by Robert White
twenty six
The rain was incessant.
It pounded on the array of black umbrellas, drowning out the voice of the vicar for all except the closest mourners.
Wallace stood at the graveside, his proud frame rigid, and his arm firmly around the shoulders of a tall and still beautiful dark-haired woman.
Sir Peter Davits stood to the right of Wallace, head bowed eyes closed.
The vicar read the Lords prayer. It was Anne’s favourite Psalm.
The television cameras, although a discreet distance from the mourners, used their powerful lenses to obtain a close up of the coffin draped in the Union Jack. A Policewoman’s’ hat had pride of place close to the head of the casket. Dozens of bouquets of flowers surrounded the grave. Six Police officers from the City of London force had the task of lowering the coffin into the grave, their impeccable uniforms drenched by the rain.
One removed the hat from the coffin and folded the flag. He marched slowly over to Wallace and his wife and presented the items to the grieving couple. Wallace solemnly accepted the items, handed them to Davits and immediately replaced his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
The beautiful woman was weeping.
The officers strained on the tapes as the casket was lowered further into the grave. Rain poured from their noses.
“… and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”
The coffin scraped the sides of the grave but the officers stood firm.
“…thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…”
The coffin came to rest.
“… and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
The camera panned back from the grave, revealing a large crowd of mourners. It panned further and further, the commentator, somberly describing the scene and the recent developments of the case.
Dave was hunched over the small television set.
There were no tears, just an aching emptiness. The thought of revenge had spurred him on the last days, but now, he was deflated and beaten.
He rubbed his face with both hands, stood and turned off the set.
There was only one thing left for him now.
Yorkshire.
Blackpool Victoria hospital casualty department was overrun. This was not unusual. The staff were always overworked, but tonight there had been a large disturbance in a local club and four separate road accidents.
Sod’s law, they all came at once.
Along a spotless corridor sat Marshall. He had been cleaned up and two small slivers of glass had been removed from his face.
None of his wounds needed stitching. He was lucky. Jemson stood next to him. The Inspector looked tired. He had just returned from the other side of the hospital. Marie Baker was still in surgery.
“How is she Slick?” Marshall was monotone.
“Not good boss,” Jemson stared at a poster warning of the Rabies threat without really seeing it. “The doctors say she’ll probably lose her sight in one eye.”
Marshall shook his head. “Jesus Slick, how much more shit can this job throw up?”
Jemson looked down at his senior. “Dunno boss. At least were at the end.”
Marshall wasn’t convinced. “Are we? Do you think Holmes was lying before he jumped? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense; any of it.”
A very harassed looking nurse strode down the corridor towards the two men. She held a clipboard in one hand. Her uniform made swishing noises above the clip clop of her shoes.
“Either of you two Superintendent Marshall?” she said curtly.
Marshall rose slowly. “That’s me.”
She handed Marshall a piece of paper. “You need to ring the guy on there,” she gestured at the slip with her chin, “he’s pretty keen to get in touch.”
The nurse turned on her heels and then added, “Oh and when you speak to him, remind him of his manners will you? He’s an ignorant bastard.”
Marshall looked at the details on the scrap of paper.
Slick was curious. “Who is it boss?”
Marshall managed a wry smile. “Vinnie Morrison.”
He pushed the paper into his jacket and got ready to leave. “You stay here with Marie. Call me at Fulwood nick as soon as you know more.”
Jemson nodded. “You want me to contact her mum boss?”
Marshall thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I’ll do it.”
It came with the rank.
Vinnie Morrison was short for a copper. He had joined as a cadet at sixteen. Although you needed to be at least 5’ 9” to be considered for the Lancashire force, if you were 5’ 8” at sixteen, they wagered that you would grow the extra inch by the time you made P.C. at nineteen.
Vinnie didn’t grow.
