DIRTY

by Robert White

  “Not a fuckin’ University poofter are you?”

  “No sir.”

  “Thank fuck for small mercies. What did you do before you came to lower the tone of our wonderful Police force then Stewart?”

  Dave had been everything. Before he left school, he’d had three jobs at once. Two paper rounds and working the pop wagon on a Saturday. From then, he’d laboured on motorways, worked nightclub doors and stacked shelves. His father had been injured in a pit accident at Grimethorpe in 1977, money was always tight.

  Jobs in Barnsley had been few and far between and Dave done some things for people he’d rather forget. It earned a crust, but wasn’t always legal. He decided to flower.

  “I was a security guard, sir.”

  The Chief spat his words out like a machine gun.

  “Well you’re not working for fuckin’ Group Four now son and I expect you to get here in less than two fuckin’ hours.”

  By the end of the sentence McCauley was purple.

  “Sorry sir.”

  Dave watched the Chief’s mood change with almost psychotic precision.

  He became instantly businesslike and leaned forward over his desk, the movement pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. Dave decided that McCauley had the hairiest forearms he had ever seen.

  “What can you tell me about William Henry Bailey?”

  Dave felt his knees start to tremble again and hoped it wasn’t visible. There was no going back now.

  “I arrested Bailey on the playing fields on Callon primary school this morning about six o’clock. He was coming from the direction of the old mill. I figured that he would have been up to no good, so I stopped him, gave him a check and he came back as wanted on warrant sir.”

  Mackay’s eyes pierced Dave again. “The boy has a reputation of being a hard man. Did he put up a fight?”

  “He got a bit naughty for a while, more verbal than anything sir.”

  Mackay looked Dave up and down, a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “You look like a pretty boy to me son. Bet you were shouting for help before he said boo to your goose.”

  Dave looked to the Inspector for support but got none. Williams just smoked and looked disheveled.

  “I used the necessary force sir.”

  “Fuck necessary force,” Mackay bellowed. ”The thieving twat should be in the casualty if he had a go at a copper.”

  The Chief then turned to Williams who sat unruffled by the whole thing. He was opening his second packet of Marlboro and picking dried cornflakes from his suit trousers.

  “What do you say Clive?”

  The Inspector seemed happy to have removed the last piece of his wayward breakfast and slowly nodded. His Irish brogue seemed accentuated in the presence of his boss.

  “Oh aye, casualty. There’s no excuse for hittin’ a copper now is there?”

  McCauley calmed again, riding his emotional rollercoaster. The little double act wasn’t wasted on Dave but he was too shit scared to care. “All right Stewart, what else can you tell us about our little housebreaker?”

  Dave knew the moment of truth had arrived. Everything he had worked for the last 18 months now hung in the balance. The thought of returning to Yorkshire, jobless and humiliated was a daunting prospect. He swallowed hard and took the plunge.

  “I think Bailey may have been carrying rubber gloves just before I locked him up sir.”

  Even Williams sat up at this remark, spilling ash on his already stained trousers.

  The Chief though took on the guise of a volcano about to explode.

  His voice was truly menacing, “And what fuckin’ rubber gloves are these then?”

  Dave shifted slightly and produced the gloves from his pocket. He felt like Oliver asking for more. McCauley stood, and for a moment, Dave thought he was going to attack him. Instead, a torrent of abuse flowed from the man. Every expletive Dave had ever heard and a few more besides were launched in his direction. Spittle sprayed over him as the man ranted and raved.

  Suddenly, the Senior Detective snatched the gloves from Dave’s still outstretched hand and handed them to the Inspector.

  With a change of voice and character that would give most psychologists enough material for a prize-winning paper, McCauley wiped his mouth and said, “Sit the fuck down sonny.”

  William Henry Bailey was not a happy soul. Something was wrong but he couldn’t think what. He had been unceremoniously dumped in a drunk cell on his arrival at the nick. That was normal, he’d been booting off as usual and they were used for ‘difficult’ prisoners.

