CHAPTER THREE
The Present.
In the world of uncertainty that passes for Modern British Policing, there are a few things that haven’t changed very much since Robert Peel was a probationer.
On or around the 25th anniversary of joining you will:
a) Develop Agoraphobia, thus rendering you unable to face the Great British Public in the Great British Outdoors.
b) Develop a chronic lower back condition. And,
c) For some unaccountable reason, you will develop advanced mathematical skills enabling you to calculate with atomic like accuracy when you will retire. Naturally, for reasons of fairness, and not to build one’s hopes up too highly, all annual leave and any periods of planned or unplanned sickness should be deducted from this figure. The purpose being that this prevents an officer becoming too optimistic about his immediate future, and it helps to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground.
However, the overriding, incontrovertible fact that cemented most of the ranks together was, and remains to this day: ‘That the bosses are idiots’. Even those idiots who achieved high rank thought that their predecessors were idiots, and that they were actually the first of a ‘new breed’ of leader. Even the ‘Bramshill Brigade’ (The Police Staff College, in Sussex designed to identify and train officers’ showing the potential to achieve high rank) shared one thing in common with their illustrious forebears. They resolved to get off the streets and as far away from the public as soon as conceivably possible.
Senior Officers were oft heard to say ‘I did it (got promoted into the stratosphere!) so I could make a difference’. Never has a truer word has been spoken…it certainly makes a huge difference to their lump sum and final salary pension! The fact is, that the vast majority of officers were happy to remain at the sharp end…’cos after all, that’s where the fun was to be had.
And so it was, with some three years of the marathon left to run, and full of foreboding that Jim Hodder returned to the cell block and faced his new partner in crime. As he did so an idle thought passed through his mind. What with having a ‘friendly’ solicitor on board and all...would there be any possibility of some cheap legal work should the need arise? All things considered, Hodder concluded that it would probably be best not to ask right now.
As a matter of courtesy, Hodder advised the Custody Officer that he had spoken to the Public Protection Unit, who had obtained the necessary witness statements and arranged for the intrusive, but vital, forensic samples to be taken from the victim. To crown it all, the victim had positively identified Dean Parks, twenty two year old, miscreant of this parish. Not so much a career criminal, more of a criminal without a career, he had been a constant thorn in the side of the police all over the force area since the age of eleven.
Parks had graduated from simple acts of theft and violence to ‘creeps’ (household burglaries) to good quality commercial burglaries. However, as CCTV and other crime prevention techniques became much more widespread and sophisticated, he was obliged to re-evaluate his career and consequently, he returned to good old fashioned ‘hands on offending’.
Certainly, the chances of arrest were high, but he figured that he could always thwart any prosecution case by putting forward, just enough mitigation to cast sufficient doubt as to why his forensic was on a person or in a property. And that, my friends, is sufficient in this fine country of ours. He was certainly not ‘bright’ in the accepted sense of the word, but he was street smart with a very keen sense of survival and a raging libido. Hence, his current plight.
Whilst discussing the case with the Custody Officer, Hodder had occasion to look at a bank of CCTV monitors and quickly located the one covering the detention room housing his lame, tame solicitor. Except he was not quite so tame…the devious bastard was listening to a small digital voice recorder which he had removed from his shirt pocket. It had obviously been concealed by his jacket.
What a sneaky, conniving, lowlife, scumbag, shithead, mother fucking arse wipe of a wank stain! Had this bloke got no morals? He was in a police station, for God’s sake! Had he no respect? Thinking aloud Jim told the Custody Officer that he wanted a quick word with the D.I. to clarify a couple of minor points.
Not really.
Hodder wanted some time alone to clarify a couple of major points namely, how on earth was he going to get that recording device from the brief and delete anything on it that may incriminate him. The solicitor, the devious snake, had obviously been spending far too much time in the company of criminals and he had picked up some pretty bad habits along the way. ‘I’m not having that’ thought Jim. Secondly, and more importantly, he wanted to emphasise to the brief that he (Detective Sergeant Jim Hodder) was the dog and that the brief was most certainly the tail. But How?
Rapid thoughts flooded his mind. He could tell the D.I. who would doubtless haul him over the coals for acting without his knowledge and authority…he really wanted the Sunderland detection conviction to appear to be an accident. A mere ‘spinoff’ with the added unexpected bonus of showing the world exactly what a prick the D.I. really was! That way, he could play down the inevitable ‘Loose Cannon’ or ‘Lone Ranger’ criticism which was sure to come his way. He did not rate the D.I. very highly but he certainly did not want him on his back.
He could double cross the brief arrest him, and seize the recorder during a body search. Then it hit him. And for the second time that day, as the eyes of the world were looking elsewhere, another idea popped out of the ether. Now, this would put the brief very firmly ‘in his box’…if it came off.
Back in the CID Office he casually mentioned to the D.I. that though, Dean Parks was yet to ‘cough’ he was confident that following a second interview he would have him on a charge sheet.
