by Robert White
He checked the state of his uniform in the half light. The knees of his trousers were covered in damp green grass stains and his coat looked like the local football team had used it to clean their boots.
“Another bloody report,” he mused. The Police service was like any other government department and if you wanted them to dry-clean your kit, they wanted a report as to how you got dirty.
Dave examined his new torch for damage, and found none. He pushed it back in his pocket and stretched himself. He was knackered but despite his aching back, and the gloom of the playing field, something caught his eye. Some fifteen feet from the scene of his brief struggle with Bailey, he saw something.
He stepped closer and shone his Maglight at the stray objects.
A pair of pink coloured washing up gloves lay on the grass.
Dave was young in service, but he knew that some burglars used washing up gloves in their crimes. The gloves allowed them to pick up small items with better dexterity than woolen or leather. They also stretched halfway up your forearm, therefore eliminating the chance of leaving a partial palm print, the downfall of many criminals in the past.
Billy had previous for burglary.
Bingo.
He collected the gloves and put them in his pocket. As soon as he got to the nick it was a two minute job to book them into the crime store and leave a note for the early CID officers. They could perhaps have a word with Bailey about them.
Dave walked from the scene, sliding on the cold wet grass of the playing field and made his way back onto the estate. The first signs of dawn were forcing the night sky away from above the town. People were beginning to awaken. Milk floats buzzed by and paperboys were delivering the news of the day on their bikes. He reached the main road and paced for several minutes until a familiar structure towered into view. Preston prison, one of Her Majesties more elderly institutions seemed in far better shape than most of his beat. The Victorian brick walls were newly pointed and the massive wrought iron gates freshly painted. It seemed ironic to Dave that the town’s dishonest citizens got preference over some of its honest. He watched as a prison van entered the confines of the jail and wondered how many of Baileys’ kind he would encounter over the coming years. He imagined it would be quite a few.
Preston Police station was built in 1969 after the old Borough force out-grew the previous one close to the Crown Court on Earl Street. It stood six stories high. The basement held the cellblock and the charge office. Dave made his way downstairs to sort his prisoner.
The Rules of Arrest stated, that the arresting officer must relate the circumstances of that arrest to the charge office Sergeant.
He, in turn then either accepted the arrest as lawful, or, threw out your man. This process was a daunting task for a young officer on his first few arrests. A charge office Sergeant was a fearsome breed. If you cocked up, not only would the Sergeant in charge bollock you till your ears bled, but your whole shift would give you shit for weeks to come. The piss taking was always worse.
On this occasion though, Dave knew it was a straightforward job. The warrant for Bailey’s non-payment of fines would be in a drawer in the charge office. Just slap the warrant in front of the Sergeant, tell him the time, date and place of the lock-up and bugger off home for some much needed kip.
Dave did just that.
As a local milkman discovered the body of an 83-year-old female, the pair of marigold washing up gloves, worn by her killer, were still in PC239 David Stewart’s uniform jacket pocket.
three
His telephone was ringing.
David Stewart was living a deep dark dream, a running dream, lots of doors that wouldn’t give, his heavy legs chasing the invisible but haunting foe just inches away in the next room.
What was that sound?
His telephone was ringing.
Dave eyed the ten year old trim-phone with blurred suspicion.
Only three people knew his number and the persistence of the caller, meant someone was either very pleased or very pissed off. He stretched out a very tired arm and lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“PC Stewart?”
The voice was male and businesslike.
“Yes,” he replied clearing his throat and with it his head.
It was the nick calling, as he could hear the activity of the control room in the background. What he didn’t recognise was the voice on the end of the line.
“Ah, good, you’re awake. This is Detective Inspector Williams. I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I understand you were the foot patrol officer on Callon estate last night.”
Dave swallowed hard. It was not good news. If a Detective of any kind was ringing you at home when you were eighteen months into your Police Service it was bad.
To have a Detective Inspector ringing meant only one thing.
“Yes sir, that’s correct.”
The man’s voice was solemn but there was friendliness in there, a manner any doctor would have been proud of at his bedside.
“There has been an incident that we need to talk to you about David.”
Dave was confused if not a little worried. What the fuck had he done? An incident? That could mean anything.
“OK sir. What is it?”
The Inspector’s tone stayed level. He had a smooth Southern Irish accent that was intent on putting Dave at ease, but did exactly the opposite.
“Why don’t you pull your trousers on now and nip to the station so we can have a chat?”
“Now?”
“Let’s say half an hour David.”
The Inspector put down the telephone in its cradle and swung around in his chair to face the Superintendent.
“The lad’s on his way sir.”
Williams fished in his top pocket for his fags. His watery blue eyes darted around the room ensuring he was out of earshot of any comms operators.
“He’ll be shittin’ himself when he gets here.”
The Super drained the last of his coffee from a mug with the words “The Boss” printed on it. He grimaced at the dreadful chicory taste.
“Good, when he gets here bring him straight to my office. He’ll be shitting it then.”