  He’d been sharing with some sad student type who had been busted for trying to sell half an ounce of bush to an undercover drug squad officer in the college bar. That too was normal.

  However, it was now well past noon and he hadn’t been put in front of the beak yet. All fines offences were normally heard early in the day, not late on, and he had been moved to a cell on his own. When he was given a mattress and blanket, he knew it was fuckin’ bad news.

  “What’s goin’ on boss?” Billy was trying to get the attention of a copper who was walking the corridor of the block on cell duty. Billy called the twats ‘boss,’ as it made them feel important. It was the best he could do. He couldn’t bring himself to call any copper ‘officer’ or ‘sir.’

  “You’ll have to wait and see Billy,” said the plod. ”We’re very busy today.”

  Billy sat down on his bunk away from the small hatch in the cell door. The stench of the block filled his nostrils. A mixture of unwashed feet and misused drains; He looked around him at the pale green painted walls. To his horror, he saw his own name scratched into the plaster. It had been painted out, but it was there.

  ‘Billy was ‘ere Aug 1978’

  Billy had been ‘ere’ all too often. He had first been arrested at age twelve. It was the usual, shoplifting, how most started. Then it was nicking pushbikes, and sellin’ ‘em to the Paki’s on Deepdale. Billy broke into his first house at thirteen and never looked back. Nine further arrests and four periods in young offender’s institutions did little to slow him down.

  Each time he got caught, he learned. Each time in nick he learned even more.

  I bet they got nothin’ on me, he thought, just tryin’ to shit me up. I never got a touch from the old birds house, wore my gloves n’all. Billy knew how clever he was. They would never get him again. He lay back, closed his eyes and unbelievably, slept. The noise of the cells around him, powerless to disturb the disturbed.

  Dave Stewart on the other hand could not have slept if his life had depended on it. After explaining the full story of the marigold glove find to Superintendent John McCauley, he was ordered home and told to return at 7 p.m. for duty as normal.

  He was in deep shit and Mackay had left him without any hint of his future.

  Beside himself, he thrust his hands into damp pockets and marched toward his bus-stop. He checked his watch and found he had a ten minute wait. The rain was hammering down and he lowered his head and hunched his shoulders against the heavy drops.

  A car horn made him jump.

  “Want a lift mate?”

  Once again, Dave was very glad to see Andy Dunn. He slid into the passenger seat of the warm, dry car.

  “Cheers ‘Armless.”

  “You look a little pissed off,” said Andy with a smile, “even for a Yorkshireman.”

  Andy pulled out into traffic. The two men drove in silence for a while until Dave felt like he would burst.

  “I know you’ve had no kip Armless but do you fancy a quick jar? I need a word.”

  Andy looked across at his prodigy who was fast looking like a drowned rat.

  “You payin’?”

  Dave had to smile. “Aye I suppose.”

  It was a short drive. The Black Bull was a real ale pub just outside the centre of town. It was popular with the local Constabulary for several reasons. First, the landlord didn’t let the shit in. Second, the beer was pure nectar and third, the barmaids were buxom an
d friendly. It was rumored, Andy was romantically attached to one of the said barmaids, but Armless was prone to wander and Dave took little notice of gossip.

  The two very tired policemen sat together in deep conversation in the corner of the taproom. The oak paneled walls were stained with years of tobacco smoke. Brass fittings and paintings, which had seen drinkers born and buried, adorned the walls. Not one voice was raised above a murmur.

  Lucy was indeed Andy Dunn’s latest bird. She knew all about his reputation with the girls, and what all those girls said about him, but she didn’t care. Andy Dunn was her kind of man and even if he hadn’t realised it yet, she was the only woman for him.

  Lucy also knew something was up, as neither Armless, dirty bastard that he was, nor young Dave, had taken the piss or made a dirty joke since they came in.

  Unaware he was being observed by the lovely Lucy; Dave had finished his story and his second pint.

  “So that’s about it Andy. What do you think will happen?”

