DIRTY

by Robert White

  Dave sat quietly and waited for the next move. He didn’t have long to wait. Stevie lurched over the table and thrust his plastic knife toward Dave’s face.

  Dave was ready. He parried the thug’s lunge and grabbed him by the wrist. Using Stevie’s own weight against him, Dave simply pulled him across the table. When Stevie’s elbow joint came level with the table edge, Dave thrust all his own weight downward on the wrist.

  There was a horrible pop, as Stevie’s elbow joint gave way. He screamed so loud that the whole of the canteen reverberated. Stevie fell to the floor, clutching his damaged arm. Dave stood. He took a step back and penalty kicked the arsehole in the jaw. Stevie’s head flew backward until it smacked the linoleum floor. He laid unconscious, blood forming a pool around his shaven crown.

  The next Dave knew two prison officers grabbed him. He gave no resistance. He simply held up his hands and repeated the words, “self defence,”’ over and over.

  Stevie was coming around and howling like a banshee. Two other officers tended to him on the floor, attempting to stem the flow of blood from his head-wound.

  Dave was led away by the officers. He was frog marched along several long corridors and became completely disorientated.

  Finally, he arrived at an office door. The officer to his left knocked and a voice from within beckoned.

  Dave was made to stand directly in front of a large desk. Behind it sat a very pompous looking officer. He was still receiving details of the incident by phone.

  His northern accent didn’t match his look. “Well Mister Stewart, you seem to be making a name for yourself already. Are we going to have to put you into solitary?”

  Dave didn’t give a shit. “Well, at least I wouldn’t be attacked in there. I was given assurances that I would be protected.”

  The senior officer didn’t care for Dave’s attitude. “Maybe a set of extra charges, to go with the ones you already face, will focus your attention Stewart.”

  Dave felt his anger rise again but remained outwardly calm.

  “I was acting in self defence sir. The man was trying to stab me. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The officer seemed placated by Dave’s submissive tone. He turned his attention to the guards. “How is the other party?”

  One did his best to hide a smile as he spoke. Stevie was obviously unpopular with the guards. “He’s off to the infirmary now sir. I think his elbow’s busted. He’ll need a couple of stitches too.”

  The officer nodded, considered the information and then came to a decision. “OK, take Stewart back to the block and lock him down. He will have no privileges for one week.” He looked directly at Dave but addressed the officers. “And keep an eye on him. I don’t want a repeat of this.”

  Dave was led back to his cell in silence. He didn’t know what his privileges were, so he wasn’t too bothered. Besides, he had other things on his mind.

  Jimmy was waiting when Dave got back to the cell. Apparently, everyone had been locked down because of the incident with Stevie.

  “They do it all the time,” explained Jimmy.

  “Everyone gets a bit excited at the sight of a rumpus, so they lock us down. It’s a fuckin’ pain.”

  Dave lay on his bunk in silence, but Jimmy was talkative.

  “Where did you learn that move like? It was pretty nifty. Not in the coppers book of moves that.”

  “I wasn’t always a copper.’

  Jimmy smiled. “Well I think Stevie will stay away from you for a while. After that display, so will most. You’ll still need to watch yourself like. It won’t just go away. It never goes away.”

  “I’m locked down for a week anyway, no privileges.”

  Jimmy laughed, “What fuckin’ privileges?”

  The two men lay in silence for a long time. Finally Dave spoke, “Jimmy, how does someone end up as a pimp for rent boys?”

  “You mean, how does someone stoop so low like?”

  “No, well, I mean, you seem OK to me. It just seems strange.”

  Jimmy smiled, “It don’t happen overnight mate, I can tell you that. I’ve been around it for a long time. It started with being in care as a kid. Fuckin’ joke really, using the word care, for what we got.”

  Jimmy tuned on his side. He didn’t seem to mind the subject matter.

  “I was in this kid’s home like, up your way. I would be about twelve. Me Mam was from Salford like, that’s where I’m from, but she was on the knock herself and I got took off her and sent there. I got nicked for shopliftin’ and ended up in the local nick at Preston. The boss of the children’s home came down with this brief, Holmes his name was. That was the start.”