Dave sat on the end of his bed. He scratched his head and yawned. A narrow strip of daylight shone through a gap in his curtains and it played host to thousands of dancing specs of dust. The dust came from the bare floor, and the bare floor was there because Dave was skint.
Shit like this, he did not need.
A quick check of his watch revealed he had been in bed for two hours. He silently cursed all coppers and stretched himself, an action which made him shiver. He pulled on a tatty dressing gown and walked to the bathroom. His Constabulary house was in poor repair but it had just been fitted with a new avocado coloured suite as part of a long term renovation plan by the force. The wall tiles remained in shit state, but were apparently on the list.
Dave showered, shaved and dressed before walking downstairs. He rarely used the lounge and boxes of gear, unopened from the day he’d moved in still sat in front of an ancient gas fire. His job and his erratic shift patterns, together with regular trips to his parents, meant there was little time for home-making.
He never had company. That mostly suited Dave. He was a man who enjoyed his own.
It was 10.30 am, he was knackered and to add insult to injury, as he left the house it started to piss down. Dave took the bus to the nick, as daytime parking close by was fraught with danger. In just shy of a year, his car had attracted seven parking tickets and four large scratches in the streets around Lawson Street. So, he forced himself to take public transport which consisted of a Zippy bus which ran every 30 minutes. He also planned to cycle, when he could afford a bike of course.
The bus was eight minutes late and by the time he stood in the parade room of Lawson Street nick he positively dripped.
Feeling half asleep, he surveyed the space where every shift started. It was a very drab affair. Rows of de
sks littered with paper all faced a podium where the section Sergeant would give the duties of the day.
Sat at his favorite desk was Andy Dunn. Andy obviously hadn’t been home since the nightshift ended. He had the look of a man who needed his bed but was writing a report instead.
Andy had a reputation of being a ladies’ man and he’d had the misfortune to have been chatting up one of the new female probationers outside the front door of the nick when the body of Elsie May Townsend had been discovered. His shift was over but when he heard the news he walked back inside and started again. It was something that many busy section officers did all too often. Andy was in his sixteenth hour of duty and the old brain cells had started to fail him.
He rubbed his square jaw scratching at his shadow beard and pulled himself together.
“Lady called Townsend has been found dead in one of the old folk’s bungalows on the Callon.” Andy’s face wore a troubled mask, his tone matter of fact. “Looks like a break-in, gone wrong like. The panic button was pressed about half seven. Forensics are out there now.”
Dave was dog-tired, but his brain was working just fine. He nodded.
“You spoke to Katie? She’ll be gutted.”
Armless shook his head. “Aye yer right, but no, not yet pal, I’m gonna nip over in a wee while, before I go home.”
Dave was inexperienced, but he knew why he’d been called in.
As if to batter the truth home, Andy immediately confirmed Dave’s thoughts. “CID thinks your Billy boy has a bit of flavour to him and they want to know the full circs of the lockup. Apparently the backdoor was the point of entry. No tools used and bodily pressure is William Bailey’s favourite M.O. as I recall.”
Dave was racking his brains. He was trying to recount every detail of the arrest. He shook his head.
He spoke absently to himself. “Can’t be him. Can’t be, he was so fuckin’ cool.”
He looked at Andy and regained some of his composure.
“He didn’t even expect the warrant mate. He was convinced he was walking.”
Before Andy could answer, the scenes of crime team shuffled into the room. The four men and one woman all sported white paper suits worn to avoid cross contamination. The suits made them look like slightly crumpled astronauts.
The eldest of the four men recognised Andy Dunn. He walked over, hand outstretched.
“Fuck me Armless, you still bustin’ heads and workin’ seven on two off?”
“It’s better than carrying some poor fucker’s stomach contents ‘round in a jar,” Andy joked, and lit a cigarette in the strictly non-smoking parade room. He exhaled slowly and pointed towards the evidence bags on the floor.
“So, what have you guys come up with?”
The Scenes of Crime guy unzipped his paper suit. He was a balding, slightly overweight man in his forties and wore a rather unkempt moustache that partially hid a set of rotten teeth.
He ignored Andy’s question for a moment and gestured toward the packet of Embassy on the desk. Andy reluctantly offered and joked, “Still a tight bastard I see?”
The S.O.C.O gave a small laugh and lit up.
“I’m tryin’ to give up. The wife would kill me if she could see me now.”
“Well now you’ve managed to scrounge a fag, ye gonna tell me about he job?” Andy pressed.
“Oh err… yeah, not a lot Andy. A few fibres on the door frame, but whoever did the deed was wearing marigolds. There’s rubber glove marks everywhere.”
Dave Stewart was close to a chair and it was a good job. The S.O.C.O. saw Dave flop.
“You all right lad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah…I’m fine.”
Dave was all but fine. He mumbled partly to himself and partly to the room, “I’m just here to get my kit. There’s a Detective Inspector Williams wants to see me.”
He stood, nodded towards Andy Dunn and left the room, his legs like jelly. The walk to the locker room was hell. The legal problems of producing evidence not properly recorded at the time of discovery were all too apparent to him. It was something you had drilled into you at the training college. Property is trouble. Pick it up. Book it in and whatever you do don’t just stick it in your locker. He was in the shit. As a Probationary Constable you could be sacked for just about anything and this was a lot more than just anything. Dave, and his extended family, could not afford him to lose this job.
