SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller

by JOHN STANLEY

  As the other uniform went to the aid of his injured colleague, Perlow ran down the aisle and pulled open the church door, watching as the young man half-ran, half-limped across the wasteland, stumbling across the uneven surface, occasionally reaching down to clutch his leg. Perlow knew that, even given the man’s injury, he had no chance of catching him. Perlow had scraped through too many physicals for the end result to be anything else, and the assailant soon faded into the shadows thrown by street lights on the far side of the rubble. Cursing – what would he tell Radford? – Perlow turned back into the church where the injured uniform was staunching the blood from his face with a crimsoning handkerchief.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Perlow.

  ‘I’ll live,’ said Charlie Ferris, struggling unsteadily to his feet. ‘Little twat.’

  ‘Do you know who that was?’ Perlow asked Roberts again. ‘I got the impression that he knew you.’

  The old man seemed transfixed by the blood pouring from the officer’s face.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Perlow. ‘Do you know him?’

  Roberts dragged his gaze from the injured policeman.

  ‘I could lie to you, I suppose, Constable,’ he said quietly, ‘and try to convince you that I had never seen him before in my life. That he was just one of the vicar’s vagrants who had wandered in off the street seeking the shelter of the church on a cold winter’s night.’

  ‘But he’s not, I take it?’

  ‘You would find out the truth soon enough, I imagine. Besides, since we are in a church, the idea of lying seems somehow abhorrent.’ Roberts gave a half-smile. ‘Although, given today’s events, it seems to have been one of the lesser sins perpetrated in the Lord’s House.’

  ‘Cut the theology lesson, Mr Roberts. Who is he?’

  ‘Reluctantly, I have to tell you that he is called David.’

  ‘Reluctantly?’ asked Perlow. ‘Why reluctantly?’

  ‘David Roberts. And, yes,’ said the old man, with a shake of the head, ‘he is related to me. David is my grandson and, although I know it to be wrong, I am afraid that is all the information you will get from me.’

  ‘Not even an address?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Not even that.’

  ‘My fucking face has been slashed open by the little twat…’ snapped Ferris, struggling to his feet then collapsing back onto the pew, his sentence unfinished.

  Everyone knew what he would have said and George Roberts looked unhappily at him.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I really am.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ sighed Perlow, glancing over towards the injured officer, who was now sitting weakly on the pew, his eyes closed as his colleague again held the handkerchief against the wound. ‘Absolutely fucking brilliant.’

  Perhaps, thought the constable gloomily as he returned his attention to George Roberts then allowed his gaze to stray to the crucifix hanging on the church wall, he should have stuck with the Romanian bag-snatchers. At least you knew where you were with Romanian bag snatchers, he concluded. Criminals they may be but ask them a straight question once you had nicked them and you got a straight answer. Christians, now they were more complicated, too much guilt going on.

  Standing in the chill gloom of St Mark’s, Perlow heard the ambulance siren wailing through the night air.

  Chapter six

  The lounge in the city centre pub was virtually empty when the two detectives walked in out of the rain. Standing in the doorway of The Black Lion, Michael Gaines just behind him, Danny Radford wrinkled his nose at the odour of stale tobacco, assailed by recollections of days long gone and better forgotten. The place had not changed.

  Memories, memories. Crap memories, to boot. A young boy standing and peering in through the window at the cosy lights of the bar like something out of a fucking Dickens novel. Just a young boy, his nose pressed up against the glass. Who am I kidding? Not any old young boy. Me. And not Victorian England either but twenty-five years ago. Supposedly more enlightened times.

  The inspector noticed Gaines eying him intently as the sergeant came to stand next to him.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘They never heard of the smoking ban?’ murmured Radford. ‘Place reeks of it. Come on, let’s lift de Vere’s little pals.’

  ‘Not that you would ever see Jason de Vere in here,’ said Gaines. ‘Not quite his scene. I suspect he’d be happier in the clubhouse, eh?’

