by Marc Horn
The Poet drives me on. In my mind he is tall and thin with a warped, sick face. I punch him relentlessly, left and right, his bones breaking into pieces, but I don’t stop pummelling him until he is dust...
*****
The dregs of society frequent Prince Street. You’ve got fat birds in leggings and baggy t-shirts wheeling their many bastard kids along it; fat birds who get offended if you call them whores, despite the fact that when they get fucked they just charge the government instead of the hapless stud. See, each additional sprog means a few extra hundred a month and a bigger council house. And then you’ve got the drug addicts, dragging their feet and knuckles forward in a glassy-eyed daze, wandering into shops, possibly paying for something, and not paying for a whole lot more...
It’s a hot day. I concentrate on being myself and acting normally. I walk west on the north pavement, pass Pret on my right. The road’s packed. Pond life barge past me. I fucking hate that, but I ignore it. I have to stay sharp, alert. Have to tune in. I look ahead, past the countless heads, and focus on the steps to World’s End, a slaggy estate. Tone better have me on screen, the fat fuck. He will − he’s a good egg.
A never ending stream of whores with whining bastards either swerve around me or barge past me. I grit my teeth. I hate crowds.
‘You’re taking the piss!’ I hiss when I watch a robbery take place thirty metres in front of me. I know the little fuck – Jamie White, a well-known slag on my patch. Jesus Christ! Just pushed an old dame over and ripped her handbag off her shoulder. He dashes up the steps to World’s End. Fuck! I’m prepared to turn a blind eye. My agenda is far more important… I growl in frustration. It’s because of that agenda that I have to chase him. Because I have to be seen to be behaving ordinarily, and ordinarily I’d catch the little fucker.
I run after him, bypassing the victim and springing off three spiralling steps at a time as I enter the estate. White’s such a piss flap. Nineteen, loads of previous, no fear of punishment whatsoever. Can’t blame him really. If he makes a few hundred each time he robs someone, and is merely told not to do it again when he gets caught, then it’s worth the risk, isn’t it? Everything we do is risk versus reward. Gambling, sport, relationships, you name it. Crime operates the same way. If the price of thieving is cheaper than its earnings then there’s no incentive to stop. Conditional discharges, suspended sentences, community service − and however else they want to word these get-out-of-jail-free ‘sanctions’− means one hundred percent profit for that crime. A ten year prison stint would mean ten years of no profit. I shake my head as I gain on the turd. So easy to stop all this, so very easy.
‘I’m right behind you, Jamie.’
When he turns to look I palm-strike him to the bridge of the nose. He drops like a sack of shit and covers his face with his hands. Blood seeps out from beneath his palms as he writhes with pain.
‘Caught you well, didn’t I, you little prick?’ I lift him to his feet and throw him into a covered alcove. On the ground is an ipod the idiot had been listening to both at the time of the crime and during the pursuit, and also the old dame’s handbag. White had ransacked it while he was running and had discarded the worthless stuff. Inside the bag I can see just a purse. I walk up to him. He stares at me.
‘Oh, man...’ He shakes his head and sucks through his teeth. ‘Not fucking you, man, not fucking you... You everywhere all the time, man.’ He bows his head, rakes his fingers through his afro. ‘This ain’t funny, man, ain’t you got no life? Ain’t you got nuttin else to do?’
I kick his nuts and he keels over, whining like a tart. I crouch down, my face burning. ‘You stupid, little prick! This isn’t court! You wanna abuse pensioners, you’ll get fucking punished!’
‘Please, man, please!’ He thrusts out a bloody palm, his other hand cupping his balls. ‘I’m sorry, man, don’t hit me, man! Don’t hit me again!’
I grab his hair with both hands and drive his head into the wall. He loses consciousness. ‘Fuck,’ I whisper and look around. There are hundreds of flats, but no one seems to be watching. I slap his face and he revives, his big, brown eyes full of fear. ‘Come with me,’ I say, pulling him to his feet. I walk off, but White drops to his knees. I lift him again and grip his arm, helping him forwards. After a few steps he pulls his arm free and minces along. ‘Pick up all that shit you threw on the ground.’ I keep hold of the handbag while White walks next to me, gathering up the contents of the bag. When we get to the steps I say, ‘I’m gonna speak to that old bird.’ I hold out the bag and White drops the stuff back in it. ‘You stay here.’
