by Marc Horn
I let him in. He hands me a bottle of champagne.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘It’s for the removals burglary,’ he says flatly.
‘Bet you got a QSR, didn’t ya?’
‘I did. Thank you.’ He looks glumly inside the flat. ‘May I come in?’
I move out of his way. As he moves to the sofa he glances at the bathroom. ‘He’s made a mess in there.’
Right now, I have no bath. There’s just an empty space where it once sat, and, behind that, a four by four hole where the bricks have been smashed away. You can see my balcony through it. The balcony is a nice large piece of flat roofing, great for sunbathing. ‘You have to make a hole to make an extension, lad.’
‘It must get cold in here at night.’
‘Not at this time of year. I lock the bathroom door anyway.’
‘So he doesn’t work at weekends?’
‘Would you, if you had the choice?’
‘No, I’d rather spend it with my wife.’ His voice breaks a little as he says this.
He sits on the sofa. I place the bubbly in the fridge. It’s Moet & Chandon, not cheap. I re-enter the lounge. ‘What’s going on? I ask.
‘I had my first court case yesterday.’
‘What was the job?’
‘I searched Brock Betley in a public place. He had a lock knife in his pocket, so I arrested him for possessing an offensive weapon.’
‘You prevented a robbery then. He’s a knife-point robber. Well done, lad.’
He shakes his head and sighs. ‘He got off at court–’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was wearing two pairs of jogging bottoms and I found the knife in the inner pair. They said, since the clothing was not an outer garment, it was an illegal search.’
I tut. ‘That’s fucking ridiculous. He’s a piece of shit with five convictions for robbery and they let him off!’
‘And it didn’t end there. Inspector Cobbal informed me that Brock’s solicitors were filing a claim for abuse of process and unnecessary imprisonment. He advised me to brush up on my knowledge of the law.’ His head is low and he might well burst into tears. ‘I didn’t give it a second thought. I know the law, but when I realised he was wearing two pairs of jogging bottoms... I do know the law, but–’
‘Telling the truth really backfired on you, didn’t it, son?’
He looks up at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘All you had to say was you found it in the outer pair of joggers. Or, you felt it while searching the outer pair and told him to hand it to you.’
His eyes glaze over as he stares at me. He knows I’m right. ‘That would be dishonest,’ he says feebly.
‘And what would have been the outcome?’
‘Well...’
‘Come on. We both know.’
‘He would have been convicted.’
‘That’s right. And you would have received credit rather than bollockings. And you would have done a good service to the public. Instead, that piss flap’s on the street, feeling invincible.’
He rubs his eyes. ‘Outside court, him and his friends were laughing at me, calling me a “crap fed”. It was embarrassing. I took it badly.’
‘My absence is proving very costly, isn’t it?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘On the bright side, great news about Kent, eh?’
Noah sniffs, breaks eye contact and gazes out the window. ‘It’s wrong that lying’s the way forward.’
‘I never framed an innocent man, Noah. I do it just to avoid what happened to you. Slags, solicitors, cops – we all do it. But cops do it to protect people. The others do it for themselves.’
‘Razors,’ he says softly, his head low, ‘I know it was you. I know what you did. I’ll never name you.’
He looks at me, sadness, desperation and revere shaping his expression. I lean in. ‘Fuck me, it sounds like you’re doing me a favour!’
‘We-we are so indebted to you.’ Tears form. ‘I-I love my wife so much.’
‘So d’you think his sentence would fit? Ten years, out much earlier?’
‘No, no, it’s-it’s too short, much too short—’
‘Doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s cockless.’
Noah nods sombrely and then blinks repeatedly. ‘I need your fingerprints,’ he mumbles.
‘You what?’
‘I’m on an attachment to the CID.’ He coughs and his voice deepens. ‘Your fingerprints are needed for elimination purposes – The Poet case.’
He unclips the hood of his rucksack and lifts out a bag. I can see materials poking out, the type used for ink prints. Taking my prints for The Poet job is a fair request. Noah wouldn’t lie to me, not now.
