by Robert White
He sat opposite Bailey in a private interview room and placed the start of what he hoped was to become a very messy murder trial file on the table. “Well Billy, this is a mess.”
The youth was in no mood to beat around the bush. He paced the room angrily, his muscles bulging from a dirty, white t-shirt tucked into Levis. “Listen Ray, I’m not going down for the rest of my life for this load of shit. You gotta get me off.”
Ray chucked a packet of Bensons on the table. “Have a cigarette for God’s sake and calm the fuck down. It’s me you are talking to not some fucking plod.
You behaving like some twat out of a scene from McVicar does not impress your Uncle Raymond one bit.” Raymond lowered his voice. “It all depends on what evidence the Police have, and of course, what you have to say, but I don’t think it’s going to be so easy this time.”
Billy ripped open the packet of cigarettes and tore one from it. The filter shook in his mouth until he clasped it tight and lit up.
He exhaled sharply; still extremely agitated he pulled at his own hair and wiped imaginary drops from the end of his nose with the palm of his hand. His voice dropped to a whisper, although no one could hear.
“Look, Ray, I was clean as a whistle when I was lifted. I know they’ll have no prints or nothin’.”
Holmes was casual; he undid the clasp on his latest briefcase as he spoke. “You shouldn’t be talking to me like this Billy.”
“Fuck that legal shit Ray. You know me and what I am. You look after me and our kid and you get well paid for it. Not to mention the little extras I’ve got you over the years,” Billy paused and lowered his voice still further, “and the other stuff.”
Holmes ignored the comments from the youth. “My advice, for the moment anyway,” he postured, “is to say nothing. Give a full ‘no comment’ interview, until we know more of what they have. As for the other matter of the assault on the Policeman, we’ll look at a self-defence plea.” Holmes took hold of Billy’s chin and turned his cheek to the light. “You seem to be developing a rather nasty bruise on your face.”
Billy liked the sound of this. He knew Holmes wouldn’t let him down. “You get me out of here Ray and they’ll be a nice extra drink in it for you.”
Raymond Holmes liked the sound of that.
Clive Williams arrived at the cells in time to see Ray Holmes leaving the interview room with Billy. “Ah! Mr. Holmes,” Clive’s lilting voice held the merest trace of sarcasm. “When will your boy be ready for interview?”
“My client,” corrected Holmes, “requires a doctor before anyone speaks to him. He has been soundly beaten by one of your officers,” a forced cough for punctuation, “whilst in these very cells I believe.”
The Detective Inspector had no choice but to give the solicitor his request and turned to the desk Sergeant.
“Get the Police surgeon out to Bailey, Sergeant, and tell the old quack from me, not to take his fuckin’ time about it!”
The Sergeant jumped to the phone. Clive was not one to lose his temper but if he did they’d be hell to pay.
Billy had witnessed the exchange between the two men. He had no way of realising his true plight. He was a socially dysfunctional outcast believing every word from his greedy council.
“Hey! Dickhead!” Billy grinned like a Cheshire cat. “That tub of lard that attacked me. Is he out of casualty yet?”
How Clive Williams achieved the smile back at Billy and kept his composure, was beyond most.
“Not yet Billy.”
He turned again to the desk sergeant. “Call me the second the doctor has finished with him.”
Six floors up the night shift had started the first round of refreshment periods and the canteen held a smattering of coppers.
“Cheer up Dave.” Andy Dunn carried two cups of evil looking liquid that passed for coffee to the table.
Dave took a cup and inspected a suspect brown lump floating in the centre of his brew.
“Sorry mate, I can’t seem to shake this one off.”
Armless took the seat next to Dave and took a sip of the evil brew. “Jesus! It gets worse.”
Dave hadn’t confided in anyone about the second conversation with the Chief. After all, you didn’t go around telling people in a Police station that you were about to commit a criminal offence, did you?
“Look on the bright side,” said Armless. “Our leave has been approved for the weekend. Two days leave and three rest days to recover from the ordeal.”