  Alarm bells rang in Dave’s head. “Raymond Holmes?”

  Jimmy nodded, “That’s the twat.

  Wallace and Davits had taken a suite at the Tickled Trout, a beautiful hotel situated on the outskirts of Preston.

  Davits marveled at his friend’s tenacity. With the minimum of rest, he had worked constantly since the dreadful news of Anne’s death.

  Wallace now sat at a desk in the suite, slowly disappearing under a mound of paperwork.

  He had been on the telephone constantly.

  He had harassed Thomas about the handwriting discrepancies the barrister had failed to notice. He insisted the barrister’s early return to London was unwise and told him in no uncertain terms that his attitude toward the case had better change. Wallace wanted results and Thomas had better produce.

  Like a man possessed, he bulldozed his way through unhelpful secretaries to get to Graphologists. He only wanted the best. He barked at prison officials, finally berating the Governor himself, to arrange a visit for Dave.

  In between this deluge, he set about the heart-rending task of arranging the funeral of his only daughter. The task of consoling his grieving wife sapped his strength.

  Finally, he sat back in his chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

  “Its so damn frustrating Peter. This young man shouldn’t even be charged with these murders, let alone, be languishing in a Remand Centre.”

  Davits nodded, “I agree.”

  Wallace shuffled some papers until he found what he was looking for.

  “Look, Anne was tied up. You have mentioned the marks on her wrists in your report. It’s here in the officer’s statements. David would have no reason to tie her up. He had the run of the house. They were lovers for Christ sake. I mean, according to the witness, David’s car arrived at the house after Anne and McCauley. So when did he tie her? Whilst McCauley looked on? Is he supposed to have repeatedly stabbed the Detective whilst Anne just made tea? It just doesn’t work does it?”

  Just then, the telephone interrupted Wallace’s flow. It was John Staples, the forensic expert, and he was in fine fettle.

  “Wallace, how are you Sir?”

  Wallace had no time for small talk; he was tired. “I’m well Professor. Do you have something for me?”

  “I most certainly do. It would seem our friends at Preston, have missed a vital piece in the jigsaw. But first, can you tell me, do I have all the paperwork available in this case?”

  “You do, please go on.”

  “Well, there is no mention of any sexual activity in the notes. Sir Peter makes no comment regarding any recent intercourse in the Post Mortem. Yet there are semen stains on the inside of Anne’s sweater and brassier.” There was a brief pause and he continued, “This is pretty tough Mister Wallace. Maybe I should speak to Sir Peter?”

  Staples waited for a reply.

  The news hit Wallace like a steamroller. He sat back even further into his seat and moved the receiver away from his ear. He took the deepest of breaths. How much more had is only child endured. How much more could he himself take?

  Finally he could speak, “Just give it to me as it comes, Staples.”

  “Well I can understand how the evidence could have been missed. But even so, sloppy at best;”

  Staples paused, whilst he checked his notes.<
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  “From studying the Scenes of Crime photographs and the location of the stains I would conclude that the offender lifted Anne’s sweater and brassier, without removing it completely. He probably then masturbated over her upper torso and then returned her clothing to its original position. They missed the stain as it was on the inside the clothing.”

  Wallace could hear further shuffling paper as staples searched his notes.

  “We have tested the semen which gives us the offender’s blood type. It’s ‘O’ rhesus negative, quite rare really. Only three percent of the population has it. I just got off the telephone to an old friend of mine who is a registrar at The Royal Preston Hospital. David Stewart was treated there several times for minor injuries. His blood type is ‘A’. I also checked McCauley’s Post Mortem report. He is type ‘B’.”

  Wallace was still recovering from this last demeaning act his daughter had been forced to endure. He forced himself to sound positive.

  “Excellent work, Mister Staples. We seem to be getting somewhere.”

  Staples hadn’t finished.

  “There is one more thing; Anne was tied with electrical flex. Although I can’t be certain until I examine the actual cord, from the photographs, I would say that whoever tied those knots, is left-handed.

