by Luke Delaney
Marino slumped in one of the chairs and used the remote to turn the TV volume up loud enough to camouflage his words while he waited for King to catch him up – who chose a chair close but not next to Marino.
‘So?’ King asked, sounding disinterested.
‘Jack,’ Marino began, his voice full of concern. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘You said.’
‘It’s about Peter Edwards,’ Marino told him.
King’s blood stopped flowing at the mere mention of the man who’d lost his mind and slaughtered almost his entire family as well as nearly killing him. The frail little girl in the white dress with the spreading crimson falling into his arms crashed into his mind and robbed him of the ability to speak.
‘Jack,’ Marino tried to break through to him. ‘Jack.’
‘Yeah,’ King managed to reply, shaking the images from his head. ‘What about Edwards? Someone get to him inside? Please tell me they did.’
‘No,’ Marino answered, shaking his head and looking as serious as he ever had. ‘Listen, Jack – he’s appealed against his sentence.’
‘What?’ King asked, his face pale and his hands trembling. ‘We buried him. There’s no grounds for appeal.’
‘His defence team did some digging into the psychiatrists that examined him. Turns out one of them may have not been qualified enough to declare him sane enough to stand trial.’
‘He’s sane,’ King snapped. ‘He knew exactly what he was doing. He meant to do it. He meant to kill them.’
‘We all know that,’ Marino agreed, ‘and no doubt whoever hears his appeal will too. It’s the last throw of the dice for him – that’s all.’
‘But if he wins his appeal?’ King asked. ‘What then? He’s released? He gets away with murder?’
‘No,’ Marino explained. ‘He’ll be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Sent to Broadmoor and detained indefinitely.’
‘Unless some time in the future he’s declared sane,’ King pressed. ‘Then what? Then he does walk?’
‘It’s complicated,’ Marino told him. ‘It’s possible, but unlikely. More likely he’ll be returned to prison to serve out the rest of his sentence.’
‘So he serves out his sentence in a hospital instead of a prison and then drops the mask of insanity and gets himself released. Jesus Christ.’
‘Maybe,’ Marino admitted.
‘Great,’ King complained.
Marino took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Jack. You need to know there’s a good chance you’ll have to give evidence at the appeal.’
‘What?’ he snapped. ‘Why? What’s the psychiatrist got to do with me?’
‘Nothing,’ Marino answered, ‘but CPS tell me you’ll be considered the key witness as to Edwards’ state of mind at the time of the murders. Look, Jack, I’m not saying it will happen – just that it could. I really didn’t want you to hear about it from some CPS clerk sending you an email.’ King sat motionless staring at the wall. ‘You going to be OK?’ Marino asked. King didn’t answer. ‘Any time you want to talk about it I’m here to listen.’ But still King remained in his trance. ‘Jack?’ Marino raised his voice.
‘I’ll be fine,’ King lied.
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ Marino told him as he got to his feet. ‘Come see me – whenever you feel the need.’
‘Yeah sure,’ King replied without conviction.
‘You know where to find me,’ Marino reminded him, before patting him on the shoulder as he walked past him and headed for the exit, leaving King with his own dark thoughts.
He had no idea how long he’d been sitting staring at nothing before his eyes blinked him back into the real world. He pulled himself to his feet and trudged across the canteen, returning to Brown and Williams who watched him in silence for almost a minute before anyone spoke.
‘Jesus,’ Williams broke the silence. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
‘I have,’ King told him, his eyes dead to the world.
‘What?’ Williams asked, confusion etched into his face.
‘Nothing,’ King recovered. ‘Forget it.’
‘Then what was your private little chat about?’ Williams pushed.
‘None of your business,’ King warned him. ‘Something else.’
‘I’m telling you that fucker knows something,’ Brown brought things back to the present.
‘Stop panicking,’ King shut him up, recovering with each passing second. ‘He knows nothing.’
‘Then why did he come looking for us?’ Brown asked. ‘Why mention the cash if he wasn’t trying to rattle us?’
‘Because it is an unusual amount for someone like Astill to have,’ King reminded him. ‘You know that. Marino’s probably just pissed off because he’s missed the chance to turn Astill into his grass.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Brown shook his head.
‘I told you,’ King tried to calm him, ‘don’t worry about him. He’s old school. He’s not out to cause us trouble. Besides, I know how to deal with Marino.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Brown said. ‘And how’s that?’
‘What d’you do to keep a dog off your back?’ King asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Brown replied. ‘What do you do?’
‘Throw him a bone,’ King smiled. ‘Give him something to chase.’
‘Like what?’ Brown demanded.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ King told him. ‘I’ll think of something. Just finish up your paperwork and get yourselves home – and make sure you put your bonuses somewhere safe.’
‘Fuck home,’ Williams said. ‘I need a drink. Anyone coming?’
‘Aye,’ Brown agreed, getting to his feet. ‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’
‘Sarge?’ Williams asked.