Dave perked up at the news. “I didn’t know that, when did you hear?”
“Just now, I found the note in my ‘in’ tray. Two of the boys are back from sick, so the weekend of wine women and song is on!”
The door to the canteen opened and Anne Wallace walked to the counter. Dunn lowered his voice but Dave saw his chest expand and a big white smile appear on his face. “Now give me just one night with that wee lassie and I would die a happy man.”
To both the men’s surprise, Anne walked slowly over to their table. Her heels made clicking noises on the tiled floor. Her skirt was short enough to make the men turn and look. A crisp white blouse covered some kind of lace camisole that Dave could only dream about. She had a reputation about the nick for being ‘too good’ for the troops. If you wanted to get into Anne Wallace, you had to dine in the officer’s mess.
“Hi guys,” Anne flashed a smile and Dave felt his face start to flush. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” said ‘Armless standing and gallantly sweeping a chair under the perfectly rounded bottom of the Detective Sergeant, “always a pleasure to have a beautiful woman for company.”
Dave cringed at his mate’s unashamed flirting, but could not help admire the stunning creature sitting opposite. Dave noticed she smelled of Channel No5.
Anne sat and commenced peeling an orange. She looked up and revealed a mischievous grin. “You’re Dave Stewart aren’t you?”
Dave was shocked she even knew his name. He tried to be casual, considered taking a sip of coffee and rejected the idea, as he would definitely spill it. “Yes, that’s right Sergeant.”
“I thought so,” Anne purred looking Dave straight in the eye. “I make a point of knowing all the handsome men I work with.”
Dave couldn’t help himself. For the first time in years, he knew he was blushing. Anne popped a piece of orange into her mouth and chewed slowly. She appeared to study the young copper intently, then stood, smoothed her skirt and brushed her hair from her face. “See you again then David.”
Dave still hadn’t recovered from the fruit fantasy and remained silent and open-mouthed.
Both men watched Anne walk from the room. She knew how to walk. Her hips swayed from side to side in the rhythm of a slow, sexual beat. It was practiced of course, but neither man cared.
Andy Dunn was beside himself.
“You lucky wee shite. She’s fitter than that bird in Superman 2 and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
Dave found himself smiling.
Anne Wallace was smiling too. She smiled all the way down in the lift until she reached the second floor. She felt a second little surge of devilment, just feet from her door. He is cute, she thought, bit young maybe, but cute nevertheless.
Once in her office it was back to business. She sat at her desk with the Bailey file spread out in front of her. She felt uneasy at what she saw. Something just wasn’t quite right.
The night CID team had returned with the antique engagement ring found in Bailey’s bedroom. Rod Casey had been right and would have kept his next months salary. The ring sat on top of a statement identifying it as stolen from an earlier burglary on the Callon estate.
Bailey was their boy all right, but something was just not kosher. All police officers knew property was trouble. Never leave anything lying about where it could be ‘misplaced.’ Anne was about to return the ring to the property store when she noticed that the ring bore the tag no D112481.
‘D’ stood for Preston Division
. The numbers related to the number of items of property entered in the store that year. The numbers ran consecutively and were pre printed.
When she checked the Bailey file, she saw that the marigold gloves, recovered by Dave Stewart bore the tag no D113081. They should have been booked in hours before the ring had been discovered in the house search.
“Why?” Anne muttered to herself.
McCauley and Williams sat opposite Bailey and Holmes in a tiny interview room located on the second floor of the nick. Everything about the room screamed 1969, including a table that separated them. It had seen thousands of interviews since then. Many a tear had been shed in this room, many a deal struck. On one wall, was a two-way mirror made of unbreakable glass. Behind the mirror sat Rod Casey in an even smaller room, a notepad on his knee, pencil in hand, waiting.