  “That’s a tough one laddie. If it had been mysel’, I’d‘ve kept quiet like and dumped the fuckin’ things at a later date.”

  “Andy! We’re talkin’ murder here. An old woman is dead. Even you haven’t got that cynical.”

  Armless finished his beer. “I have pal. I tell you this. Ye look out for yersel’ in this game.”

  He waved his empty toward the bar.

  “Where are the gloves now then?”

  “Forensics got ‘em. Apparently you can sometimes get fingerprints from the inside of a rubber glove, but its touch and go.”

  Andy shrugged. “You’re just gonna have to wait this one out lad. McCauley is a real hard case. He’s old school you know? Still believes you can beat a confession out of anyone. He won’t think twice about throwing you to the wolves if things don’t go his way, let me tell you. On the other hand, if he gets a confession from Bailey he may just forget all about you.”

  Lucy walked over to the table, dropped a full pint in front of Andy and collected their empties. She turned to the bar.

  “Hey juicy!” Armless shouted.

  Lucy turned again.

  “Great tits!”

  Detective Sergeant Pierce was forty-eight, astute and well qualified.

  He was the divisional forensic expert. The security of his job was now in doubt. A new idea coming from Whitehall was to civilianise his kind of task. When the time came for the hatchet to fall on Peirce’s forensic job, he had every intention of developing a bad back and retiring to Benidorm.

  For now though he sat in front of another dinosaur, John McCauley.

  The Chief liked Pierce. He had been a keen rugby player in his day and had worked with McCauley when he was a sectional CID Inspector.

  “What’s the script then Piercie?”

  Pierce was comfortable in the surroundings of the boss’s sparse office. He’d spent many hours pouring over serious crime scenes there, and just as many drinking Irish whiskey.

  Peirce knew there was no need to beat around the bush.

  “Well boss, there are no usable prints inside the gloves.”

  Before McCauley could speak Piece put up his hands.

  “Wait now boss, before you go off on one. Our boy, Bailey, was definitely wearing them. Its just we’ve not enough for Court. We’ve got twelve separate matches found on a print inside the gloves making it virtually impossible not to be William Henry Bailey’s fingerprint but you know as well as I do, that sixteen matches are required to produce them to the Judge. Therefore, as an expert witness, I can’t testify that Bailey had been wearing the gloves. In fact I couldn’t even mention the print existed.”

  The Chief frowned at this technicality, but he knew Peirce was right.

  The Sergeant had more to offer.

  “We have some good news; the right-hand glove has an abrasion on the fingertip of the index. We made an impression of it and compared it to the glove marks found at the murder scene.”

  Pierce smiled and waited for his moment.

  “The fucker matches perfectly boss.”

  Mackay carefully examined the two 8”x10” blow up photographs Pierce had produced of the glove marks.

  “Can we put this to the jury Piercie?”

  The Sergeant shrugged. “It’s not an exact science boss but any jury with decent eyesight can see the match. It’s not a fingerprint but it’s fuckin’ close.”

  Mackay rubbed his chin. His mind was working overtime. He had Bailey, and no doubt, the little fucker had killed old Elsie Townsend. He had the gloves and the evidence Sgt Peirce had dropped on his desk, but how could he put Bailey with those gloves in a court of law?

  He dropped the forensic photographs onto his well-organised desk.

  Pierce read his mind.

  “We have to persuade Bailey to admit he had them on his person in interview.”

  McCauley was planning. “We might just already be able to do just that Piercie.”

  The Chief lifted the telephone to his ear. “Clive, when that boy Stewart turns in, get him back up here.”

  Pierce left the office. McCauley was up to something. He’d known him long enough to know that. Pierce didn’t want the details. It was bound to be dodgy and he wasn’t hanging around to find out. His pension wasn’t that far away after all.

  Dave returned to the station as instructed at 6.20p.m. ready for yet another twelve-hour tour. Manpower was a problem across the section and overtime was on offer. Dave was in no position to turn it down. Armless had dropped him at his house after their heart to heart in The Bull. He knew he should sleep, but couldn’t.