  Radford shot him a look but said nothing. He knew that the sergeant was working the angles, looking for a reaction, searching for something that even after a year working together, would reassure him that his new governor was not as bent as his last one. That he could be trusted. Were the positions to be reversed, Radford knew that he would do the same. Trouble was, Danny Radford was no in position to offer such reassurances to Michael Gaines. Wished he could, wished that he could set his sergeant’s mind at rest, tell him the rules of the game, that he was still fighting for the right side, but do that and the game was up just as it was getting interesting. A wrong move now and Sunday would be screwed up.

  This was certainly not the time for mistakes, not when the vicar’s big mouth had finally promised to hand the inspector the advantage. Radford, convinced that de Vere was tangled up in the assault somehow and had finally succumbed to the temptations presented by corruption, was not about to waste a golden opportunity. Not when they were this close. Besides, once the game was over he reasoned that he could get back to a normal life. Start mending some bridges. Restore his hard-earned reputation as one of the good guys.

  Recalling where he was, Radford switched his thoughts to the young man standing behind the bar, wiping glasses and eying the detectives suspiciously, then turned his attention to the elderly man sitting in one of the window seats, nursing a pint. Radford sensed that the pensioner would be nursing his pint for a while and memories of his father flashed into his mind. Not that he ever nursed pints. Rather gulped them down like they were his last. His family had spent years praying that they would be.

  Same seat. See, Gainesy, this was his boozer. His second home. Some would say first home. He leant against that bar, did my father, because this is where he spent the housekeeping before he went home to beat seven shades out of my mother every Friday night. And me as well, if I spoke out of line, with that vicious studded belt of his. Probably why I became a copper, to put scumbags like him away. And why I don’t drink.

  ‘Garvin,’ said Gaines quietly, nodding towards a corner table where two rough-looking men were sitting, deep in conversation over their pint glasses. ‘The one on the left. One with the scar on his cheek. The other one’s his oppo, Des Cranmer. Nasty piece of work. They both are.’

  ‘They likely to have a go?’

  ‘Wouldn’t bet against it.’ Gaines looked uneasily at him. ‘Look, you sure about this?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Want to call for back-up first? I mean, might do to have a bit of muscle behind us, yeah? Garvin’s handy with his fists and Cranmer sees too much red mist for my liking.’

  Radford sensed the doubt in the sergeant’s voice and gave him merest of smiles.

  ‘I think we can take a couple of low-lifes like them on, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Do me good to get out from behind the desk, isn’t that what you always say?’

  Gaines tried to look confident but he knew that he was getting too old for this lark, knew that the muscles were flabby, the reactions slower than previously, the resolve to mix it up with the bad lads not as strong. What’s more, he’d never seen Radford in a tight corner. The muscles may be honed under the sharp designer suit but the sergeant just did not know if he really could mix it. Gaines felt the tang of fear at the back of his throat and hated himself for it. Radford looked at his colleague, smiled again and walked confidently across the lounge.

  I know what you’re thinking, Gainesy boy. Can the governor still hack it? Could he ever hack it or is he a good old Bramshill Boy? Can you really trust a man who
drinks only orange juice? Like I say, you know nothing about me. Well, you’re about to learn something and you won’t like it. Neither will I but the game’s the game and you have to play by the rules…that’s what England always says. This has got to look good.

  Seeing the officers approaching, the men at the table downed their pints and stood up to go, the chair legs scraping on the wooden floor.

  ‘Oh, please don’t go on our account,’ said Radford calmly, noticing that Garvin had bunched his fist. The inspector flashed his warrant card. ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Garvin, scowling at Gaines, who was standing slightly behind his inspector. ‘Been fucked over by that twat before. What do you want?’

  ‘A little chat,’ said Radford.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘How about we start with religion?’ With an affable smile, Radford sat down at the table and gestured for Garvin and Cranmer to do the same, which they did reluctantly. ‘Such an interesting subject, don’t you think?’

  Gaines remained standing, trying to fight back the rising nausea in the pit of his stomach. His intense dislike of Neil Garvin, powerful as it was, was not as strong as the fear that he now felt. The sergeant guessed that it was seeing the pool of blood in the church and the battered figure of the vicar in his hospital bed that had done it. No, if he was honest, it was not that, knew that it had been coming on for months. A sense that his wife was right and that he was too old for this game.