I run down the steps. The old dear’s sitting on the bottom one. A middle-aged woman is consoling her, her arm wrapped around the old dear’s shaking body.
‘Here’s your property back,’ I say as I squat down beside the victim. She shudders, but I quickly show her my warrant card. ‘I’m a cop.’ I insert my hand into one of my emergency evidence gloves that I always carry with me and then lay the contents of the bag on the ground in front of her. ‘It’s all there.’
‘What about the thief?’ the other woman asks. ‘Did you catch him?’
‘Course I did. He’s up there.’ I point my thumb upwards. ‘I know him. One of our regulars.’
‘Well he deserves to be locked up for that,’ she snaps. ‘She’s seventy-seven years old!’ The woman’s surprisingly well-spoken for this area.
‘If only you or me could make that decision.’ I refill the bag and hand it to the victim who thanks me. ‘I’m off duty, but I have a knack of being in the right place at the right time. I take it you want to prosecute, love?’
‘Well...’ the old dame begins. And then I tense up, my heart rate increases, my senses heighten, become super sharp... I study the old dame as she speaks, watch her lips move, but I only catch the odd word of what she says. She’s distressed, her flushed, chubby face stained with tears. There are people around us, one of them is speaking to the police on her phone. I am ready to react. No one is too close to me. People are swarming by. I check my watch.
‘Well, dear?... Well?’
I break eye contact. ‘Yeah, er, should you prosecute, that’s what you’re asking me?’
‘No,’ replies the other woman impatiently. ‘She asked if the suspect’s under arrest.’
Idiot! I have to relax. This is not me. I’m not a fucking dribbler! ‘Yeah, he’s been arrested. But we have to prosecute on your behalf. I’m gonna need a statement.’ Can’t appear too dependent on her. Yes we need victim cooperation, but I never usually give them the choice. I always talk them into complying. I’m adept at pulling the guilt strings, bringing future victims into the equation. I have to do that now.
‘Well I can’t do it now, dear. I’m going to my niece’s–’
‘Have a think about it. I’ve got to call in a marked unit to help me deal with this. For the time being don’t touch anything in the bag − we need to get fingerprints to strengthen our case.’
I call the station as I walk up the steps, feeling safer as I ascend, creating concrete cover on all sides. White has gone. I knew he wouldn’t wait. When the operator answers, I tell her loudly and clearly what happened. Of course I don’t mention the use of excessive force, or the fact that White had disobeyed me. I simply tell her that he had a head start on me and got away. I told him to stop and he dropped all the property. I saw his face clearly and get the operator to name him as the suspect on the CAD message, so he’ll get nicked. The operator arranges for uniformed officers to attend and take statements from the victim and witness. I tell her that they’ll need to drive the victim to her niece’s and take the statement there.
I walk back down the steps. The danger has passed. ‘Love, officers are going to drive you to your niece’s. They’ll be here shortly. I’ll wait with you till they get here.’
She smiles at me. ‘Thank you, dear.’
I look at the other woman. ‘You can leave now. Thanks for your help. If you walk to Hammersmith police station
an officer will take a statement from you there.’
‘I shall do.’
After saying goodbye to the victim and assuring her that justice will prevail, the woman heads off to the nick. I take out a police evidence book from my back pocket and write my own statement. Like gloves, I always carry books with me because I always come across stuff. Fresh evidence is best, but far more importantly, in this instance, it will save me precious time – I can just hand this book to the officers when they get here and then my involvement is complete.
A few minutes later I sign my notes, hand everything over to the officers, and then take a courtesy stroll around the shopping mall. After making a couple of purchases, I head to the town hall.
‘Tone, ten twenty two,’ I say as I storm up to his monitor. He’s alone in the CCTV room. ‘Steps leading up to World’s End. Bring it up.’
Tone fiddles with his controls. ‘You helped out some old Doris, didn’t yer? Saw you run off. What was it? A mugging or sum’ing?’