‘They don’t want me to go to the nick to do them on the Livescan machine?’ I ask.
‘It’s broken,’ he replies. ‘We’re using the old method instead.’
He sets up the device and then I begin to roll my own fingers. ‘How did you know it was me?’ I ask.
‘My wife’s description. And the mutilation.’
23
After slipping into my charcoal grey tracksuit, my phone rings. It’s Clare. She invites me to join her for a coffee at Starbucks in Prince Street. Normally, I’d cut off her hopes there and then, but I’m onto something, so I accept her offer and tell her I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I leave the flat and head that way. She flashes an awkward, but sexy smile at me as I walk up to her table. She’s dressed up for this, wearing a sleek and slinky, black dress. She’s got a good figure.
‘Hi,’ she says, trying hard to meet my eyes, but breaking the stare after a second.
‘Hello, Clare. How you doing?’
‘I’m fine thanks. How are you?’
I lean on the edge of the table. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go the toilet. It’s a number two.’ I reach into my pocket and hand her a tenner. ‘Get whatever you want, and I’ll take a medium latte.’
‘Oh, okay.’ She looks a little shocked. Hasn’t she ever needed a date crap?
‘See you in a bit.’ I nip towards the bathroom, and then hurry past it. In a couple of seconds I’m exiting the rear of the shop. Then I run, as fast as I can, back to my flat.
As I approach my block, I keep my body close to the exterior, out of view of the many flat windows. I open the communal door and quietly climb the steps to the top floor. Creeping towards my front door, I see it’s open a couple of inches. I’d fitted an additional deadlock after the burglary, and have kept the keys to it on my person at all times. The intruder has forced this lock with his boot. The latch lock and original deadlock are still intact, but splinters of wood are protruding from the door frame, meaning the door can’t be closed. I hear the intruder inside. I stop myself from breaking into a laugh that would compromise me. I have found you, you son of a bitch.
Last time, I knew it had to be a man. Now I know which man it is. I hear him in the lounge. I push the door hard so that it crashes against the wall. The movements cease inside. Frozen like a deer in headlights, Cliff’s blue eyes wash over with fear. We stand there for a second, just staring.
‘When did you move in?’ I hiss, and he bolts for the bathroom. I had locked the bathroom door from the outside, but left the key in the key hole. The piece of shit must have opened it. I follow him, not too fast, as I know he has nowhere to go. The only way to reach the ground from the balcony is by suicide. I feel like a spider scurrying towards a fly in its web. It’s a great feeling. I climb through the hole in the external wall, see him looking over the far edge of the flat roof. He turns and squares up to me, holding his wiry, lanky frame like a boxer. He fancies his chances. Sorry, that’s inaccurate – more like it’s his survival instinct kicking in. He thinks if he doesn’t get past me he’s gonna fall to his death.
‘I don’t remember inviting you over. And I don’t remember giving you a key.’
His phone rings, but I sprint up to him before he can answer the call. He flaps and the phone drops to the ground. He barges against me, s
ucceeding in knocking me off balance. I spring back to my feet to pursue him as he makes for the hole. As he lowers his body to dive through, I push his back hard and his head crashes against the wall. He wobbles on his feet for second and then collapses on the floor.
When he regains consciousness about five minutes later, he finds himself handcuffed to my bed.
‘They know where I am, Razors,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘They’ll be coming.’
‘You think Clare’s gonna call the police? I just told the little slut I was constipated. We both know she believes anything. If she’d had her way, that scumbag Jumont would have been cautioned on the street for cannabis.’
He grits his teeth, reeling from the bloody patch on his head. ‘She’s not dumb. She knows I’m here.’
‘So she’s coming in for aiding and abetting your burglary, eh?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m arresting you for burglary. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
He lets out a laboured sigh. ‘It will go nowhere.’
‘You broke into my flat, piss flap.’
‘They won’t believe you.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Cos you’re fucking crazy!’