  The throat wounds on Anne and Bailey are also cut right to left, suggesting a left hander.

  What about our boy Stewart?”

  Wallace was quick to react, “We haven’t that information at hand. But it won’t take long.”

  Staples was obviously pleased with his own work.

  “Well, Mr. Wallace, I think that will put the cat amongst the pigeons at Preston station. If you have any more for me, don’t hesitate. Goodbye.”

  Wallace bid Staples a good night’s rest and related the details of the conversation to Sir Peter.

  “With this information, plus the handwriting anomalies, Thomas will have sufficient to make a bail application to the Magistrates on Monday.”

  Davits was deep in thought. He flicked through the files and made the occasional note. Wallace waited for his friend to speak.

  The man spoke quietly, “Robert, the more I look at this file, the more I’m confused. In the space of forty-eight hours, we have uncovered several major gaffs in the prosecution evidence. One, the handwriting; I mean it is so obvious, even a child could see that it’s different.

  Next is the sloppy Forensic work. To miss a major find like that on Anne’s clothing is a poor or very rushed performance.

  Finally the cord; its normal Police practice to photograph the knots on evidence of this nature, they would normally cut the rope, or whatever, leaving the knots intact. There are very strict rules regarding the protection of ligatures as they can tell us so much. Now, I would be very surprised to find that any investigating officer hadn’t had this kind of evidence checked.”

  Wallace poured two glasses of brandy from the mini bar and placed one in front of Davits.

  “So, what are your conclusions, Peter?”

  Davits took a sip of the drink. “Well, I think we have two lines of inquiry. The handwriting is separate to the rest.

  The paperwork was never meant to be looked at closely. Bailey had confessed his crimes. I can only presume that McCauley or member of his team altered the documents just to tidy up the mistake by Stewart, and that is just what I believe it was, tidying the loose ends. This was nothing to get killed over! They knew he would play the game, or lose his job.

  Now, the defence would easily plead their way out of a murder conviction. They could point out Bailey’s confession and how helpful and remorseful he had been etc. They too would probably overlook the changes to the documents.

  The defence would look good. Bailey’s other charges would have been dropped in the process of the plea bargain.

  Everyone is happy. McCauley gets his man. Dave keeps his job and Bailey gets a reduced sentence.”

  Wallace was listening intently to his esteemed colleague.

  “If everyone is so happy, why have we got three people, including my daughter, lying in the morgue?”

  “The answer to that will lie with the people still alive. All of whom, have the same information.”

  Wallace ran through the possibilities. “That means David Stewart, Inspector Clive Williams and the Constable, Rodney Casey.”

  Davits corrected his friend, “And the solicitor, Holmes.”

  Dave waited quietly for Jimmy to continue his story. At the mention of Ray Holmes, Jimmy had fallen silent. He stared into the distance, exploring his own personal thoughts.

  Finally Dave spoke, “Me and you have some common ground, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah? Have we Dave?”

  “We do pal. Holmes was Bailey’s brief, one of my, so-called, victims. He has a reputation as a nasty piece of work.

  “That’s him like, bastard that he is. Him and Clarke, that’s the boss of the home like. They got it all started for me.” Jimmy looked saddened for a moment, “and a few others who are no longer with us.”

  Dave suddenly felt a twinge of sorrow for Jimmy. He wouldn’t normally want to pry any further into what he knew was Jimmy’s sleazy life. Despite that, the mention of Holmes’ name was too much of a coincidence. He needed the information.

  Dave pressed, “Sorry Jimmy, I shouldn’t have asked but I’ve had some dealings with Holmes. He’s real bad news.”

  Jimmy returned to his troubled, personal place. He looked puerile and vulnerable.

  He slowly moved his head from side to side. He looked pained. “Someone like you couldn’t understand what it’s like to be alone in a place like that. A home where people, the one’s who are supposed to be in charge, take advantage. You know, really take. ”

  An edge of bitterness came to his voice and he added, “They take everythin’, everythin’ you got.”

