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Cuffed

Page 12

by Marc Horn


  24

  Wednesday 11th September. At last, after almost two weeks of suspension, something eventful is happening. I’m at Tintagel House in Vauxhall, the HQ of Police Complaints and Investigations. I’m sitting opposite a superintendent and a chief inspector.

  ‘Are you quite sure you don’t want a friend with you?’ the chief asks.

  The seat beside me is empty. A friend in these cases means a federation representative, or fed rep, which every other industry would call a union rep. The option to have a fed rep with me means this could have significant consequences, such as dismissal.

  ‘I’ve got everything I need, sir.’ I sound confident, I’m always confident, but I don’t actually know what’s coming. It could just be about the car radios, the takeaway and the egg throwing, but they could have done that earlier. Not much investigation was needed. Golf Ball Face could have told them about all three. I put myself at each scene. I didn’t deny involvement.

  A photocopied EAB is handed to me. It’s mine. It’s the notes I wrote about The Poet’s death. I smile. This explains the delay. This would require a detailed investigation.

  ‘Why the smile?’ Chief asks. He’s the primary interviewer. But the superintendent will step in once he’s tested the waters and knows the story I’m sticking to. Then he’ll initiate his agenda, which will be to rip my evidence apart.

  ‘Inherent optimism,’ I reply. ‘It’s usually infectious.’ Both of them are stony faced, deadly serious, but with a touch of the smug about them. Both are in their late forties, probably a couple of years from retirement. Enough time for one more promotion. That would mean a bigger pension. Bet they’re pretty sure they’ll get it out of me. In this organisation, doing another copper’s legs works wonders for personal development. Backstabbers, not crime fighters, get rewarded.

  ‘I have handed PC Vice a photocopy of pages fourteen to twenty of an EAB dated 25th August 2013. Do you agree, PC Vice, that these are the notes you made about the death of Arthur Kilbride?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take a few minutes to read through your evidence.’

  I stare at him. ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Because we’re going to ask you if it’s an accurate account of your actions.’

  ‘It is.’

  The chief’s grey, beady eyes penetrate mine for a second. I dealt with a solicitor last month who had the same eyes. ‘A lot happened that night. You would’ve felt mentally drained. After a death, even CO19 officers won’t write their notes as quickly as you did. And they’re trained to deal with this kind of situation. They’ll debrief first, sometimes rest–’

  ‘I felt fine. What I wrote is accurate... sir.’

  Both these officers are from CO19. Both are piss flaps. Both have picked up on discrepancies in my notes. Well, I know I covered my tracks as best I could. Those discrepancies will have arisen from evidence I haven’t seen. I don’t make errors. Errors are too costly – they get slags off charges.

  ‘Okay. Explain to us what happened.’

  ‘I was patrolling in my IRV. I saw someone I decided to follow–’

  ‘And this someone was Arthur Kilbride?’

  ‘He was The Poet; that’s who I know him as.’

  The chief lifts his hands. ‘Okay, that’s fine, you refer to him as The Poet. So you believed that this person you were following was responsible for three child murders?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I continue?’

  Both officers try to hide their disgust. Knowing they’re gonna bust me helps them do this. To them I’m an over- confident PC who won’t lick their arseholes.

  The chief opens his fingers towards me and raises his eyebrows, an indication for me to go on.

  ‘As I approached Pineapple Park I could hear laughter. I believed there were kids in the park and that The Poet was going to kill them. Contacting Control for back up was not an option. There was no time, and other officers joining me would have alerted The Poet. He was a professional killer. I had one chance to stop him. I climbed the park fence and saw him approach the girls. I crept up behind him as he pulled out a gun. I grabbed his arm and the gun. We struggled and went to the ground. I shouted for him to drop the gun, told him I was a cop, but he kept hold of it. Believing he was going to shoot me or the girls, I turned the gun on to him and shot him in the chest. As he lay on the ground, he moved his hand towards his pocket. I had hold of the gun. Believing he would have another gun on his person I moved up to him and shot him in the head.’