‘No,’ King shook his head. ‘I’m knackered. You go ahead. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’
As soon as he arrived home he checked every room to make sure he was alone. He couldn’t remember what shift Sara was on and the truth was he didn’t care – so long as he was alone. Once he was happy the small flat was deserted he emptied the crack, heroin and cash onto the kitchen table from his jacket pockets and stared at it, wondering where it was all leading to. As his fear faded he was better able to focus and realized his latest illicit haul was lying on a bed of unpaid bills Sara had obviously left out for him to see, most likely in the hope that he’d pay them. It momentarily flashed in his mind that at least he could now afford to pay off some of his credit cards, before the enormity of what he’d done swept the flicker of hope away.
‘Fuck,’ he swore before slumping into a chair. ‘Fuck.’
The drive home had been a nervous and paranoid one as he continually checked his rearview mirror, made sure he stopped at every amber light and kept his speed at exactly twenty-nine mph – always terrified he’d be crashed into by an uninsured minicab driver and have to wait around while the police attended. In truth, bringing the drugs home was the real reason he hadn’t gone to the pub with the others. If he got pulled for drink driving and searched they’d have found quite a stash and it would have been all over for him, but sober he could simply flash his warrant card and be sent on his way with the crack and heroin never being discovered.
He massaged his aching forehead, the stress of the day finally hitting him, despite his best efforts to push his worries away. Away from the excitement and thrill of being in the moment with the others alongside him – now the desire to show off his power to Astill and his rancid girlfriend had been spent – the seriousness of what they’d done suddenly seemed as if it was going to overpower him. Now he had to face the fact he could once more be standing in the dock reliving the moment of horror that changed him forever. He closed his eyes to try and chase away his own troubling thoughts, but all he could see were the faces of Astill and Stevenson and their looks of fear and disgust.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he moaned out loud as he squeezed his temples hard looking for a solution – a way out. Perhaps i
f he destroyed the drugs and dumped the cash in some charity collection box somewhere he could forgive himself – make promises to himself it wouldn’t happen again. But what about the others? For all he knew they might have spent their cut by now – new TVs all round. ‘Fuck,’ he chastised himself again. The genie was out the bottle now. Even if they never did anything like it again, what happened today would follow them around forever – the feeling of not being clean – of not being real cops any more.
‘Somebody help me,’ he suddenly found himself whispering as his eyes filled with tears, releasing thin streams of salty water that flowed down the contours of his face. ‘Somebody please help me.’
Without warning the ghosts of the past began to mingle in his mind with the demons of the present until only they remained. The girl in the white dress with the spreading crimson pattern staggering towards him as the monster that was her own father closed quickly on her from behind – only he wasn’t carrying a knife, he was wielding a giant curved sword above his head. He plunged the blade towards the girl as if to cut her in two just as King threw himself between them – sacrificing himself to the razor-sharp metal.
‘No,’ he called out loud and jolted from the darkness – unsure if he’d fallen asleep and dreamt the images or whether something else was happening to him. Either way, he needed to go to a place where neither the past nor present could touch him.
He began to handle the bag containing the heroin – an innocuous-looking brown powder like the sort of thing found in glass jars in the kitchens of everyday folk all over the country. But this powder had the power to destroy lives and build criminal empires. He considered laying a small amount on some tinfoil and chasing the dragon as O’Neil had described, but he was too afraid. Not many people survived the seduction of the powder they also called horse and he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could be one of the rare few who would. And besides, he’d already tried crack and still been himself in the morning. He hadn’t felt the immediate need to take more and had even disposed of his stash. Clearly he could control crack, so why risk the heroin?
Decision made, he leapt to his feet and fled from the flat and back down the stairs to the outside bins. After a quick look to ensure he wasn’t being watched he began to search the bin, tolerating the foul stench and slimy, unmentionable things until he found the knotted bag he’d dumped in there. He pulled the bag clear and skulked back to the entrance, constantly checking for watching eyes until he reached the safety of his flat. Once inside, he opened some windows before retrieving his homemade bong. He quickly made a new tinfoil lid for the rock to rest on – this time remembering to part-fill the plastic bottle with water before securing the foil with the elastic band. He used a needle to punch holes through the top, returned to the table with a lighter, took one of the rocks that looked a little larger than the others from the bag and placed it on the base. He lit the rock with his lips already around the hollow pen tube and sucked gently and steadily, drawing the thick smoke from the melting rock into the bottle and then into his mouth. He inhaled without coughing or spluttering, exhaling once he felt the smoke was spent before quickly inhaling again – repeating the process over and over until the rock was dead.
The increased quantity and intensity of his smoking hugely amplified the effects from the first time he’d taken a hit. He felt so light he could have sworn he was about to start floating around the room as the pain, guilt, sense of responsibility and demonic nightmares left him and he entered a world of peace and pleasure so intense his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A small waxy rock the size of a baby’s fingernail had taken him to a paradise no other experience or amount of money ever could. Sixteen pounds to leave the world and all its troubles behind. No more working all the hours God sent trying to find a better life. No more striving for materialistic things in the hope they could bring true happiness. No more slaving to get the admiration of his colleagues to make him feel wanted or important. Just smoke an innocuous waxy-looking little rock and achieve heaven on earth.