  ‘See, I hear that you’ve been to church, Neil my boy,’ said Radford cheerfully to Garvin. He did not seem to share his colleague’s misgivings. ‘Very commendable of you, although from what the good sergeant here tells me, we didn’t have you down as a Bible-basher. In fact, he has you down as some kind of hard man, apparently. Guess you need to be to go round duffing up vicars to prove that, do you? That the way it works in your world? Pick up a soft target and beat the shit out of him?’

  Garvin shot Gaines an ugly look then glared at Radford.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he said, starting to get to his feet. ‘Fuck off the both of you.’

  ‘Before we do,’ said Radford, an edge to his voice now, ‘we need a little chat about what happened to the Reverend Rowland. Sit down.’

  Garvin looked into the inspector’s icy blue eyes and felt a sudden uncertainty; he had never met the man, just heard talk of him, did not know of what he was capable. Reluctantly, Garvin sat down. So did Cranmer, feeling the same reservations about the detective.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Radford. ‘Now, about the Reverend Rowland.’

  ‘Fucking God-botherer.’

  ‘Yes, well he may be bothering God earlier than he might have hoped,’ said Radford, glancing at Gaines, who, to his relief, had begun to conquer his fears, his resolve strengthened by Garvin’s discomfort and Radford’s calm demeanour.

  The sergeant also sat down at the table and found himself starting to enjoy the confrontation. Both officers had noticed that Des Cranmer was looking anxious and Radford decided to turn the heat up on him as well.

  ‘All a bit touch and go, isn’t it Sergeant?’ he said, glancing at Gaines. ‘Could even be a murder if the vicar takes a turn for the worst, you were saying, I think?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Very nasty.’ Gaines was relieved that his voice was steady. Something about Radford’s calm demeanour was giving him strength. The sergeant looked at Cranmer. ‘Very nasty indeed. Not sure you’ve done a murder yet, Des? In fact, it’s probably all you need to complete the set. Maybe the vicar is the one, eh?’

  Cranmer looked even more anxious.

  ‘So,’ said Radford, ‘either of you care to tell us why you did him over?’

  ‘Nowt to do with me,’ said Garvin, who had been stung by the inspector’s taunts. ‘Not my style.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Radford, switching his attention back to Cranmer. ‘You into beating up vicars, Des? That one of your little sidelines? Bye, you’ve got to be a brave man to do that.’

  Cranmer said nothing and tried not to think about his father and the last time they had met, the altercation that had left the old man with a fractured eye socket and his eighteen-year-old son doing a two-stretch for assault. They never spoke after that, not even when Cranmer found out that his father was dying from cancer. Sweat started on his brow under the inspector’s stare.

  ‘Not suffering a bout of conscience, are we?’ asked Radford, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Regretting what you’ve done?’

  Still, Cranmer did not reply.

  ‘See,’ continued Radford, noticing that Garvin had bunched his fist even tighter (go on, give me an excuse, sonny Jim, not that I need it. You’ve got it coming, like it or not, it’s going to happen. Got to stick to the rules of the game), ‘we know that you were both outside the church at around the time the vicar was done over and that made us think that maybe you were the ones who…’

  Radford got no further with the sentence because with an angry roar, Garvin leapt to his feet, turning over the table, sending the glasses flying, and making for the door. Expecting, hoping for the reaction, Radford was the first to move, quicker than his startled sergeant. He sprinted after Garvin and caught him by the bar, spinning him round with an expert flick of the arm and throwing him off balance.

  Garvin swayed slightly and eyed the inspector uncertainly. Eyed the glint in those blue eyes, noted the muscular build. Was not sure that he fancied his chances but knew that his reputation as a hard man meant that he could not back down. Not to a copper, especially not someone who spent most of his time behind a desk. And while he was thinking all of those things, he did not even see the fist that snapped out and sent him crashing backwards. Garvin was already unconscious by the time he slammed into the bar and his knees buckled. Did not even hear the sickening sound of his head hitting the floor. Radford looked down at him with satisfaction.