Everyone took the piss and he had been given the nickname ‘the poison dwarf’. No one used it to his face these days though as he had now risen to the rank of Detective Inspector. His bright red hair was cropped close to his head and he sported piercing green eyes. He spoke with a strong Northern Irish accent that refused to leave him and if red headed people are noted for their bad temper, Vinnie was the mould from which they all came.
Vinnie hated everyone and everything with equal ferocity.
Marshall’s swift drive from the hospital had taken 20 minutes. He entered Vinnie’s office. The Irishman was in the middle of abusing some poor bastard on the telephone.
He slammed down the receiver. “Fuckin’ wanker!”
He looked up and saw the Superintendent. He didn’t give a toss about rank. To Vinnie, you were all in the same job. If you did it well, he tolerated you. If you didn’t, you were a wanker.
“Hello boss,” Vinnie stuffed a cigarette into his mouth. “Fuckin’ hell! You can’t get any bastard to do the job right these days.”
Marshall couldn’t help but like the man. He smiled. “Hello Vinnie.”
The Inspector didn’t return the smile. He was investigating the Steppingstone School job and had just completed a lengthy interview with Alan Clarke. Vinnie was married with two boys of his own. The subject matter of this investigation was too close for comfort.
He hated speaking to Clarke. The man made his flesh crawl, but it was part of the job and Vinnie was very good at his job.
“I’ll not beat about the fuckin’ bush here,” began Vinnie, “but I think you boys at ‘Serious’ have been barkin’ up the wrong fuckin’ tree with this pervert Holmes.”
Marshall felt the hair on his neck move. “Go on Vinnie. I’m all ears.”
The Irishman threw his feet onto his own desk. “Well, this dirty bastard Clarke is absolutely shitting himself. I’ve just had over four hours with him. He knows he’s in the shit and is being very fuckin’ co-operative.
Him and your flyin’ solicitor friend have had a nice little arrangement goin’ for years. How we never got wind of it, I’ll never know.”
Vinnie exhaled.
“Anyway, it seems that John McCauley did know.
At some point, persons unknown screwed Holmes’ office and a very comprehensive set of photographic evidence was nicked. McCauley somehow got his hands on it.”
Marshall’s mind was ticking over. Did Bailey screw the office?
Vinnie pointed a finger. “When Holmes found out that the evidence in the Bailey job had been fucked with, he had a meet with the Chief. Holmes demanded the case be dropped. It would have been a big feather in his cap. McCauley, of course was havin’ none of it and stuck Holmes with some of the pictures.”
Vinnie stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “So, when Bailey does one from the Court, he runs straight to Holmes, who puts him up for the night, or should I say, puts one up him. Anyway, Holmes plans a little revenge mission for McCauley and a test of faith for Billy. He ain’t too sure who nicked the photos in the first place see?
He sets Billy up to do McCauley’s house, shows him the plot and drops him at the local pub. Trouble is, Billy en
ds up on a slab in the morgue and Holmes is left high and dry.
Holmes thinks that the Chief has done the deed, until he hears that he too, has joined Billy in the land of nod.
Holmes runs to Clarke and warns him that everything has gone to rat shit. Holmes goes off to hide in Blackpool in the hope that everything will just go away. Clarke doesn’t know what to do. Then Captain Marvel shows up, sticks a shooter in Clarke’s gob and lets the cat right out the fuckin’ bag.”
Marshall was taking it all in. “How much faith are you putting in Clarke Vinnie. He could be lying?”
Vinnie finished the second fag, took his feet from the desk and leaned towards Marshall.
“About an hour ago, we recovered the remains of a twelve year old boy from a pond just outside Chorley. Clarke wasn’t fuckin’ lyin’ ‘bout that was he?”
Slick sat beside Marie’s bed. She had been given a private room away from the ward.
Of the numerous cuts to her face, some had been stitched, some had tape over them. Her left eye was heavily bandaged. The surgeon had been unable to repair the damage caused by the glass.