Raymond Holmes lounged alongside his client. He had removed his jacket to reveal a handmade silk shirt. He doodled on his own headed and embossed notepaper with a solid gold Cartier pen. Unlike his sap of a client, Holmes was confident of one thing. No matter what the outcome of this case, and that was by no means certain, he was on a good earner.
Clive Williams let out a plume of smoke and started the preliminaries. “William Henry Bailey, I am Detective Inspector Williams and this is Detective Chief Superintendent McCauley. We are here to interview you regarding the murder of Elsie May Townsend. I must remind you that you are still under caution and that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so and that what you say may be given in evidence.”
Raymond Holmes interjected, “Before we go any further gentlemen, I must inform you that after consultation with my client, I have advised him not to answer any questions regarding this or any other allegation.”
Holmes theatrically cleared his throat, leaning forward over the desk, ensuring both Police officers caught a whiff of his latest Jordache cologne. “Further to that, my client wishes to make a formal complaint of assault against Police Constable David Stewart, Police Constable Stephen Jones and,” he stared straight at McCauley, “the Chief Superintendent here.”
He flicked through some notes but no one in the room thought he needed them.
“A further complaint will be lodged that he has been unlawfully arrested on these matters and unlawfully imprisoned.” Holmes rocked back in his seat and soaked up his client’s wonderment. Bailey looked to him with youthful admiration and gave a ridiculous wink.
The Chief was unimpressed. His face said so. He wasn’t about to be bullied by some over dressed arsehole wearing too much aftershave. His body language was a picture.
He almost hissed, “Listen Holmes, one more attempt to interfere with this interview and I will have you excluded. Understand?”
Holmes, once again, stared straight into McCauley’s eyes. There was no love lost between the two men. Holmes had always made McCauley’s teeth itch. To Holmes, the Chief was little more than an oaf. Holmes’ voice was filled with acrimony. “Your comments have been noted for the record Chief Superintendent.”
Clive Williams opened his own notes. He appeared completely unaffected by the sparring heavyweights. His voice was even and calm. The soft Irish tone suggesting he could have been interviewing an innocent witness.
“Now Billy I want to start to ask you where you were between the hours of 2.00 a.m. and 6.00 a.m. on the morning of Friday March 9th 1981.”
Billy leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and made a snoring sound followed by a nervous laugh. Ray’s pep talk had given him true belief. Sit here and say nowt is what Ray had said, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.
He was unaware of the expertise around him. More importantly, he disregarded it at his peril.
Williams carried on undaunted and repeated his first question. Again Billy ignored the proceedings and tried to focus on good stuff like going out and getting’ wrecked. They’ll get bored soon, he thought. Billy was a clever boy see, and Ray, well Ray was the best.
Williams’ voice continued its soothing tonal message.
“Billy I will ask you these questions over and over until I have an answer. We can keep you here until the morning, then, put you before the Court and request a further three days to question you. This is a very serious matter and we will get that time from the Court Billy. You know we will; no problem. I personally, don’t want to do that if you are an innocent lad and can explain this terrible mess.”
Clive took out his packet of cigarettes and offered them. Holmes held up a derogatory palm. Billy ignored him despite being desperate for a smoke. Clive left them on the desk, the packet open, facing the lad, sending their unspoken message.
The detective lit his own fag and pressed on, his voice subtly stronger. “Elsie May Townsend was 83 years old, Billy. She lived in bungalow, 11a, Severn House on the Callon. You know that area well don’t you Billy?”
If Clive could get the kid to answer, he was about to prove his first point. “You ever visited that address Billy?”
Bailey was feeling a tight ball developing in his stomach. He kept singing nonsense over and over in his head to drown out the demon. He had that terrifying, sickening feeling in his guts. He shot Holmes a glance, but the lawyer merely shook his head briefly, reminding Billy not to answer. Billy started to hum, this time out loud. Billy’s favourite, The Tide is High, Blondie, now she was well fit. His eyes shot around the room. Each man in turn just stared back and gave him nothing. His stomach flipped again. They’ll get bored soon. Ray would see to that. Ray knows best. He’ll make them stop.