  They both stare at me. Probably expect me to get nervous, to add something like, ‘Am I in trouble?’ or ‘Did I do something wrong?’ Not my style. Whatever comes of this, killing The Poet would always have been worth it.

  The superintendent leans towards me. Now it’s his turn. ‘So the first shot was fired from point blank range?’

  Ah. This is it. A ballistics report. They’re out to prove I was already armed. Unfortunately, I have to stick to my story. ‘Yes, sir.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No it wasn’t.’ He pushes a piece of paper over to my side of the desk. ‘That ballistics report proves that the first bullet was fired from just over eight metres. Why are you lying about this?’

  Fast, direct questions. Designed to pressurise me into giving a quick answer loaded with leakage. ‘I’m not.’ Admit I was lying and I’d be fucked. It means nothing else in my EAB would be believed.

  ‘PC Vice, are you seriously disputing ballistic evidence?’ The super’s tone is incredulous.

  ‘Yes I am. I told you what happened.’

  Both of them look surprised, but not deflated. They’ve got more. I’m going down for this. This interview is unnecessary. Just a formality, a bonus for them if they get an admission from me.

  The chief sniffs, takes a breath, then says, ‘PC Vice, a search of The Poet’s address unearthed a Glock 17. It was the exact weapon he had used on the previous three murders. Again, ballistics has proved this.’

  ‘Okay. So I got the right bloke then?’ I smile. It’s not returned. Instead, they both shuffle in their seats.

  ‘One would ask why The Poet would use a different weapon to kill the two girls in Pineapple Park.’

  ‘Would one?’

  He nods. ‘Absolutely. Why change an effective weapon?’

  ‘Only one person knows that, and he’s dead.’

  More twitching. I think they know they’re gonna have to beat me with third-party evidence.

  ‘Also inside Mr Kilbride’s address, officers observed that several posters had recently been removed from the walls. Some of these posters, or whatever they were, had been in place for years.’

  He looks at me. I shrug. ‘What’s the question? I don’t see where I come in here.’

  Both of them glance at each other. Serious glances...

  The chief flicks through a pile of papers on the desk in front of him. ‘This was left at the address.’ He slides a plain piece of A4 my way. On it is scrawled in red felt pen – ‘Only a soul more tormented than mine can take it’.

  I pause in thought, perhaps too long. ‘Weird.’

  ‘PC Vice,’ the super says, ‘many would say your soul is tormented.’

  ‘Then The Poet was a prophet, too.’

  ‘Your father died when you were five, after an altercation with a burglar.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ They’re trying to unhinge me. ‘Altercation’... could they describe a murder any more meaninglessly?

  ‘Do you accept that that would torment someone?’

  ‘Is that someone human?’

  The super turns red. He’s angry. Angry with my blasé, nonchalant approach to all this. Fuck him.

  ‘Prior to now, did you possess any knowledge or suspicion that Mr Kilbride knew of you? At any point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, he did.’

  Newspaper clippings about me are passed to my side of the table. I missed them when I searched his place.

  ‘These weren’t fixed to the walls of Mr Kilbride�
��s address. These were found beneath his bed.’

  One of them is a Daily Mail article titled – ‘Destroyed’. It’s about me turning mute after my father’s murder. ‘So he knew me. Most people do. I do a lot of good work on the street. You know, I like to get out there and take criminals off the street.’

  The super is clicking his pen every couple of seconds. He doesn’t appreciate the digs.

  ‘Your colleague, PC Noah Ayres, was posted with you during Mr Kilbride’s criminal activity. You were mentoring him.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘But PC Ayres found you to be dishonest, and refused to be posted with you.’

  I shake my head. I knew he’d done this, but I don’t know how much detail he went into. He did tell me that he wasn’t the reason I got suspended, so he can’t have said much. ‘That’s uncalled for. Did he elaborate?’

