Not least due to the fact that they had to eat off that table, one would have thought…
“Anyway, look it up on Google. Apparently, it’s called ‘Cock and Ball Torture’ or CBT for short.”
“CBT?” Rosemary had walked back into the room just as Andy was finishing his tale. “Did I hear you mention CBT?”
“Erm, yes,” he stammered back, blushing profusely. “Have you heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” she replied enthusiastically. “It’s my speciality!”
Andy was visibly taken aback.
“In fact, I’m hoping to go into it full-time if I can. I’d call myself a semi-professional at the moment.”
His eyes grew large as he stared at her in disbelief.
“I even offered to give your colleague a quick session whilst we were waiting for you to arrive, but he declined. He’s a bit of a stick in the mud, whereas I’m sure you’re a lot more open-minded.”
Andy glanced at me, a traumatised look on his face.
“Would you like me to have a go with you?” she continued. “It looks like you could do with some!”
“I don’t think I’d really enjoy that,” he responded politely.
“Oh, come on. You’re not scared, are you?” she joked, toying with him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“No, seriously, it’s really not something I’d be interested in.” I could detect a slight nervous waver in his voice as he replied.
“Don’t be shy. Like I said to your colleague, it doesn’t have to be long and hard if that’s what you’re worried about. I would have thought a young man like you would have the balls to give it a try!”
“I don’t beg to differ!” he replied indignantly. “I just differ!”
His defiant tone signalled the end of the conversation. Rosemary looked over at me and I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Further embarrassment for my colleague was avoided by the timely arrival of the funeral directors knocking at the front door. Andy seized the opportunity to escape by excusing himself to let them in.
“Well, I know some people don’t agree with alternative therapies, but your colleague seemed rather appalled by the thought of someone getting inside his head.” She seemed genuinely perplexed at his vehement resistance to her offer. “It’s not a healthy attitude. If you bury the pain deep inside, that’s where nightmares make their homes.”
“Maybe he was worried about getting the sack,” I replied. “But I really think he needs help.” I quickly turned away, my shoulders rising and falling as I tried to stifle my giggles.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she cooed. “You’re crying, aren’t you? Let it out. I was wrong about you: you are in touch with your emotions. Is it the thought of my dead father or that your friend won’t seek the help he needs?”
Unable to turn and face her, I mumbled that it was the latter, and that I needed a minute alone. When she went to fetch me a glass of water I used the opportunity to compose myself before going in search of the others. As I entered the lounge, the two undertakers were in the midst of assessing how they could safely remove the body from the house. Andy, meanwhile, was stood back against the far wall, still shaking his head in disbelief.
“Can you believe that?” he asked me, as I stood next to him. “And her father is still warm… well, figuratively speaking, anyway!”
“People grieve in different ways,” I reminded him. He sighed and told me that I was probably right.
Rosemary reappeared with my glass of water. “Treasure this man,” she told Andy, as she gently patted me on the arm. “You could learn a lot about compassion from him. And he really cares about you!”
The confused expression on Andy’s face was priceless.
“See!” I told him as soon as she had left the room again. “Different ways!”
Before Andy could ask if she was seriously referring to me as compassionate and caring, one of the undertakers interrupted, requesting our assistance. “We’re going to need you two to help us carry him to the hearse.” He then quickly outlined the difficulties in getting such a large man out of the property. “It’s the tight turns in the flat… and he’s a big man.”
The deceased was carefully moved from the sofa and laid on the stretcher; however, due to his size, and the fact that he was so bloated, we were unable to attach the straps to hold him in place. Eventually and not without considerable difficulty, the body bag was zipped up and finally we were ready to begin the removal process. While Rosemary held the doors open, the rest of us strained beneath her father’s weight. We managed to manoeuvre our way out of the lounge, but the tight turn from the hallway to the front door proved problematic. We were like a troupe of removal men trying to negotiate an oversized piece of furniture through an undersized opening. We tried all sorts of strategies but without success. We even attempted to tilt the stretcher at one end but hastily abandoned that idea when the body started sliding to the bottom of the bag in an undignified heap.
Ultimately, the only possibility was to turn the stretcher on its side and pivot our way around the ninety-degree angle, forcing the belly of the deceased into the corner of the door frame in the process. Even so, it was still a struggle. We were almost there when there was a dull ‘pop’. The bag then slowly started to deflate as liquid began to pool in the bottom and leak out through the zip.
“That’ll be the purge fluid,” remarked the undertaker matter-of-factly. I’d heard of similar things happening before: historical documents show that when William the Conqueror was buried his body exploded. It seems that as priests tried to stuff William into a stone coffin that was too small for his bulk, they pushed down hard onto his abdomen causing it to burst. And now, just as then, a putrid stench filled the air. As Andy began retching, for once I was grateful for my poor sense of smell.
“I bet you’ll be wanting some CBT after that!” declared Rosemary, a triumphant look on her face.