I hover over him and then slap his face hard. ‘Not the first time either, is it?’ I search his pockets and retrieve my keys. ‘Cassandra gave you these.’
‘Where is she?’ he asks.
‘You obviously don’t know. That much I’m certain of.’
‘I bet you’ve fucking killed her, haven’t you?’
I smirk, briefly looking away. ‘At least her corpse wouldn’t turn down a fuck, eh? See, a living Cassandra likes real men. Not a waste of jizz like yourself.’
‘She was a class woman,’ he shouts. ‘You took her for granted, you wanker!’
‘And how’s your wife, Cliff?’ Silence. ‘I haven’t killed Cassandra. But I’ll kill you.’
Suddenly he begins to pant for breath. ‘You do that and it’s all over. Even if they see me like this, you’ll go down for false imprisonment.’
‘You broke into my house. You’re the only fucking prisoner.’
He shakes his head and winces. ‘I was looking for her, for Cassandra. I can justify that. You’re suspended. You’re on the verge of being sectioned.’
I consider this. He might be telling the truth. The OH bitch has been building a case against me, taping it for the benefit of senior officers. ‘When did you last speak to Cassandra?’
‘Ages ago. Weeks. She doesn’t answer her phone.’
I snort. ‘I bet you were dying to let her know I fucked Clare, weren’t you?’ He doesn’t answer.
I unlock the cuffs and let him stand on his feet. ‘You’d better defend yourself, lad, cos when I find a burglar in my house, I knock some sense into him.’
He swings at me. I step aside and hook him in the temple. Knock him clean out. I lift him to his feet, hold his collars with my left hand and break his bony nose with my right. His limp body is heavy for one hand to hold up, so I toss him onto the bed and drive my fist into his ribs. Satisfied, I leave him there while I ponder. I don’t think Clare will have the balls to call the police. She’s young in service and could only say that Cliff had visited my flat and had not returned her calls. She couldn’t say that he’d broke in. That would make her an accomplice. And as far as the police know, Cliff and I are professional colleagues.
I dump him outside and call LAS from a pay phone. He’s conscious and breathing, but a little beaten up. Then I plan to rejoin Clare in Starbucks, but while I’m jogging there, I bump into her at the beginning of Hammersmith Road.
‘Sorry, love. I had to nip back to my flat.’
‘Oh.’ She looks terrified.
‘Where you off to then?’ I ask.
‘Erm, I erm, I’m visiting a friend.’
‘Not Cliff by any chance? I just bumped into him, too.’
‘Oh. Where is he? Is he… near?’
‘Yeah. He’s just outside my flat. I had to call him an ambulance. Someone gave him a kicking.’
She looks guiltily at me. She knows I’m no fool, and that it’s dangerous to play me.
‘I could nick you for aiding and abetting a burglary, you know that?’ Her reddened face tightens and I see that her eyes are wet. ‘You want to lose your career and earn a conviction, you stupid, little bitch?’
‘No,’ she weeps.
‘You ever know me to lose a case, Clare?’ She shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the pavement. ‘Then don’t ever take me on again. You want to be the team bike, that’s fine, but keep the favours sexual. Now fuck off. He’ll be all right, but he’ll know he did something very stupid.’
‘Sorry,’ she whimpers and then turns and hastily heads towards Hammersmith Roundabout.
*****
That evening, I hear some smashing news on TV. Jacqui Jumont had been charged with Ethan Kent’s murder, after his prints were found on the body and the murder weapon – a hammer – which, amusingly, had also been left in the body bag. I had nicked Jumont for rape at the beginning of August. Working as an illegal cabbie, he’d picked up a pissed, attractive girl in Fulham one night, but rather than take her to her home in Putney, he took her to an unused car park off New Kings Road. The car park was dark and enclosed by high walls. After raping her on the back seat, Jumont threw her onto the gravel and drove off. Course, I was nearby, in my IRV (immediate response vehicle). Too late to prevent the crime I’m gutted to say, but early enough to detect it. When I stopped Jumont a hundred metres down the road, he was arrogant enough to think he could fool me...
