“Arthurian legend?” prompted our sergeant. “Charged with keeping the Holy Grail?”
With no hint of a glimmer of recognition on Andy’s face, Barry gave an overly dramatic sigh of exasperation and was forced to explain.
“Take your net on a stick, find where the main drain is for the house, lift the cover and if you hear a flush, insert said net. You’ll either be rewarded with a fresh turd or a bag of smack – that’s the Holy Grail I’m referring to. Comprende?”
As Andy nodded and went to take hold of his apparatus, Barry maintained his grip on the stick and looked him directly in the eye. “You’ve got to ask yourself one question,” he rasped quietly. “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?”
Andy responded with an unconvincing and uncomfortable laugh.
Half an hour later and we were all in our van on the way to the target’s address.
“Intelligence shows that he checks the external CCTV cameras religiously,” Barry informed us. “And before you say anything, Donoghue, that doesn’t mean he only does it on a Sunday.” Everyone laughed, but the reality of the situation was that we had to stay out of view until the last possible moment.
“He’s got warning markers for violence, too. He’s alleged to keep a knife and baseball bat by his bed, so be careful when you get in there.”
Ten minutes more and we were at the end of the street. It was cold, dark and silent. Nothing stirred, not even a mouse.
As soon as we were parked, the Fisher King set off on his noble quest; a shadowy figure disappearing into the night. When he found the sewer cover, he quietly lifted the lid and signalled he was ready by raising the net above his head. Chad was on the move next, making his way around the back of the property in case anything was thrown out of the windows to the rear.
“The eagle has landed,” he whispered into the radio when he was in position. In complete silence, the rest of us then made our way to the rendezvous point just out of view of the cameras. Ron and Geezer were at the front of the line, dressed in their protective gear; helmets on, visors down. Gwen and Jess both had shields, while Lloyd and I had a fire extinguisher each. Ben and George stood at the rear, ready to sprint through and arrest Leadbetter as soon as we were in.
Barry looked at his watch, counting down the time to the strike. “On my signal, unleash hell!”
After such a dramatic build-up, a double thumbs-up and a wink wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but it did the trick. We all jogged in tandem to the address and a second later the whole street reverberated to the sound of the impact of the enforcer smashing against the door.
Three more bangs and the only thing that was moving were the dogs inside, barking wildly. It quickly became evident that the door was reinforced. If it was designed to buy Leadbetter as much time as possible, it was certainly doing its job.
Two more hits and the door was still holding solid. The thought quickly flashed through my head that maybe we should abandon the door and smash a window instead. Leadbetter would be awake now, checking his CCTV and seeing us arrayed outside ready to rush in.
Lights were already going on in the other houses in the street. Some peered out of curtains, whilst others turned their lights off again to enable them to see out into the dark; all engrossed in the show unfolding before them. This would be the hot topic over Christmas dinner in most of the houses for sure.
Another series of resounding impacts and the door finally came off its hinges. As the entry team stood back, we quickly rushed in to find ourselves in some sort of contained porch – another solid door directly to our left: we had breached the portcullis only to be trapped before an inner gate. I half imagined arrow slits in the walls and murder holes in the roof, boiling oil and rocks raining down.
We were losing vital seconds. Leadbetter would be arming himself, setting his traps, getting rid of his stash, working his dogs into a frenzy. We had to be in quick.
We unceremoniously squeezed out of the killing zone as Ron and Geezer entered. It was more constrained here: less room to manoeuvre. Within a second, Geezer had the enforcer raised awkwardly above his head to bring it smashing down into the top lock; next, underarm to pound the lower bolt. Another hard smash and the whole centre panel of the door was out. But, the dogs were there waiting: two angry animals barking loudly; jaws gaping; teeth bared. Like Roman legionaries, the two large shields instantly locked together closing the breach once more. Lloyd and I readied ourselves, waiting to discharge the extinguishers to frighten the dogs. We counted ourselves down: two, one… and with that the shields parted, and with a roar we rammed the extinguishers through the opening and pulled the triggers. As soon as the canisters violently exhaled, the dogs turned tail and disappeared, running whimpering, through the front room towards the back of the property. Lloyd and I ran after them and quickly shut the kitchen door, trapping the rabid dogs inside. He looked over at me and we breathed a sigh of relief.