  For mum, that was. For all those nights she lay awake in her bed waiting for the slam of the door downstairs and the heavy tread on the stair. And for a fucked up childhood at the hands of a man just like you, a man who knew only violence. For me. And also for the game. Always for the game.

  Radford turned back to look at the stunned Cranmer, who was still standing by the overturned table and gazing in disbelief at his prostrate friend. He had never seem him felled like that. Over the years, Garvin and Cranmer had found themselves in many a tight spot, bar brawls, breaking up political demonstrations, street riots but never had Cranmer seen Neil Garvin felled. Standing beside him, Gaines also stared in amazement at the prostrate form lying motionless next to the bar.

  The inspector walked back to the table and gave Cranmer a disarming smile.

  ‘Coming quietly, Des?’ he said, walking back to the table, bunching his fist, ‘Or would you like some of what he got? Plenty more where that came from.’

  Cranmer shook his head and, almost before he realised he had done it, dumbly held out his hands to be cuffed by the inspector, who then led him across the lounge, watched by the astonished barman. The old man nursing his pint took no notice of any of them.

  ‘Get uniform to scoop him up, will you, Sergeant?’ said Radford, turning back at the door into the street as the stunned detective still stared at the unconscious Garvin, unable to take his eyes off him. ‘He’s making the place look untidy. Oh, and if they need to get him into hospital, make sure that he’s nowhere near the vicar, yeah? Not sure even the endlessly forgiving James Rowland would appreciate waking up next to this piece of shit.’

  The sergeant watched the inspector lead his man into the street then returned his attention to Garvin, walking over and looking down into the lifeless face. The sergeant shook his head in disbelief. He’d seen hard men come and hard men go but never had he seen anyone flatten Neil Garvin like that. With one punch, a punch so quick that the sergeant had not even seen it being delivered. Before Garvin could even take a swing. Not even a case of self-defence to be argued. This was unprovoked assault and Gaines knew it. H
e frowned.

  ‘If anyone asks, I’ll tell them exactly what happened,’ said the barman. ‘Unprovoked that was. Your boss is off his fucking rocker.’

  ‘He’s many things but not that,’ murmured Gaines.

  As the sergeant reached for his mobile phone to call in a van, a thought struck him. A thought that he hated himself for thinking. Assaulting a suspect in full view of witnesses, throwing the first punch against a man who had not even lifted his hands, was as good a way to scupper an inquiry as you could think of. Certainly it would make progressing the investigation more tortuous, tied up as it would be with recriminations and politics, and bedevilled by fast-talking lawyers scenting blood. If Radford was right and someone from City Hall was indeed behind what was happening, thought Gaines, the chances of advancing what would already be a difficult inquiry had just become that much more remote. Maybe, thought Gaines, that was the intention.

  Not for the first time that day, Michael Gaines thought of Jason de Vere and wondered about the rules of a game that he did not understand.

  Darkness had fallen as the man stood silently outside St Mark’s amidst the rain which still swept relentlessly across the wasteland, the swirling drops flecked in the orange light thrown by the nearby streetlights. The church itself was in darkness and, walking up the steps, the man found the front door locked. He was not surprised. It had not taken George Roberts long to start to sweep away the vicar’s reforms.

  From what the man had heard, the vicar would live. Would leave hospital. Would return to administer to his dwindling flock, if not at this church then at another. Would once more open his doors to waifs and strays. Smile that patronising smile as he threw open his arms to welcome them in. That was when the man would strike. There would be another opportunity and he had plenty of time. James Rowland was the one for whom it was running out.

  The sound of a car engine made the man look round to see a police patrol car driving slowly along the road skirting the wasteland, the officers scanning the wasteland for signs of movement. They had been roaming the area ever since the uniform had been slashed. The man smiled at the thought of his blood spilling onto the Bibles, recalled his agonised scream as the knife bit into his flesh. As the police car reached the top of the wasteland and made to turn, the man turned and disappeared into the darkness. The last thing he wanted was to face awkward questions.