I stopped his engine and pulled his keys out of the ignition. ‘Step onto the pavement, mate.’
‘Did I do something wrong, officer?’
A lot of people get nervous when I deal with them. It’d be interesting to know how many buckets of sweat I’d induced in people during my many confrontations. But Jumont had been sweating before I stopped him. Profusely so. I walked with him to the pavement.
‘You’ve worked up a real sweat, son.’
He laughed, maintaining eye contact with me. ‘I never deal with police before. Not here, not in France. I never in trouble.’ He flashed a couple of smarmy, charming looks at Clare too. She was my operator that night. The ditzy bitch smiled back at him. She didn’t have the first fucking clue about what he might have done.
‘What were you doing in that car park?’
‘I wasn’t in car park. I just turn my car round.’
Sly of him, saying that. I’d arrived too late to actually see him exit the car park, but I’d seen him accelerate away as if he’d just come from there. Many officers would have believed his explanation that it was a three-point turn.
‘I saw you leaving the car park. Why were you in there?’
‘Officer, please, I was not in car park. I was turning car round. I go to Chelsea.’
My eyes rigid on Jumont’s, I said to Clare, ‘Go and check that car park.’
‘Okay.’
As she turned to set off, Jumont raised his hand. ‘Please. I tell truth. I lie to you, I’m sorry. I was in car park. I go to smoke.’
‘Cannabis?’
He bowed his head. ‘Yes, officer.’
‘Got any more on you?’
He reached into the tiny jeans pocket by his groin, and handed me a small, see-through, plastic bag of herbal cannabis. He even managed to turn red.
‘Much better to tell the truth.’ I smiled. ‘Especially with me.’ He looked up, offered me a warm smile. ‘You searched the car park yet, Clare?’
‘No. I thought he’d told you why he was there.’
I didn’t reply, just maintained eye contact with Jumont. Clare hesitated a moment, then walked off. Jumont then tried to run, but I saw it coming. You have to spring off one foot to run. I stuck mine out and
tripped him. Then I dived on him and cuffed him. ‘What we gonna find in the car park, you piece of shit?’
He struggled with me, but a few sharp twists of the cuffs soon put an end to that and rewarded me with several high-pitched squeals of pain. I called up for further units, knowing that Jumont had committed a major crime. Aware also of cross-contamination, I advised Clare via my PR not to enter the car park if another unit got there first. See, Jumont’s defence team might claim that since Clare had been with me when I dealt with Jumont, any of his fibres, hairs or saliva found on the victim had been transferred by her. Priority, though, was getting to the victim as quick as possible and dealing with any injuries.
Another unit did get there first, so Clare held back. Jumont denied ever meeting the girl, but forensics found on him and in his car proved otherwise. The girl herself gave a better description of him than was expected, and Jumont was sentenced to ten years inside. He’d had a clean record before that, but he would have gone on to rape many more girls.
Ten years for rape is a joke. I don’t think rape victims ever fully recover. Many people have suffered hardships that they don’t regret, since the experiences helped shape who they are or put them in the position they came to be in. But rape is something a victim will always regret. Nothing positive can come out of it. So for fucking up someone’s life, the rapist’s life should be permanently fucked up too. I wouldn’t be able to bear seeing Jumont walk free after serving half his sentence for good behaviour.
Again, fitting that he’s been charged with murdering Kent. Two pieces of utter scum taken off the streets. Jumont once again pleaded not guilty. But the prints at the murder scene matched the fingerprints I took from him after nicking him for the rape. According to the police report, Jumont had tied weights to the body bag, but the strong Thames current had eventually caused the ropes to fray and slide free of them. The body had then risen to the surface and drifted to Shepperton before it was seen and reported. They added that Jumont must have hoped the body would remain on the river bed and evade discovery, but had probably believed that in any event forensics would have been destroyed by the water. Unfortunately for the knob head, he’d enclosed the body in a water tight bag, so the prints were fine.