With the dogs no longer barking, the house was now eerily silent: something wasn’t right, but there was no time to dwell on it. Racking our batons, Lloyd and I sprinted upstairs along with Ben and George, closely followed by Gwen and Jess; flashing our torches before us and yelling loudly and aggressively to announce our presence. Our adrenalin was pumping; blood pulsating through our bodies and reverberating in our ears.
As we reached the landing I half expected a baseball bat to come swinging around the corner – but nothing. Doors were kicked in as we stormed into each room in turn, bracing ourselves for a counter-attack. There was no time for niceties: wardrobe doors were flung open, almost pulling them off their hinges in the process; we kicked at bundles of dirty washing on the floor in case he was hiding amongst them; down on our hands and knees we went, checking under beds. This man was highly dangerous and was known to be extremely violent towards the police: we weren’t taking any chances.
“He’s here!” yelled Gwen. She was stood in the doorway of the last bedroom, clearly hesitant to enter.
“Has he got a weapon?” shouted Barry.
“Well, I wouldn’t want him coming at me with what he’s got in his hand,” came her cryptic reply.
With batons raised and pepper sprays levelled, we all dropped what we were doing and quickly went to join Gwen at the entrance to the room only to see why she was reticent to proceed: Leadbetter lay sleeping; stark naked apart from a pair of dirty white socks; his wilted member grasped firmly in his right fist. It was just as well he had dozed off with his headset on as, usually, people who are masturbating have super-enhanced hearing: one little creak on the stairs and they are up like a shot.
A TV was in the corner, the static snowstorm on the screen lending a warm glow to proceedings. Judging by the cover of the DVD case lying beside the bed, he appeared to have been watching some 80’s porn – the type that gives you unrealistic expectations of how quickly a pizza can be delivered.
“I think he’s been spanking the dragon,” Gwen whispered softly, looking a tad embarrassed but also slightly pleased with her witticism.
“Someone go and wake him up,” instructed Barry. “NOT YOU, PC EVANS!” he quickly added as Jessica stepped forward. “Your keenness is noted, but it’s not really appropriate in this case.”
The pair decided instead to fetch the search kit from the van and as they wandered off down the stairs I could hear Gwen explaining her joke to Jess. “Spanking the dragon – you know, he’s a heroin dealer – as opposed to chasing the…”
“Chasing the monkey?”
Back outside the bedroom, Barry was giving out his orders again. “Let’s get him handcuffed and downstairs. Ben and George, in you go and give him a shake.”
As soon as the puerile giggles started he sighed and rolled his eyes heavenwards. I think this was our way of relieving the tension after being tightly wound up, ready for a violent struggle. I’m not sure if Barry agreed though. I decided it was best not to add to the film quotes with ‘Say hello to my little friend’.
Ben and George approache
d the bed and, being careful not to make contact with Leadbetter’s offending appendage, quietly applied the cuffs as he slept.
“Wake up,” whispered George, lifting up the headphones from Sleeping Beauty’s ears. “Santa’s been.”
Leadbetter slowly came to; waking from a deep slumber to suddenly sitting bolt upright when he saw Ben and George towering over him.
“Only joking,” George clarified. “We’ve checked the list and apparently you’ve been a bad boy this year, so we’ve not come bearing gifts: we’ve come to take stuff away.”
“Happy Christmas!” added Ben, before informing him of his rights.
While the suspect made himself presentable, the rest of us got on with the search. It wasn’t long before we discovered some dubious substances.
“Sarge, I think I’ve found some brown!”
Barry came into the bathroom to find me pointing at a dirty toilet bowl with dried faeces encrusted around the rim. It didn’t even warrant a reply – he just shook his head and walked out. I chuckled to myself and continued the search.