  Dave was as gentle as he could with his questions. “You’re right Jimmy. I mean, I grew up in a shithole place, but my mum and dad looked after me as best they could.”

  Jimmy smiled briefly, “Yeah? Your old man and mum still tickin’ on are they?”

  Dave felt suddenly homesick. “Hmm, yes they are mate thanks.”

  Jimmy’s smile faded. “Never met my dad. My mum weren’t too interested. She were on the game; got hooked on the drugs y’know. So me and me sister get chucked into care. I end up with those bastards, Clarke and Holmes. Those two had a thing going you see?”

  Jimmy stopped and looked straight at Dave. He waited for a reaction, a judgement.

  When he didn’t get one, he cleared his throat and continued, “Both Clarke and Holmes had a liking for young boys see. A physical liking if you know what I mean? What a pair! Like I said, I’d been at the home for about a month, when I got lifted for robbin’ in the shops in town. Holmes turned up, did some clever talking at the station and I got away with a bollocking from the Inspector.”

  Jimmy fidgeted with his fingers, a small child confessing the theft of the last sweet in the jar.

  “I paid for it though; in other ways like. You can imagine the rest. You were a copper. You’ve heard it all before. I don’t want to talk about it no more.”

  Dave somehow knew that this story was important. He kept trying.

  “You don’t have to talk Jimmy. I understand, but try to remember, whatever happened then, wasn’t your fault.”

  The cell was quiet again. As the minutes ticked by Dave considered the conversation over.

  In the silence, disorder raged through Jimmy’s head. His story left untold for so long, swelling like an un-treated cancer in his gut. Why should he tell now? Why should he explain himself to this stranger? He’d managed to bury the whole business deep inside. It was his self-preservation, his in-built defence mechanism. Eventually he sat up and looked directly at Dave. It wasn’t so much a confession, more a discovery. The first sentence was almost blurted.

  “Clarke, picked me up from the nick, exactly as he should, but Holmes followed us. It was late, a
fter bedtime. The other kids were all tucked in for the night. They took me to Clarke’s room. They gave me pop and a cake.”

  Jimmy stared at an invisible point and laughed sarcastically to himself. “Then, after a bit, Clarke left me alone with Holmes. He started asking me questions about sex. I was twelve for fucks' sake, just started taking an interest. Anyway, Holmes gets this porno magazine out of a drawer and shows me some pictures. He asks me if I’d like to borrow it. ‘Our little secret’.”

  Dave could see what was coming.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Of course I wanted it. I was a curious boy. Any boy would have wanted it. Then he made his play. He asked me if I liked wanking.

  I was getting scared. I wanted to go to bed, get away from him, y’know. He was havin’ none of it. He told me to show him how I did it. I didn’t want to, but I was scared like. So I did. I got my dick out, looked at a dirty picture and started pulling myself off. Fuckin’ clever eh?”

  Jimmy looked to Dave and read his eyes for the slightest reaction. Anything would have stopped the tale, pity, loathing, amusement, anything at all. He got nothing. The man just lay there in the gloom, listening, impassive.

  Satisfied, Jimmy continued, “I was embarrassed to fuck, but I did it. Then Holmes says I’m doing it wrong and he’ll show me how. He grabs my dick and starts to wank me. I was fuckin’ petrified.

  I was starting to cry. Just as I was coming all over the carpet in walks Clarke, right on cue. How many times they’d worked that one is anyone’s guess eh?”

  Jimmy fast staccato diction became heated, “Clarke pretended to be angry. I know now like, it was all an act, but not then, I didn’t know then. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t have time to think.

  He rants and raves about what a bad boy I am and how I will rot in hell for what I’d done. He’s pointing at a statue of ‘Our Lady’ in the corner. How she has seen the whole thing. Then it was how he will tell the Social Workers, the cops, the lot. Told me I would have to be sent to a different home where ‘my kind,’ were locked away.

  Then of course, they had me where they wanted me. I was broke. Flooding like a tap I was. They didn’t give a fuck. I begged him not to tell. I’d do anything, just don’t tell like.”