His head slumped forward onto the table and crashed on the surface, but he felt no pain – just the exquisite descent into oblivion.
13
Next morning King walked the estate on his own, which was how he wanted it. After the night before he still felt jaded, his mind foggy and unfocused. He’d made sure he’d eaten well and taken on plenty of fluids – avoiding a common trap most crack-heads fell into, so determined to hunt down their next fix that they forgot to eat or drink – but still he felt strange and disassociated from himself. Like being hungover without the headache and nausea. The high he’d felt after smoking the crack was now being matched by a long-lasting low. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a flat and was surprised at just how tired and pale he looked.
He ducked out of sight under a stairwell, pulled out the small clip-seal bag of cocaine he’d taken from Astill’s floor safe and examined the contents. He’d heard that crack-heads and smack-heads often used a hit of cocaine to sober up – to bring themselves back from the lows that could ensue after using the far more potent crack or heroin. That was if they were lucky enough to find what was becoming a rare and expensive drug in areas like Newham – the vast majority of it being turned into the hugely more profitable crack. He didn’t have the time or equipment to take it like he’d seen them do in films so he tipped a small amount into the valley between his thumb and hand, as if taking snuff, and inhaled it in one go through a single nostril. Immediately his nose began to burn, but in a strangely pleasant way, while at the same time the back of his throat and tongue were covered with a stinging, bitter taste – giving him the almost irresistible urge to spit. He waited for a while. It was a far cry from the instant effects of the crack, but slowly he began to feel his heart rate quicken and his mind sharpen – even his body returned to him as the tiredness retreated and he felt strong and capable again. His radio blaring in his ear snapped him further back into life.
‘Any Grove Wood Estate Unit out and about can deal with a call in Millander Walk, please? Control over,’ the female voice asked.
He tried to speak into his handset, but his voice was scratchy and inaudible. He cleared his voice and tried again. ‘Yeah,’ he managed to say. ‘PS 42 will take a look. What you got?’
‘Not sure,’ Control admitted. ‘We’ve had a call from a hysterical female saying something’s happened to her young daughter, but we’re not getting a lot of sense from her – lots of screaming and shouting and not much else. Call was made from a landline number that comes back to a Carroll Bickley at 214 Millander Walk.’
‘OK,’ he told them. ‘Show me assigned.’
‘Will do,’ the cheerful voice told him. ‘Keep us informed.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ King said after releasing the transmit button. He began to stroll towards Millander Walk, in contrast to a few weeks ago when he would have virtually jogged to get there. Suddenly the misery and fears of others didn’t seem important to him any more. These people lived like animals anyway – why should he break his back trying to help them? Kelly was right: the entire place was just a jungle and he was the tiger. He rushed for no one.
Eventually he reached the address of the distressed woman who’d called the police and hadn’t even been able to articulate her complaint. Wearily he knocked on the door and half-heartedly called to whoever was inside. ‘Police.’
Within seconds the door was flung open by a hard-faced woman in her thirties although she looked like she was in her late fifties. Her greying hair was pulled back tight over her scalp to reveal all of her flabby-looking red face, which matched her huge sagging breasts and tyre of fat perfectly. Cheap tattoos covered her Popeye-like forearms and neck. King was repulsed at the sight of her, not helped by the stink of stale sweat and food that emitted from both her and the maisonette.
‘Oh, thank God it’s you,’ she greeted him. ‘Come in. Come in.’ Her voice was thick with a desperation that he found even more repulsive than her appearan
ce and smell.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked without moving, hoping it would be something he could resolve without entering the house.
‘We can’t speak here,’ she whispered conspiratorially. ‘Inside.’
‘Look,’ he told her impatiently. ‘You called the police. Why did you call the police?’
She looked him up and down before sticking her head out the door and looking both ways along the walkway to ensure no one could hear. ‘My daughter,’ she managed to say, fighting back the tears and the anger. ‘Someone touched my daughter.’
‘Touched?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing with sudden concern.
‘You fucking know,’ she told him – her frustration growing by the second. ‘Touched her.’
‘OK,’ he relented. ‘Let’s talk inside.’ He stepped past her and heard the door close behind him as he scanned the room for signs of danger or squalor. Last thing he wanted was to step in dog or human excrement – but he found neither. The maisonette was relatively clean and orderly, but the furniture, carpets and curtains were cheap and old and trapped the smell of thousands of meals and unclean bodies. He swallowed his nausea and controlled his breathing while he talked, taking short breaths so the sickly sweet smell of the place didn’t penetrate too deeply into his lungs.
‘Where’s your daughter now?’ he asked, still hoping the matter could be quickly resolved.
‘She’s here,’ Bickley answered frantically.
‘Is she hurt?’ he enquired immediately, praying the answer would be no.
‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know what he could have done to her.’
‘Didn’t you check?’ he chastised her.
‘No,’ she said, puzzled. ‘I ain’t a doctor.’
King sighed at her stupidity.
‘You said she’s your daughter?’ he checked.
‘Yeah,’ she nodded repeatedly.