The house was one of the worst I’d seen since we had taken the neglected toddlers and their brother into police custody. Filth and grime were everywhere and nearly every room was filled with the usual discarded cans of lager, fast-food boxes, dirty clothes, plates cultivating some sort of penicillin, overflowing ashtrays and used needles. Leadbetter’s dogs’ health could also be charted from their deposits on the carpet – and clearly one of them now had diarrhoea. As I searched under the bed, I was sure that I could feel fleas on me. I quickly withdrew my arm and brushed myself down. Massive spiders lurked inside the cupboards, looking as if they would stand their ground if I ventured further. I moved stuff about with my asp before closing the doors. And of course, there were the grubby yellow capsules about the place: you know that you’re a police officer when you look at Kinder Eggs differently from everyone else. Elsewhere, my colleagues were reporting tales of similarly disgusting rooms.
The bathroom was a particular lowlight: mould everywhere; damp patches on the walls. Normally, I’d look to see if the toothpaste had been squeezed from the middle – a sure sign of a psychopath; but there was no toothpaste… and no toothbrush. In fact, there was no shower gel, no soap, not even any toilet paper. I hate it when you’ve done your business and then discover there’s no loo roll and you have to waddle away to get some with your pants around your ankles. The staff at McDonalds hate it when I do that, too.
If drug dealing is such a lucrative pastime, I often wonder why the people we arrest live in such squalor. I suppose the answer is that we generally deal with the pushers low down on the chain: the addicts who sell on to other addicts; all their profits are shot up their arm. The big players drive around in fancy cars, whilst our dealers in Sandford ride around on pushbikes.
Hopefully, each arrest would net us information on who was supplying the local supplier and, soon enough, we’d be raiding their homes – it was only a matter of time. At least I wouldn’t get so filthy when I visited their mansions.
We made our way downstairs to continue the search. By now Leadbetter was sitting in the lounge with a cup of tea. He appeared quite affable, but, then again, I don’t expect you get to recruit new customers by being surly. Mind you, I still think the cleverest salesman ever was the guy who convinced blind people that they needed to wear sunglasses.
Leadbetter was being friendly enough to us now, but I presumed that was only because he realised the game was up. Looking at him, I was certain he could change in an instant. His record of violence certainly suggested he wasn’t the most understanding of people when one of his customers fell behind with their payments.
“Sorry for the mess upstairs,” Leadbetter apologised, glancing up as we entered the room. “It’s the maid’s day off.”
“She’s had the day off for the last six months by the look of it,” replied Lloyd.
“You just can’t get the staff nowadays,” Leadbetter added with a wink.
In contrast to upstairs, the downstairs looked positively immaculate, but then again a glitter ball tends to brighten up any room. The space was notionally split into two – a previous resident having taken out a dividing wall. The lounge area was bare, save for the faux leather sofa Leadbetter was sitting on, a low table resplendent with ashtray and empty beer cans and, of course, the massive flat-screen TV, PlayStation and Xbox ensemble. The floor was covered with linoleum and muddy paw prints, as well as a long, thin line of runny dog mess left by one of his animals as they had retreated to the kitchen.
At the back of the room – the once separate dining area – Jess was seated at a Formica-topped table, the search record and evidence bags arrayed around her. We handed her what we had found: four mobile phones, numerous SIM cards and a book full of coded names and amounts. It was the usual paraphernalia of a dealer, but so far we had failed to come up with any drugs. As we went back into the lounge to continue the search, I noticed a lone Christmas card perched on the mantelpiece.
“It’s from your boss,” Leadbetter commented when he saw me looking. I picked it up and checked it over. It was indeed from the Chief Constable.
It seems that all the criminals on our patch had been sent cards from the constabulary with warnings that we were watching them and if they didn’t want to spend the festive period behind bars, then they had better stop whatever villainy they were up to. For the ne’er-do-wells, I suppose when that dropped through their letter box it was the equivalent of seeing that poster with the eyes looking out at you. The front of the card actually showed Father Christmas staring out through the bars of a prison cell.