Without any sincerity and even less interest the D.I. said ‘Well done mate’ ‘Do you want anyone to give you a hand? The lads are going for a pint but I could get a couple of them to help you out’.
As if one, ‘The lads’ ignored this very helpful suggestion, and as Hodder listened to the conversation going on amongst the D.C.’s…he noted that the sport of Rugby Union was now occupying their collective consciousness. Football and Rugby fans everywhere, could sleep well tonight, safe in the knowledge that North Shields CID were on the case.
Brimming with false confidence, Jim said that he was ‘fine’. He lied and said that his junior partner, Jeff Baxter was due back from court any time soon and that he would ‘muck in’. The interview would be a stroll in the park, a mere formality.
‘Okay’ announced the D.I. ‘Charge him…there is some serious drinking to be done’
Without any conviction whatsoever, Jim said ‘His brief is still here. I will see you in the pub as soon as I can’.
‘No prob’ said the D.I. He was walking on air as he waltzed out of the office linking arms with two nubile young temps.
After a quick consultation with the brief, there was an even quicker consultation between the brief and the prisoner. Essentially, Jim and the brief had ‘decided’ that Parks would be charged with rape, and that he would appear before the court in the morning, where an application would be made to remand him in local custody. The purpose of the remand was to enable enquiries into the burglary and other potential offences to be completed. The prisoner, was after all, the least important person in this ‘unholy trinity’.
It was all systems go…shit or bust. Tapes were inserted into the recorder, in the linen cupboard, a room which was most unsuitable for interviewing. It was unventilated, and by this time it was beginning to smell of body odour, socks, an unwashed prisoner and a very large ‘rat’. Not only did all concerned have to endure the sound and vibration of the (Tyneside) Metro system thundering back and forth, beneath the room during interview, but also the typical sounds associated with a busy cell block.
A common agreement between co accused is for them to make it known to each other when they were being interviewed. This could occur by simply shouting t
o a cohort or using a pre-arranged signal. This tactic had two purposes. Firstly, it served to sabotage the interview, making it almost impossible to transcribe. Secondly, and much more hilariously, if the tape was ever played in court, it quite frankly made the police look and sound ridiculous.
Back in the interview room legal formalities were completed and predictably a standard ‘No Reply’ interview commenced.
A number of personal items recovered from Parks had been positively identified by the victim and were discussed during interview. Nonetheless, ‘No Reply’ remained Parks’ answer of choice. The Detective’s heart was clearly not in it, and he found himself asking a question that generally induced him to suffer from a catatonic seizure if any of his colleagues asked it… And it was ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls… the one question in investigative interviewing which requires absolutely no skill whatsoever. As soon as he said: ‘Are you going to say ‘no reply’ to all of my questions’ Hodder knew that he had crossed the Rubicon. He was now relegated to the same division as ‘Gee-Gee’…all he needed now was a larger tie collection and a false suntan.
In keeping with such occasions the prisoner said ‘No reply’. The moth did not reply either. Hodder would certainly get some stick when the other lads in the office heard about this. The interview was subsequently terminated and to coin the vernacular in ‘the job’ the ‘prig’ was ‘topped and tailed’ in record time. Hodder then resolved to come in early in the morning to ‘knock off’ the remand file.
To Hodder this was an investigation that was losing its appeal by the second. The one constant being, ‘Paperwork was, and always had been, a pain in the arse, but an investigation with self-inflicted complications was even worse’.
Hodder hung around the custody suite for a while, and was relieved to see the brief leave his client for the final time that night. He approached him and said in a matter of fact way…’Hey, that was one hell of a day…don’t want many more like that’. The brief nodded in agreement and they left the police station together, both being struck by the chill of the bracing easterly wind.
Jim said …‘Do you fancy a quick pint, I am drained…. (Please say yes! Please say yes!).
‘Yeah’ said the brief, with a heavy sigh ‘I will see you at The Quay Taphouse, on the Fish Quay. I’m not going anywhere too local with you. After all, I do have a reputation to think of’.
‘No worries’ said the now delighted Detective, happy in the knowledge that he was about to consummate their new relationship.
North Shields is located about half a mile inland from the mouth of the River Tyne. Indeed, local rumour had it that as long as the imposing headland of Pen Bal Crag, which for the last 1300 years, had been home to Tynemouth Priory, remained standing, then the town would not be swept into the sea. Hodder however, had not been around quite so long, but, for the past twenty two years, he had watched as the town was swept without any apparent resistance into the gutter.
For centuries, travellers had approached ‘Shiels’ by dangerous waters. These days, the estuary was protected from the ravages of the North Sea by the protective north and south piers. The piers never failed to give one the impression that mariners were about to get swept up by the broad arcing arms of a giant poker player greedily collecting his winnings. This image was to Hodder, both comforting and somewhat disturbing.
Outside the piers, the waters were littered with sunken wrecks whilst inside the town, the streets were littered with drunken wrecks, largely an unforeseen and tragic by-product of the now defunct fishing industry.