‘Robbery.’
‘I got yer till you went up them apples and pears. No coverage up there I’m afraid, matey – I’ve got yer coming back down.’
‘That’s okay, just get to ten twenty two.’
Blood rushes through my veins like a tsunami as Tone finds the footage and starts it running from ten twenty. I lean in close, watch myself descend the steps onto Prince Street, identify myself to the victim and then lay out her property on the ground. Beads of sweat merge on my forehead as I watch the witness and me converse. Any second now, any second. Every muscle in my body tight, I watch myself refill the victim’s bag. I say something to the old dear. That was when my Hell Bell activated. It hit me like a fucking torpedo...
‘Stop!’ I shout.
I squint at the frozen image, my entire body trembling with adrenalin.
White, mid-fifties, six-two, thin, wavy white hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and a tight, pitiless face – I assimilate the mesmerising features of The Poet...
11
I stare blankly at the briefing screen as the skipper reads out the intel updates from the BIU (borough intelligence unit).
‘Right, we’ve got Special Branch on the ground looking for William Wordsworth...’
The team except me laugh. Nothing other than The Poet’s carcass will humour me.
‘Be aware that if we have another crime scene it’s going to be cold in the early hours of the morning, and, as we all know very well, we could be deployed on static posts for several hours...’
Noah, sitting opposite me on the other side of the room, studies me intently. He wants to speak to me and find out why we’re still hearing about this murderer if I know who he is. He’s most likely becoming suspicious. Strangely enough, this wet-eared probationer is causing me difficulties. I don’t make eye contact, just let him linger in my peripheral vision.
Sergeant Moser clicks the mouse and the image of Ethan Kent appears, the scumbag, piece of shit burglar. The slide’s title is ‘High Risk Misper’, printed in dramatic, oversized, red font.
… ‘Mr Kent. Still missing since 29th July, that’s... over three weeks now. Keep your eyes peeled, we need to find this kid.’ The skipper scans all of us, a serious expression on his gaunt face.
No one makes a light-hearted comment or celebratory gesture. Such harmless fun was scorned upon by Superintendent Maple when he joined us on our briefing a few days ago. Someone had playfully pointed out the dramatic reduction in burglaries since Kent had gone missing. Everyone laughed except Mr Maple, who there and then bollocked the officer for lacking professional standards, and also the team inspector for encouraging poor discipline.
‘Clare, can you make the usual enquiries with friends and family tonight, please? Hopefully they’ve heard something useful.’
‘Will do, Sarge.’
‘Don’t forget to update the misper report with all your actions.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
I bow my head. Using resources for Kent – epitomises the fucked up approach to crime and order in this country. Kent once told me he gets away with ninety percent of his burglaries. We’ve done him for ten. And he’s only thirteen years old. Yet we’re supposed to spend more time looking for him than we are some kid killer. The officer who locates him and returns him home safe and sound will probably receive a commendation. What a load of bollocks. I hope the little shit’s floating in the Thames.
Briefing complete, Noah and me take out a car. For the first few minutes there is silence, and then Noah speaks. ‘Don’t you think you should let me know what’s going on with the murderer?’
I turn into Pearscroft Road. 10:45 p.m. The street’s dark and quiet, but it’s Saturday and the pubs kick out soon. ‘I already told you.’
‘You told me you were going to speak to CID.’
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘So what’s happening with it?’
‘They’re dealing,’ I say firmly, as I cut in and out of the residential streets. There are loads of them in Fulham.
A few minutes later Noah again breaks the tense atmosphere. ‘Who are you looking for, Razors?’
There’s despair and irritation in his tone. He doesn’t trust me. Well, I can’t be too annoyed – he’s right not to − I told him a porky pie. But I need him out of the picture until I get my closure. ‘Ethan Kent. I hope you are too.’
A short while later a call comes out for a possible sudden death. Meals on Wheels has not made contact with Mrs Graham – a ninety-two year old customer who lives alone in Vereker Road – for a week. FF21 put up for the call but I cancel them over the radio, telling them we’re just around the corner.
‘I thought Vereker Road was off North End?’ Noah queries.
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘But... we’re south of the ground, it’s not round the corner...’