  ‘He said that you misled him about what you were doing, that you had him assist you in tracing Mr Kilbride under the pretence that you were doing something else.’

  ‘That’s commitment, that’s all that is – determination to stop a killer. Control wouldn’t have authorised me to do it, so I kept it quiet. It was the right decision.’

  ‘Or, it was a personal vendetta for you, PC Vice. The note left by Mr Kilbride at the third murder reads – “Get pills for flu from boy in blue”.’

  ‘So?... Sir?’

  ‘Did you have the flu that day?’

  Did Noah tell them that? He wouldn’t have... ‘Wouldn’t have been at work if I had the flu. You ever had the flu, sir?’

  ‘PC Ayres said you were very sick that day. He said it was the flu.’

  Wanker! ‘He’s not a doctor.’

  ‘And you read that note, didn’t you, PC Vice?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But instead of informing Special Branch, you thought it safest that you, an unarmed officer, catch him single-handedly.’

  ‘And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Except you weren’t unarmed when you approached Mr Kilbride on the 25th of August, were you, PC Vice?’

  ‘I’ve told you what happened.’

  ‘You’ve told us lies. Ballistics proves you shot from eight metres. You had your own weapon, a Glock 17–’

  ‘If you’re certain, then why the hell have I not been cautioned? Why is this pony interview taking place here, and not at a police station?’

  The super is fuming. The vein on his forehead is bulging. ‘You shot Mr Kilbride and then took his weapon and planted it in his address–’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You removed documentation from the address that proved a link between you and Mr Kilbride–’

  ‘So where are you going with this? What’re you trying to pin on me?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea, let’s discuss the offences you’ve committed. Perhaps then you’ll realise how serious this is!’

  I wait.

  ‘Possession of a prohibited weapon and ammunition without the authority of the Secretary of State; possession of a loaded firearm in a public place; possession of a silencer; burglary; wilfully making a false statement – your EAB; concealing offences – perverting the course of public justice; And, most serious of all, is the fact that the third death could have been prevented.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘You knew you were integral to this after the first two murders. That’s why you became obsessed with tracing Mr Kilbride.’

  Surely Noah didn’t stitch me up there? Surely... ‘Where’s the evidence?’

  ‘After the third murder, you read the note. You knew it was personal. Mr Kilbride was goading you. You knew it, but declined to mention it!’

  ‘Then that’s after the third murder, so you better be careful about what you insinuate, sir!’

  ‘Then you could have caused a fourth and fifth murder!’

  ‘Make your mind up.’

  ‘You risked two deaths for your own ego!’

  ‘No I didn’t. I stopped him. He’s dead, they’re alive. The world keeps spinning, thanks to me.’ The super’s off his seat and his fists are loosely clenched. ‘I take it you don’t have the other paper articles with you?’ I ask him. ‘The ones that label me a hero? The articles written by the two girls, their families, and the families of the bereaved? Do you really think, sir, that these matters you’re investigating mean anything to the people we serve?’

  He smirks. It’s the nastiest smile I’ve seen for a while. He sits back down, maintaining eye contact with me. ‘You are so naive, constable. You think the public will stand for an unaccountable, unprofessional liar in the service?’

  ‘It’s all insignificant next to the outcome and you know it.’

  ‘The ends always justify the means to you, don’t they, constable?’

  ‘No, and you’re calling me “constable” as if it’s an insult. Don’t forget your roots, sir. You know, the days when you might have nicked someone once in a while?’

  ‘Hey, show some respect,’ the chief cuts in.

  ‘Respect? I stop a murdering piss flap and you want to hang me out to dry for it. What if one of the dead kids was yours? You wouldn’t be grilling me then, you pair of fucking hypocrites. You’d be grateful instead of intent on ticking your pathetic boxes.’