Holmes’ final act had resulted in another tragedy.
She was groggy from the anesthetic but still managed a smile for Jemson. Slick had always thought a lot of Marie, but she never showed any interest in him. They had kissed once at a Christmas party and Jemson had thought that the event might have been a catalyst for more.
It never had.
“How you doin’ Marie?”
Her throat was dry. She swallowed hard and licked her lips. “Been better.”
“You look great.” Jemson lied unconvincingly.
“I’ll bet.”
“The boss is going to see your old mum and tell her what a brave girl you are.”
“Cut the small talk Inspector and tell it as it is.”
Jemson had been dreading this moment. Marie would never be able to carry a firearm again, so her position on the Serious Crime Squad was unworkable. The fact of the matter was it looked like her career was over. A sick pension loomed.
All the financial compensation in the world wouldn’t repair that. Or her pretty face.
“It’s not good sweetheart.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
Marie swallowed hard again. “The eye, I’m blind aren’t I?”
Jemson took hold of her hand and squeezed it affectionately. A tear traced its way down her face.
“Yes.”
Marie bit her lip, but managed to stay in control. “Holmes?”
“Dead.”
She nodded. “I… I think I’d like to be alone now.”
Jemson rose. “I’ll come back later.”
Marie turned her head towards the handsome Inspector, tears now pouring. “You still got the hots for me Inspector?”
Jemson was near to tears himself, his voice close to breaking, “I certainly do.”
As he left the room he could hear the quiet sobs from inside. He walked quickly to the male toilet at the end of the ward. Once inside, he broke his heart.
Marshall and Vinnie sat in the corner of the snug at ‘The Bull’.
Both men were dog-tired. Vinnie was, as usual, pissed off. “Where the fuck d’ya go from here then with all this bollocks?”
Marshall shook his head and stared into his beer. He and Vinnie had just returned from Marie’s house. Her mother, recently widowed seemed grateful her only child was still alive. Marshall knew the shock would wear off and the realisation would hit soon.
To add insult to injury, he had taken a very nasty phone call from the Chief Constable. He was even more pissed off than Vinnie. They both needed the drink. It had been a fucking hard day. Marshall just couldn’t think clearly. He was trying to remember what his wife and kids looked like.
Was this job worth it?
Who actually gave a shit anyway?
All the politicians and do-gooders were constantly on your back. More for less was their motto.
Fuck, his little girl came home from school crying the other day. Some kid had called her daddy a ‘Pig.’ The violence and depravity was starting to take its toll on him. He was human after all.
Marshall finally spoke, “How do you cope with all this shit, Vinnie? I mean you’ve been doing this job for twenty fuckin’ years. It seems to get worse. Whilst we sit here drinking, we know that some poor bastard is weighing the liver of that little kid you fished out of the pond today. A fuckin’ good copper is lying in the hospital half blind and all the Chief can think about, is boxing the whole job off nice and neat.”
Vinnie frowned. “Wha’? The Chief don’t put any weight behind what Clarke says?”
“Nope, he thinks the shooting match is over. He wants the team stood down by the end of the week.”
The two men lapsed into the silence of the unbelieving. Vinnie ordered another beer and spoke, “I know people think I’m a hard bastard and I know I’m a bad tempered arse at times, but I still have feelings. This twat Clarke should be strung up by the bollocks.”
Marshall absently nodded his agreement. “Yeah, its funny isn’t it. Some coppers seem to just breeze along. Nothing ever affects them; they sit on the outside and just get on with the job.”
Marshall stretched. He stood, threw some cash onto the table, and pulled on his coat. Vinnie was following.
“Where you goin’ boss?”
“To the nick; I need to look through it all again.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
Marshall was glad of the company. “Two heads are better than one Vinnie.”
The pair walked in silence to the nick. The first splatters of rain were in the night air. Having ridden the lift Marshall and Vinnie sat in the dimly lit incident room. Piles of paper, actions and statements surrounded them. A telephone rang in a corner of the room. Marshall stood wearily and walked to the noise.