My colleague maintained a dignified if somewhat embarrassed silence as he continued to carry the body to the vehicle. As soon as it was safely stowed in the hearse and Rosemary had returned to the house, the undertaker spoke up.
“CBT?” he queried, addressing Andy. “If you’re interested in going for it, my daughter has just passed her test. She said it was quite hard to start with.”
“Really?” My colleague once again appeared shell-shocked. “She actually told you about it?”
“Let’s just say that we’re very proud parents. To be honest, at the start we didn’t want her to. We were scared she’d fall off and hurt herself, but she absolutely nailed it! If she had her way she’d be riding it all day long!”
“Just what is wrong with you people!” exclaimed a shocked Andy, shaking his head yet again. He then swiftly made his excuses and left.
“Just to clarify,” I asked, as my colleague disappeared out of earshot, “I presume you mean the Compulsory Basic Training to ride a moped?”
“That’s the one. Why, what did you think I was on about?”
“No, that’s what I thought you meant.”
After the hearse had pulled away, I went back inside to see Rosemary and to help her clean up the mess. When we had finished, I said my goodbyes but not before apologising for her father’s undignified departure. It was then that she sat me down and I finally saw a tear in her eye.
“If only we saw souls instead of bodies, how different our idea of beauty would be,” she imparted to me. “And you,” she added, clasping my hand, “are a beautiful man.” Before I left she made me promise to show my emotions and share my feelings more.
True to my word, back at the station I put my promise into action. In fact, I went one step further by sharing my feelings about Andy’s CBT gaffe with the rest of the shift… as well as Sam in the front office, a couple of the guys from CID, Jacqueline from CPS, Nancy in Comms and basically anyone else who would listen.
“Where is he, anyway?” I asked Barry after I had finished telling my story.
“He’s h
elping social services with a job. You know that stripper who lives on the Yellow Estate? They’re taking her child into care. It’ll be like taking baby from a Candi.”
It looked like Andy’s day was going from bad to worse. Meanwhile, I was having a great time and I was still chuckling to myself when I got home that evening. Chuckling that is until I opened the front door; for no sooner had I stepped over the threshold than the landline phone began to ring… and it never rings. I only ever use it to find my mobile. A chill went up my spine and suddenly those black thoughts came rushing back: the anonymous bag of poo! Someone was definitely out to get me. How did they know I was home? How did they get my number?
I stared at it, letting it ring out before I finally ventured over and tentatively picked up the receiver.
“Did you get it?” It was a woman’s voice. Not what I had expected at all. But perhaps the Taxil brothers had a sister? Or could it be the wife of someone I had put away?
“Get what?” I tried to play it cool, but I could feel my heart thumping. I looked around me as I spoke and then switched the main light on just in case someone was lurking in the shadows.
“The shit.” Well that was straight to the point.
“Why are you sending it to me?” I needed to know what I was dealing with.
“It has magical properties.” That wasn’t the answer I had anticipated.
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know who I am?”
“I have no idea who you are or why you’re doing this to me.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then she was back again, but this time her tone was lower, more ominous. She seemed to relish the fact that I didn’t know who my tormentor was.
“And I expect you believe that the dead birds you’ve found outside the door over the last few weeks have been left by the cat next door?”
I felt like someone had just walked over my grave as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. There had been dead birds left outside; several over the last month. I had assumed it was Colonel Mustard – next door’s cat – that had been responsible, but now my world had been turned upside down. Was this anonymous woman killing creatures and leaving them for me as some kind of macabre message? With my mind racing at a million miles an hour I was lost for words, as I began weaving into this web of conspiracy against me every bad or unpleasant thing that had happened to me over the past year.
“Well, did you?” she prompted.
“Yes.”
“Yay! That was a lucky guess! Did you think it was the sweet-potato-coloured moggy? The one that teases Barney?” She now sounded suspiciously upbeat, almost gleeful.
“Who is this?” I demanded. How did she even know my dog’s name?
“It’s me, Liz!” came the reply. “You’re so easy to wind up, you loon!”
“But… but what about the turd in the bag?” I stuttered, still confused by the anonymous offerings posted through the letter box.
“It’s Alfie’s poo!” she exclaimed, as if that would clarify everything. My silence indicated that more information was required. “Alfie, my ferret! You said you had problems with mice in the loft… remember now?”
It all came flooding back to me. Of course: ferret poo! One of the drawbacks of living in the countryside is the rodents. In summer, they happily run about the fields as nature intended, but when the weather turns cold they seek warmer accommodation. For a small number of mice, my attic seems to be the des res of choice. In the spirit of live and let live, I hadn’t wanted to kill the poor little creatures, just encourage them to make their home elsewhere. According to Liz, rats are scared of ferrets and, as an extension of her logic, mice must also be scared of them. Therefore, if a mouse thinks there’s a ferret about, he’ll keep away. And how do you make a mouse think there’s a ferret about? Leave one of Alfie’s turds casually lying around.
I’m not sure whether Liz is a genius or the best salesperson who ever lived or if I’m an idiot. Judging by what she was telling me now, one and three were both applicable.