  ‘I think you’re subhuman, PC Vice.’ The super’s on his feet now. ‘You’re unbalanced and dangerous, and this has materialised as a result of your father’s death. You’re an undisciplined thug!’

  ‘Two things, sirs... Put your mug shots over mine in all those papers and see if they fit. You’ll see you don’t belong under such headlines. Second, I’ve changed my mind. I want a fed rep with me before we continue.’

  I walk out the room. They bark, ‘Officer, come back here!’ a couple of times, but other than that my exit is unopposed. As I stroll along the corridor, the super shouts, ‘You’ll never police again!’

  25

  That evening I call Foreskin, an old school mate. We used to joke that he had so much foreskin, that if he fell out a plane he could use it as a parachute. It’s his wife that answers though, so I have to exercise restraint. Trouble is, I can’t remember his real name. ‘Is your husband there?’

  ‘Who’s speaking, please?’

  ‘It’s Razors.’

  ‘Oh hello, Razors! I’m afraid he’s still working. How are you?’

  Something’s not right. Her voice. ‘Yeah, I’m okay thanks–’

  ‘We read about you in the newspaper. You’re such a legend! Baz said he sent you a text message.’

  It’s- not only is it not her voice, it’s someone else’s... someone I know.

  ‘Razors? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Vicky...’

  ‘Yeah, Vicky, sorry, I’m bad with names. Yeah, I got the text. Thanks–’

  ‘So... is that yet another commendation? You should be promoted for that!’

  I snort. ‘The job doesn’t work like that. Every good job is ammunition for the big knobs.’

  ‘They’re still on your case? Even after you put that bastard where he belonged?’

  It’s someone else’s wife. Another school mate’s. What’s his fucking name? The Polish bloke. Pole, we used to call him Pole. I’m speaking to Pole’s wife. It’s her voice. Foreskin’s wife is an Essex girl. Talks like Denise Van Outen did before they taught her to talk posh. Pole’s wife speaks more properly, as they say. Pole’s wife took elocution lessons at school. We joke about it whenever we meet up. The five of us are all mates. ‘They…suspended me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah... someone will get promoted, but it won’t be me.’

  ‘That’s disgraceful!’

  Definitely Pole’s wife. That’s who I’m talking to right now. Words spoken correctly – the Queen’s English, but not quite so forced. This is how Pole’s wife talks. We still call him Pole, in fact. ‘How’s Pole?’ I ask her.

  �
�We haven’t seen them for... months, yes months. The last time was... back in the spring, I think. We invited you, remember? You couldn’t get the time off from work. They were fine. Pole was still working as a builder. How’s that lady of yours? Cassandra, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’s just a friend, and she’s a real skull fuck, thanks.’

  ‘Oh... She seemed... really nice.’

  ‘So, I see you lost your accent.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re talking all posh, Vicky. You never used to.’

  ‘I’ve always talked like this.’

  I’ve had enough bullshit today. I’ve swapped them around − Pole and Foreskin’s wives. Dogs will quack and ducks will bark. I’m losing it. Things are merging, replacing one another. ‘We should meet up soon, the five of us.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that would be nice. Are you no longer with Cassandra?’

  Fishing. Probing me. Perhaps to kill her, perhaps not. What I do know is that she’s doing it to save them all. ‘Tell Baz to give me a call, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I end the call and dial Pole’s number.

  ‘Razors!’ he answers. My number’s stored on his mobile. I only have Foreskin’s home number for some reason.

  ‘How you doing, Pole?’

  ‘I’m doing good, thanks. And you, my friend... your finest hour, no doubt?’

  ‘Yeah, I certainly enjoyed blowing his brains out.’ He laughs, a little uncertainly. ‘I just spoke to Vicky,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, how is she?’

  ‘She’s good. We were talking about meeting up. You and your missus up for it?’

  ‘Are you going to be there and not stand us up like last time?’ he asks jokingly.

  ‘Yeah, I can guarantee it.’

 

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