He walked into the cluttered locker room. Wet uniforms were hanging haphazardly wherever the owners could find space and made the room smell musty and older than its years. Row upon row of tall grey metal containers stood to attention, every one holding secrets, only their possessors knew.
Dave thought about the very large skeleton in his. He fumbled for his key and managed to work it into the lock on the third attempt. He took out his soiled uniform coat and gingerly felt inside the pockets. His hand brushed the cold rubber of the gloves and he shivered. He hadn’t dreamed about them. They were as real as he. This was a waking nightmare and he couldn’t escape it.
The gloves lay in his hand. Innocent household items instantly transformed into evil tools of crime. He felt bile rise within his gut and he swallowed hard. Dave took three deep breaths.
He studied the gloves. In his heart he instantly knew Bailey was responsible. It was too much of a coincidence. Right place, right time right MO. He had no choice. He had to come clean and take the consequences.
Dave took the lift to the second floor where all the CID offices were located. The elevator seemed to take an age to the young Constable. He knew the layout of the floor. One turn left and second door on the left. Dave stood in the doorway of the Detective Inspector’s office and could feel his legs shake.
“Ha! PC Stewart, good.”
The Inspector was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. A shock of unkempt hair simply protruded from his head and was pure silver. He gave the impression of never visiting a professional barber. Seemingly the Inspector didn’t possess a comb or declined to use one. Williams was also a chain smoker, a heavy drinker and divorced for the second time. He wore a shirt that Dave presumed had been ironed once, but not recently. He was the scruffiest senior officer that Dave had ever seen. Despite that, Williams had an easy joviality about him that made him popular amongst all ranks and considering he was Detective Chief Superintendent John McCauley’s right hand that was no mean feat.
Williams pretended to finish what he was doing as he spoke.
Dave noticed it and it made him shiver.
“We’re going straight to see the boss. He wants to clear this job up on the Callon, A.S.A.P. and he thinks your little scuffle with Mr. Bailey’s youngest last night may just be the break we are looking for.”
Williams stopped shuffling random papers and looked Dave in the eye.
“Ok son?”
“Yes sir.” Dave could think of no more to say.
Williams pushed a fag into his mouth and rummaged for a light.
“Now don’t be intimidated by the old man now.” He found some matches and took a large drag, breathing cigarette smoke over Dave. “His fuckin’ bark is only half as bad, as his fuckin’ bite.”
Dave thought Williams sounded like Jimmy Cricket but didn’t get the joke. The Inspector thought it was hilarious and howled at his own quip all the way to John McCauley’s door.
Dave thought that his legs would give way. He heard the Inspector give a courteous knock on the door.
“Come.”
“This is PC Stewart, boss.” The Inspector sat on a small sofa to the left of McCauley’s large desk without being asked.
Dave merely stood to attention in the middle of the office floor. He thought the office would have been bigger. It all looked very basic. A few trimmings made it almost personal to the man it housed. There were a few rugby trophies on a table and some framed commendations on the wall, but no family pictures on the desk. None of it mattered because the one thing you couldn’t take your eyes off was John
McCauley.
His mere presence was daunting. Dave wanted a way out. There was none.
John McCauley had been a Police officer for twenty-two years. He was old school. The chances of further career development for him were, frankly, nil. The days of hands on bosses were quickly disappearing and this particular officer’s hands had been on far too many people for the liking of any politically minded Chief Constable.
He was a racist, a sexist, a womaniser, a bully and the most productive detective the force had come up with in years. As a result of the latter, he had been forgiven his many sins.
Dave noticed that McCauley’s fingernails were cut short and seemed unusually shiny. They didn’t fit the remainder of the man. It wasn’t that he seemed untidy; just the opposite. Crisp white shirt, L.C.C.C. tie perfectly knotted, number 2 crew, scrubbed and starched from top to toe. Nevertheless, something about him just wasn’t right. Dave couldn’t put his finger on it. He was sure of one thing though. This was one scary son of a bitch.
Most of McCauley’s men in his close knit team feared him and loved him in equal amounts. Dave definitely fell into the former category.
The Chief didn’t bother to look up from a report on his desk. His tone was almost secondary.
“Where the fuck have you been Stewart?”
“Sir?”
McCauley’s eyes left his paper and the young officer wished they had remained where they were. As dark as the devil’s own, his iris was so close to the colour of his pupil; it gave the recipient of his glare a view of a void. A black abyss of bitterness stared straight at you. It cut straight into Dave and he felt his pulse rate quicken further.
The Chief had never considered elocution part of the ladder to success and still boasted a broad Lancashire accent.
“If the first question is too difficult for you lad, how the fuck did you get in this job?”
Dave decided not to answer and to ride out the initial storm. McCauley sat back in his swivel chair and made a pyramid with his fingers. His top lip curled slightly as he spoke. It gave the impression of constant irritation.