  Instead he went for a run and did a punishing weight routine in the Police Training School gym that backed onto his house. His head felt clearer after the exercise. He had to face facts; he’d fucked up. He wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. It was a question of taking the lumps and getting on with it.

  With this thought in his mind he’d arrived feeling a little better.

  Within minutes, the sight of Clive Williams shuffling long the corridor in Dave’s direction meant things quickly deteriorated. Clive looked even more disheveled than on their previous meeting. He had obviously eaten again since breakfast and was wearing half the meal on his shirtfront. From the smell of him, Dave noted, it had also been a liquid lunch.

  “David,” chirped Clive swinging an arm around Dave’s shoulders and simultaneously revealing a body odour problem.

  “Yes sir?”

  “The boss wants you in the office right away.”

  Williams motioned Dave to follow and the same feelings of dread came over him.

  Once in the office, Dave was more than slightly surprised. McCauley had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up and a five o’clock shadow. A Jameson’s bottle and two glasses adorned the desk.

  “Dave!” McCauley’s pleasant, almost jovial manner was more unnerving than his previous psychotic bawling. “Have a seat boy. We need to talk again.”

  Dave gingerly sat in a chair that was a good six inches lower than the Chief Superintendent’s. Clive Williams took up his previous position on the small sofa and commenced his one-man attempt at the chain-smoking record. Williams knew the script by heart and was ready to play his part in the game if needed.

  The boss put his elbows on the table and made his favourite pyramid shape with his fingers.

  “I’m going to be straight with you Dave,” began the Chief. There was absolutely nothing straight about this little scenario. McCauley was simply warming to a task he’d played out many, many times.

  “This afternoon, I was ready to make the one call needed to have you drummed out of the Constabulary son.” He opened his palms. “Then I thought, well, we all make mistakes. You are young in service and should be getting a pat on the back for good Police work. Instead here we are putting you through the wringer.”

  Dave started to feel much better.

  “We are all in the same job, Dave,” McCauley turned to Williams. “Right Clive?”
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  Clive exhaled, nodding furiously. “Hmm.”

  McCauley leaned forward slightly and made an imaginary globe shape with his hands. “The Police Service, CID, Uniform, Drug Squad, Traffic, all want the same thing. We’re all grafting our nuts off for one purpose. You know what that thing is Dave, don’t you?”

  The boss didn’t wait for a reply; he was on a roll.

  “Justice Dave, the one thing we all want.” McCauley pointed a perfect nail. “This is where you can help us my lad.”

  The Detective smiled, and revealed a set of yellowing, crooked teeth. He didn’t smile often and this false enterprise reminded Dave of Jaws in James Bond. The smile disappeared as quickly as it came and the Chief continued.

  “We have a young boy downstairs in the cells. The lad you arrested last night, William Henry Bailey. The lad is on the point of shitting himself because he’s a killer Dave. The vicious little bastard murdered that defenceless old lady. He knows what he’s done and he knows he will pay for it. Our job,” McCauley made a circle with his forefinger, “is to prove it.”

  The Detective lifted the whiskey bottle and poured two generous shots.

  “He will confess his crime Dave. Be certain of that. We have a team of interrogators here, to match any in the country. But we don’t want some smart arsed barrister getting him off on a technicality now do we?”

  Dave felt himself shaking his head in agreement.

  McCauley picked up a glass and downed the contents in one. He sat back in his chair, eyes firmly fixed on the young copper. He had interviewed thousands of suspects in his time, murderers, rapists, and every type of low life imaginable. David Stewart was a mere Probationary Constable. He was just a boy from a depressed area of South Yorkshire, father unemployed, mother near alcoholic. He was no match and the Chief knew it.

  “The gloves were Bailey’s. You know it, I know it and forensic know it. If we could identify a few more characters we would go on the fingerprint evidence alone. But it’s not to be. Because he managed to dump the gloves on the grass before you got to him, he’s got a fighting chance of getting away with murder Dave.”