“Incident room, Marshall speaking.”
It was a harassed female voice. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very urgent.”
Marshall took out his pen and found a scrap of paper. “Go on Madam, I’m listening.”
“Well I’m trying to get in touch with Detective Constable Casey and he’s not at his desk…”
Marshall was curt, “This is the murder incident room Madam.”
The woman was insistent. “Well, I was informed he may be helping on your enquiry. Look, officer Marshall…”
“Superintendent.”
“Whatever. I need to speak to Mr. Casey…”
“Well Madam….”
“It’s Doctor actually. I’m calling from The Royal Preston ICU and this is very urgent. You see Rodney Casey has a rare blood group, ‘O’ Rhesus negative. We need a donor immediately. He has helped us before. I’m desperate to get in touch with him.”
Marshall’s head felt like it would explode. He spoke slowly into the telephone.
“I will do all in my power to find him Doctor, but I think he may be unavailable for some time.”
He dropped the receiver into its cradle. “Vinnie, there is a God after all.”
Marshall stormed into the CID office.
A lone Detective sat at his desk. He visibly jumped when the two men entered.
Marshall was frantic. “Where’s Rod Casey?”
The Detective shrugged. “He was in this evening. He said he had to go out of town on a job though, I’ve not…”
Marshall had no patience, “OK, OK, which is his desk?”
The Detective was a little scared by the senior officer. He simply pointed nervously at a desk by the window. Marshall worked like a man possessed. He searched through the piles of paper on the desk and then in the drawers. He came upon a locked drawer and to the surprise of the young Detective, simply forced it open with a screwdriver. He found what he was looking for. Most officers keep one.
A small blue coloured book.
Nearly all policemen give blood and keep their registration card handy, especially if they have a rare typ
e. Rod Casey was no exception.
Marshall’s hands shook as he opened the small document. There it was, in black and white. Rod Casey’s blood group was ‘O’ rhesus negative.
Marshall pushed the record into his pocket and rummaged through the rest of the papers. He found a telephone address book and took that too. Finally, he found Casey’s duty diary. He flicked through the dates he was interested in and made a few notes. “Right Vinnie, do you want to go home, or are you going to get your hands dirty with the rest of us?”
Vinnie smiled at the Superintendent. “The fuckin’ wife won’t be speakin’ to me by now anyway.”
“Right then let’s go out to play then.”
Marshall turned to the still scared Detective. “I want you to get onto control room and check every officer on duty in the force area for this blood group.” Marshall scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it to the man. “Then contact ICU at Preston if you have any joy.”
The Detective nodded at the men as they disappeared from the office.
twenty seven
Dave left the train and put his collar up against the chill of the Yorkshire night. It had been almost a year since the last visit to his home. Now, on this return, he was unemployed again. He could never go back to the Police Service. Not after what had happened.
He still had Ross.
The man may be a villain thought Dave, but he stood by him when the Police didn’t.
His parents’ house was a mile or so from the station. The walk would do him good.
The streets were deserted except for the odd lowlife. Dave hardly noticed; his mind awash with different emotions. As he neared his road his senses tingled. He had played on these streets as a child. His school was just yards from his house. He had courted his early girlfriends on the recreation ground that he now walked by. It was a strange mix of feelings. It felt familiar, but did he belong here? He used to, but since his move to Lancashire, he had hoped to forget the dismal poverty of his youth.
As he approached his parents’ house, he stopped. All the curtains were closed, but a telltale light glowed in the living room window. The television, as ever, flashed shapes either side of the drapes. Dave could imagine his parents sitting in their respective chairs. His mother would be sipping her ‘medicine,’ a mixture of vodka and orange juice; his father, engrossed in the programme, chain smoking. Not the prettiest of sights, but to Dave, a very warm and reassuring one right now.