“I bet Santa was shitting himself when he went for a shower,” joked Leadbetter. Well, I suppose that’s one way to deter your fellow inmates.
“Over here!” My musings were disturbed by Chad, shouting through to Barry as he waved a thick wad of ten and twenty-pound notes that he had found tucked inside the fireplace.
“It’s for buying presents for my mates,” explained Leadbetter. “You’ve got to hide your cash – there are criminals about, you know!”
We continued searching the room, leaving no stone unturned, moving our host off the sofa, checking under the cushions and behind the seats. We found his TV remote, fifty-eight pence in change, various mouldy food items and a dead mouse; but no drugs.
It was quite important that we found what we were looking for, for a number of reasons: Firstly, I didn’t want my cancelled rest day to be for nothing. Secondly, if we smash down someone’s door and we don’t find anything to arrest them for, the police pick up the tab for the repair – if we do arrest them, they foot the bill. So far, we had circumstantial evidence, but I knew Barry wanted something concrete.
Just then I saw a figure walk in through the entrance and bend down and knock twice on the inner front door which was now lying broken in two on the floor.
“You’re tardy,” scowled Barry as he recognised the dog handler.
“Actually, I don’t think you’re supposed to call people that anymore,” came the reply.
“Well, get him in and see what he can find,” added Barry gruffly.
With that, the dog handler disappeared again. A minute later and a shiny wet nose came through the door, closely followed by the furry body of an enthusiastic springer spaniel, shaking with excitement and straining on his lead. He was wearing a set of little leather bootees on his paws to guard against any needles that were lying about. He started upstairs, and we listened intently as we heard him jumping up and down off the furniture, searching for anything we might have missed. Ten minutes later and he was back, empty pawed. Barry’s face dropped.
“There’s other dogs in the house, Jeff,” Gwen warned the handler, although I think he had already suspected as much by the abundant turds on the bedroom carpet.
“I’ll move ‘em,” volunteered Leadbetter. “They can get a bit nasty with other dogs. I’ll take ‘em into the yard.”
Accompanied by Ben and Geor
ge, he then went to usher the animals outside. Meanwhile, Police Dog Bouncer sniffed his way through the lounge and kitchen, his little tail wagging ten to the dozen as he jumped up on the sofa, dived into cupboards and zigzagged along the work surfaces. Alas, however, he found no drugs.
“He’s detecting something,” Jeff told us. “It looks like there’s been something here, but it’s gone now.”
Next to be searched was the backyard and so the dogs were swapped over – Leadbetter’s dogs being taken back into the kitchen, leaving Bouncer the full run of the outside area. His actions seemed to indicate that illegal substances had been there but, again, he didn’t find anything. Maybe people had bought their drugs early for Christmas: stocking up for that strange limbo period between Christmas and New Year in the same way that we panic-buy dozens of loaves of bread and gallons of milk when the shops are only closed for one day. Perhaps we had arrived a day too late and his regulars had stripped his heroin shelves bare.
A despondent Barry watched Jeff lead Bouncer out of the house and drive away. He stood for a few seconds thinking deeply and then rallied the troops.
“Jeff said the best reactions from his dog were in the kitchen and yard. We’re going to turn over every inch of the place again: something must be here. I want everyone out there searching.”
It’s not unknown for dealers to hide their drugs outside as it gives them a potential defence that a wry lawyer can work on if any substances are found: “Outside my client’s property? My client knew nothing about the package found. Anyone can get into the backyard. Someone else must have gained access and just left twenty thousand pounds worth of illegal narcotics there.”
We also searched for any stamped addressed envelopes as we rifled through Leadbetter’s belongings. A rumour had gone around the criminal fraternity that police couldn’t open mail addressed to a third party and, as a result, they were now advising their friends to slip their drugs in one if we happened to knock on the door.
The backyard was a total dump: junk, rubbish, broken furniture, bicycle parts and dog turds covered every inch of the ground. Lloyd, Gwen and I quickly started looking through the kitchen cupboards, ensuring we stayed in the warm, whilst the rest of the team, including the Fisher King, braved the elements outside.
Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 26