“Put one up in the attic and it’ll scare off the mice… and, by the way, you’re an idiot.”
I might well be an idiot, but I was a relieved idiot. No one was out to get me after all. I allowed myself a little giggle of relief.
“It’s good to know that you can laugh at yourself,” she informed me, “as it was getting kind of awkward for the rest of us!”
Chapter 16
The Fisher King
“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re sat here in this chilly canteen at four in the morning on Christmas Eve.” Inspector Soaper looked at us expectantly.
If he was intending to work us all into a state of frenzied delirium with his skilful oratory, he was failing dismally. We were cold and tired. When no one took his bait and answered, he continued undeterred.
“My aim,” he announced dramatically, “is to spoil someone’s day!”
I think he was being far too modest: looking around at the faces of my colleagues, I think he had already spoilt it for at least ten people. This was supposed to be our day off and tomorrow we would be starting our run of day shifts. I didn’t think I was alone in finding it hard to drum up enthusiasm. Still, we were here so we might as well get on with it. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair as he continued with the briefing.
“This morning we’ll be giving one of our newest heroin dealers an early morning call!”
A drug’s raid? Things were looking up: police officers love big busts! There’s nothing better than putting away a pusher as they are at the heart of the criminality spiral. Thieves only get a fraction of the value of the goods that they steal when they sell it on to their handler, which means that each addict virtually needs to be on a constant crime wave to fund their habit. A user with a £20k habit would need to steal between £80-£100k worth of goods to fund it. It stands to reason that the more customers a pusher gets, the more thefts and burglaries go up.
“Brown, smack, skag – call it what you will,” he continued, “that’s what we’re looking for today.” With that he handed over to Barry, who was standing in the corner holding a child’s fishing net on a stick.
“Are we off to the beach, Sarge?” I asked. “It’s just I assumed that with the net…”
“You know what assuming does?” Barry replied confidently. “It makes a fool out of you and…”
“Ming?” suggested Gwen with a wink, finishing off his badly thought out put-down.
“Dammit!” he muttered, as he tapped the rod on the flip chart to get our attention. On display was a photograph of the suspect.
“This is Gary Leadbetter,” began our sergeant, “and to his neighbours, he’s just your average bald man in his thirties who shares his rented accommodation with a couple of dangerous dogs. Of course, he denies this; however, if you have to suit your pets up like Hannibal Lecter being transferred to a new prison each time you take them out, I’m hesitant to believe his claims of their gentler nature.”
We all made a mental note – there are few things more frightening than a rabid dog trying to rip your insides out as you try and cuff their struggling owner.
“Jessica – you’re the exhibits officer.”
Well, apart from being the exhibits officer! As the rest of the team are having fun turning the place upside down, the exhibits officer has to bag up and make detailed notes of everything that’s found: where, when, and what it was. The exhibits officer is also the person responsible for booking it all into the property store, ensuring the continuity of the evidence and producing it at court. And if there is one thing that can get an officer into trouble, it’s property. I breathed a sigh of relief.
We were handed a couple of small fire extinguishers to help frighten the dogs if they decided to attack. The sudden blast scares them and would hopefully make them back off. If I had known, I would have brought my vacuum cleaner: my own dog acts as if his whole family were murdered by a hoover and runs away at the
very sight of it!
We were then shown maps detailing the location of his house, along with aerial views and covert photographs of the front door. The rest of us were then divided up into the entry, search and arrest teams. These operations tend to follow a fairly formulaic approach: after enough intelligence has been received, a warrant is signed out and the actual raid can be planned. In theory, it’s all pretty simple: we’ll force entry to the property, detain the occupier, search the premises and seize any drugs we find.
Time is our biggest enemy: the time between the suspect realising you’re at his door to finally arresting him. With every second that passes, the suspect has an opportunity to arm himself and/or dispose of his drugs stash. Some even have booby traps set; and although they sound like the best sort of trap, some can be pretty horrific. I’ve known dealers turn their houses into a set from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, with barrels rigged to roll down the stairs or knives positioned to skewer some unsuspecting police officer entering the property.
The element of surprise is key. On this operation, Ron and Geezer would be wielding the enforcer to knock through the door. It’s an effective battering ram: sixty centimetres of tubular steel weighing sixteen kilograms and topped with hardened steel, it can apply more than three tonnes of impact force.
My colleagues carefully studied the structure of the door from the photographs: what it was made of, where the locks were, where the weak points might be – there would be no time for such deliberations when we rolled up on scene. From the images, it appeared as if the house was bristling with CCTV cameras and Leadbetter would be aware of our presence straight away and the clock would start ticking down.
“Oh, and this is for you, Andy.” Barry presented our probationer with the net. “You’re the Fisher King.”
Andy looked slightly perplexed whilst a few of us patted him on the back. We knew what was coming. At one time we’d each been the newest member of the shift, therefore we’d all done it and been on the receiving end of Barry’s history lesson in the process.
Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 25