Clive tapped the packet of cigarettes on the tabletop, a gentle reminder of their presence.
“Elsie was a very delicate lady, Billy. She had brittle bones. She would only weigh about six stone Billy. How would you feel if someone threw your old gran to the floor, smashed her hip to pieces and left her alone to die in the dark?”
Billy lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at Williams. In those wild frightened eyes he immediately saw all he needed to see. Clive agreed with some that thought, the eyes were the windows to the soul, even when the soul was as black as William Henry Bailey’s.
Billy snatched up the cigarette packet from the table. It took him two attempts to remove one. Clive lit it and noticed the tremor in Billy’s hand. He smiled a much practiced smile at the youth. It was the kind of grin a kindly vet may give, to a dog when he’s about to insert the final needle into the poor bugger. Not much longer now son, thought Clive.
Clive’s own mind dragged him back to Christmas 1974 and the very same interview room.
Back then, he and Rod Casey had been given the job of interviewing a major IRA suspect. Some job to give an Irishman. Clive was indeed a patriot, but murder was murder and he was a copper.
There had been a high profile pub bombing down south, lots of dead kids on a night out; he was one of a group of 5 who had been arrested. He didn’t speak a word for 72 hours. The guy never moved from his chair. He didn’t eat, drink or smoke. He pissed himself where he sat. Rod had beaten the shit out of the guy to no avail. He was one tough son of a bitch. Clive had never seen anyone take a beating like it. He felt a shiver at the recollection and forced himself to the present.
Billy was a different matter. Bailey just thought he was tough. Clive knew different. He opened a cardboard folder.
“An innocent old lady, Billy?”
Clive produced the same scenes of crime picture of Elsie May that McCauley had shown to Dave Stewart.
The old lady was lying dead on the floor of her lounge. Mouth gaping, lifeless eyes wide open. He placed it on the table and very slowly, turned the image to face his suspect.
“What kind of man would do a thing like that Billy?”
Someone, who knew Clive Williams well, would have noticed the tiniest edge to his voice but it was expertly hidden for this performance. His deep-rooted anger at a needless death lay firmly hidden inside the man. To the many, Clive remained a casual, almost indifferent observer.
Billy was unable to take his eyes from the image. Hs stomach got worse and he needed the bog.
His fear was running riot through his mind and body. This was worse than before a job. Much worse.
“Not me. It weren’t me,” he spluttered.
Holmes made to whisper a timely reminder of his legal advice not to speak.
This time McCauley gave him a look that froze him. He knew he could be, and would be, excluded by the detective and it wouldn’t look good to the family if he was left sitting in the car park whilst their little jewel was fitted up with a murder or two.
Clive watched every move Bailey made. The youth rubbed the back of his neck to remove the imaginary stiffness. His eyes darted to and fro between his solicitor and the photograph. He was floundering.
Clive had seen enough.
“OK Billy,” he snatched the photograph from the table. “Let’s just say I believe you son.” The detective was the picture of understanding. “Say we’ve got it all wrong this time. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding and we have arrested you by mistake.”
Clive checked his file although he’d written most of it himself. He moved slowly, deliberately. Billy watched his every move. As Clive theatrically turned each page, Bailey’s stomach was burning with acid. Every leaf was a mountain of proof against him. He shot the occasional glance to McCauley but the gentle monotone of Williams floated over the turning pages and held him transfixed.
“We do have certain evidence Billy,” Williams looked up sharply at the youth making him jump, “and it points in your direction son.”
Billy’s heart moved closer to his throat. It was the almost casual way in which the detective spoke. He was so confident.
Clive’s voice didn’t alter. He let words fall from his mouth like gravy from a boat, their liquidity adding flavour to every syllable.
“I want to get this sorted out. If we are wrong then tell me why. All I need is the answers to a couple of questions and all this will be over Billy.”