m gonna have to go Katie, sounds like some poor lass is getting the sharp end of the stick from her old man again.”
Domestic violence made up much of Dave’s night shift duties. It was a dangerous job, most murders were domestic related. Dave had heard many stories of how even the battered wife had turned on the visiting Copper as soon as he’d attempted to arrest her husband. Domestics were time consuming and very often, a waste of that time. If a woman made a statement of complaint against her husband, it was usually withdrawn the next day. The ‘new men’ being talked about in the papers, didn’t live on Callon.
Katie helped Dave on with his coat, which was still damp from the cold moisture in the night air. She could have been a mother sending a child to school. She studied him for a moment as he pulled on leather gloves.
Well over six feet, strong and muscular, with dark features that undoubtedly made him very popular with the ladies. He had a hardness about him and Katie thought that he had acquired it a little too soon for his years. What was he? Twenty-five? Yes, she remembered his birthday last month. Not yet out of his probation and she had already seen the scars of street brawls on his face. In fact, the star shaped scar just below his right eye had been with him from day one.
Had he not been a copper, this one could have gone the other way. She’d seen it all before. After all, she was a Callon girl.
Katie pecked Dave’s cheek. “You be careful sweetie.”
She smiled, and for a brief moment, saw a flash of a grin come to the young Policeman’s face. She thought he needed to smile more. He was a deep soul.
“I’ll be back if I can,” Dave gestured toward his half-eaten snack. “And I’ll try to keep an eye on the bungalows tonight n’all.”
Katie stood at the window and watched the handsome young man stride out into the darkness. She rubbed the back of her neck and spoke ruefully to herself.
“Hmm, if you were 20 years younger girl!”
two
William Henry Bailey was cold. He touched his face with his fingers and he didn’t feel a thing. That was a sure sign of brass monkey weather. After a few beers on the park with the lads, and a dab of wiz from Sheila Mellor on Bidston Street, who Billy reckoned was a deffo shag on the next visit; he’d crawled through one of the many holes in the fencing that let him inside the old mill on Dundonald Street.
Sitting inside the derelict shell of a rotting building, instead of being in the bedroom of the lovely Sheila, Billy was ruing his luck. If he had the cash for a few tins and a pack of fags he’d be in there.
The last thing he needed was to risk another job so soon after the last one. The pigs were bound to be sniffing around. But he had to do it, there was just no choice. He was skint.
The old walls were covered in graffiti and the ambient light played tricks. The freezing night was full of noises that made Billy’s head turn, his eyes searching the shadows.
As usual, the boy was shitting himself. Just before a job, the fear always came over him.
The cold wasn’t that much of a problem, he could piss the cold. He was used to it. There had been no gas in Billy’s house all winter. Since his Mam had done one with that taxi driver from up Greenlands, his old man had gone clean off it and there hadn’t been gas or ‘leci since. His house was no warmer than the mill.
The cold was one thing but his fear was different. Some burglars said they got off on the buzz of a job. They felt alive, the adrenaline flying through their bodies as they broke the window or forced that door.
Billy didn’t get off at all and he hated feeling scared. It wasn’t allowed. Fear was a weakness and you never, ever, admitted weakness to anyone.
He’d done three of the old fogy’s bungalows inside a week. They were easy pickings and he was long past caring that the old farts were often inside, shitting their pants at the sound of him rummaging around in their smelly little rooms. Even if they did wake up, they were too shit scared to do anything, and to Billy all fear, no matter how warranted, was weakness.
He looked at his watch. It wasn’t nicked; it was bought and paid for. You didn’t wear knock-off gear because if you got a pull from the pigs and the guy had half a brain, you were fucked. Besides, if you were Billy Bailey and lived on the Callon, you got pulled regular.
It was 4am.
Billy needed that cash and quick. Tomorrow was Friday, the weekend, time to go out on the pull and sink a few beers. Not just a four-pack of knock off cans from Patel’s shoved down your neck on the park, but to a pub or two. Maybe he could even go dancing to a club if he dragged enough out of that tight bastard, Cliff, the local fence.
Tonight though, despite the fear, he was feeling lucky. He’d done a walk-by of the old girls’ house that afternoon. He always did it in the daytime because if he got a pull, he could make any old excuse to the coppers.
He smiled to himself as he recalled checking out a job a few days back. A new, young beat copper had seen him. Billy knew him by name. He knew most of Preston Nick by name, including the CID.
“I’m lookin’ for me cat, PC Swindles. I’m goin’ straight now y’know.” It was a lame excuse. Billy knew the copper couldn’t prove any different. So, he got turned over and they kept him waiting as usual. So what? They had nothing. Fuck all. Billy was a clever boy when it came to the streets, ask anyone on the Callon.
/> On the day’s walk-by, a quick snoop in the front window of the bungalow had revealed a new looking telly and what looked to Billy like an antique clock on the mantle. Put them together with the gold ring he still had to weigh in from last night’s job and he could have a good weekend.
He checked his pockets for his Marigolds. Billy didn’t carry anything else. No torch or tools; the marigolds could be easily hidden. Billy liked that.
If you got a pull with a tool, you could get lifted for ‘going equipped.’ Billy’s brother Mick got pinched on his way to a job with a torch and screwdriver. He got six months in Walton jail for his trouble. Some people never listened, and his Mick was one of them.
Billy was different. Billy was clever. He was a bodily pressure man. Using his powerful frame to push open locked doors had made him good money the last two years. He never kicked a door in. The coppers could match your trainers to any mark left on the door. No, Billy simply pushed his way through like the day he was born.
If waiting in the mill was bad, the walk to the job was worse. Billy had to look cool, just in case some nosy pig got close. How many times had Billy just walked right by a copper on the way to a job? Oh yes, clever boy, Billy.
Tonight though, it seemed Billy had no need to worry. His luck was holding firm. Although he had no way of knowing it, the only man in the area was Dave Stewart, who was trying, in vain, to reconcile the differences of man and wife four streets away.
The youth strolled, almost strutted, touching the rubber gloves in his pocket once in a while to see they were still there.
He did a quick rece of the little bungalow. Everything looked cool. There was a breeze that would hide any noise he made and the back garden was surrounded by a mature hedge to keep him hidden. Billy pulled on the marigold washing-up gloves and walked the few steps to the back door. All the woodwork of the house was the original softwood from when it was built, and despite having a recent coat of paint, it was rotten. He hummed a tune in his head to try and calm himself. Shakin’ Stevens, This Ole House, it was new out.