‘Yeah, well, you need to deal with it. You haven’t done one before.’
I stick on my blue lights and accelerate towards the address. When we get there I kick the door open and find the old dear dead on the bathroom floor. Noah’s behind me, wincing at the putrid smell. She’s face down, maggots have dropped out of her orifices and are trying to find a way back in. Shouldn’t be like this. She shouldn’t have to die like this, without dignity, disregarded like a piece of waste. Where the fuck are her friends and family? I quietly sigh and then refocus. ‘You know what to do?’ I ask Noah.
‘No.’
‘I thought you had a pro forma?’
‘Well, yes, I do. But aren’t you going to teach me?’
‘No. I’ve got to look for the kid. Follow the pro forma and you’ll be fine.’
Noah flicks through his many aide-memoires and then pulls one out. ‘What about searching the body?’ he nervously asks. ‘Won’t a female officer have to do that?’
‘She’s dead, mate; it doesn’t matter anymore. See yer later.’ I head out the flat, return to my car and shoot off.
Perfect. The sudden death will relieve me of Noah for a good few hours. FME (forensic medical examiner) pronouncing life extinct, securing valuables, contacting next of kin, arranging for the coroner to remove the body, sorting out boarding up for the fucked front door, writing notes – fucking ages. Wicked.
I drive around the streets, windows down, looking and listening for my prey. Time passes and the people thin out. The usual slags are up to no good on the street corners, and they’re visibly perplexed when I cruise by them without first turning them over.
It must be about one a.m. when my phone rings, as I’m caning it over Wandsworth Bridge. I brake hard, wheel the motor onto the kerb and answer.
‘I see ’im!’ Tone cries. ‘He’s ’eading north on Harwood Road!’
‘Cheers.’ I close the phone and shoot off. I ease off the gas, circumvent Harwood Road and park in nearby Fulham Broadway. Now I can rush, now I’m out of sight and hearing. I turn my phone onto silent, undo my utility belt, take off my body armour, then reach for my holdall on the back seat. I take out
the black hooded top, slip it on, then dump my police items in the bag. I lock the car, throw the bag over my shoulder and walk purposefully into Harwood Road. I can see a tall, thin figure at the top end, crossing onto New Kings Road and turning right. I walk faster. Tone had better be right about this one. Tone’s a good spotter, more often than not he’s correct. I resist the urge to break into a jog. It’s an overwhelming urge, but I know I mustn’t draw attention to myself. At this time of the night, no one from a distance would be able tell that I wear police trousers and riot boots. It’s dark clothing, that’s all. I keep my head low, my hands in my pockets.
My breathing’s annoyingly loud and fast. I know it’s excitement, that I can do nothing about it, but it’s affecting my hearing. I could be a lot less relaxed than I am, though. I told myself that when this time came I must be calm and level-headed. It might be my last ever opportunity to come face to face with this arsehole. I won’t allow myself to fuck it up by sinking in my adrenalin.
Right now, while he’s out of sight, I can’t stand it. I’m tempted to phone Tone, but know that I’d stand out if I did. It seems like forever before I turn onto New Kings Road and then, devastatingly, I see no one ahead. Where the fuck is he? I have to call Tone, have to. I can’t fucking lose him, no way, not now, not after all this...
I take out my phone and see that it’s flashing. Tone’s calling me. I open the flip.
‘Left into Bagley’s Lane, me old china. You’re on your own then.’
I close the phone and pocket it. No assistance now – he’s out of camera range. I increase my pace, cross the road and enter Bagley’s Lane. Yes! He’s there! Fifty metres ahead. I crouch down behind a parked car, aware that I’m too close, that he might sense my presence. I peep through the windscreen, see him check for traffic and probably cops as he crosses the road. He’s not seen me. I’m safe. He doesn’t look like a typical killer. The average cop wouldn’t suspect he was The Poet. On our custody imaging system are thousands of pictures of arrested criminals. And they look like criminals – cold, angry eyes and defiant and rigid body language... The Poet looks like a weedy geek, the sort of bloke who spends all day and night online, occasionally popping out to buy some johnnies for a posh wank.