Once inside the calming breakwater of the Tyne, sailors were greeted by the sight of Collingwood’s Monument, completed in 1849 to recognise the actions of Nelson’s second in command. Lord Collingwood took over at Trafalgar and completed the task in hand, following Nelson’s demise. He was viewed by many, and north easterners in particular, as being the real hero of the battle. Despite being an imposing and impressive structure, cynics described it as a ‘Lego land’, version of the Statue of Liberty. Hodder thought it much more impressive…it had to be. After all, it was not French.
Whilst making his way to the quayside, Hodder reflected how much it had changed over the years. He remembered being ‘cast out’, and afraid, on his first solo foot patrol on a dark winter nightshift. These were the dying days of the fishing fleet where knife crime was still a daily occurrence long before Oxbridge educated politicians suggested ‘knife amnesties’ and ‘hoody hugging’.
These were the days of ‘The Jungle’ a watering hole of global repute. Even back then, ‘The Jungle’ originally the ‘town house’ of the Duke of Northumberland, had clearly seen better days, it seemed to operate in a parallel universe ignoring all conventions, with no need of the police. There, was a kind of peaceful co-existence based on mutual loathing and suspicion.
Nowadays, the quayside had moved upmarket, smart apartments, restaurants and bars now occupying premises that had previously been rat infested filleting sheds and wholesale fish merchants. It seemed to Hodder at least, that the only launderette in the town was not located upon Howdon Road.
Hodder and Randall-Ord agreed not to talk in public about their ‘deal’ and set about making a substantial dent in the Ruddles and Highland Park at the Quay Taphouse. As the alcohol intake increased, and using a not wholly thought out logic, Hodder figured that the solicitor had plundered enough of the public purse, in legal aid for one day, and he felt honour bound to ransack police expenses. Jim went to get more drinks, and then some more.
At 10.45pm the brief announced with a privately educated slur ’Hee Nuff…itz ohm for me…shee you shoon’.
Hodder’s plan appeared to be working, but he was absolutely sick of drinking Ruddles shandy and shorts of ginger ale. He was going to have a proper pint and a proper short… After all, he still had some work to do…but not before a private celebration.
Whilst standing at the bar he watched through the window as Randall-Ord clumsily sauntered over to his silver Audi A6 and get in behind the wheel before driving off.
Now, as a public servant of many years standing, Hodder felt impelled, not to say obligated, to report his suspicions that a driver of a silver coloured A6, registered number FR04 ORD, may well be over the drink drive limit. It was, after all, what all good public spirited individuals should do. Besides that, the Chief Constable was always banging on about ‘Inter departmental cooperation’. Well, never let it be said that Jim Hodder didn’t take his work seriously. He went over to the public telephone in the corner of the bar, and speaking in his best false Brummie accent, he gave a bogus name and reported the actions of an ‘overly refreshed’ motorist.
Okay, time for one last pint and a wee dram. Then, back to the ‘fun factory’. However, as a responsible member of the community, Hodder got a cab back to the nick, leaving the CID car on double yellow lines, just outside the ‘Taphouse’. However, he took the precaution of putting the vehicle log book on public display on the dashboard to prevent it being ticketed by the ‘wooden tops’ (Uniformed Police Officers).
Black coffee in the deserted CID office, followed by another IOU and a bag of cheese and onion crisps addressed the ‘sloshing’ fluid in his stomach. Listening closely to the police radio on his desk he would know when it was time to ‘accidentally’ pop into the custody suite. He did not have to wait very long. For some unknown reason, the corridor to the custody suite had returned to its normal length and the leisurely stroll along it helped to clear the fug in his head.
As he entered the custody suite, voices were raised…’Do you who I am’?...the young traffic officer beamed and responded…’As well as being pissed, the poor bloke has lost his memory too. Can anybody help him out? Should we call a doctor?’…Oh how they all laughed…As the saying goes ‘the oldies are the goodies’
Looking at newly arrived Detective Sergeant Hodder, the brief said ‘Tell them, go on tell them…I only had a couple of beers…’ Years of service had taught Hodder when to stick and when
to twist…he quietly gestured to the apoplectic brief to calm down and that he would see him soon.
He left his uniformed colleagues to deal with the solicitor, whose breathing became hastened and erratic. Suspecting an impending coronary, or worse, Hodder thought ‘I’m out of here’. Guilt just did not come into it. That parasitic freeloader would use the contents of his voice recorder to screw Jim. That, in the view of Hodder quite simply, was not going to happen.
Coffee time again, and on this occasion two ceramic mugs (one with a generous touch of scotch in it) were taken up to the custody suite. The traffic guys were waiting for the ‘Camic’ (Breath Test) machine to calibrate, as Jim seized this opportunity to speak to his new best friend, in the detention room, where they both enjoyed a hot beverage, Jim coffee, Francis Randall-Ord a soothing Irish Whisky.
Jim had once seen a David Attenborough documentary during which it was proposed that man was separated from other animals because man displayed hospitality and compassion. Jim felt that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the great Sir David by being so caring to his fellow homosapien, but in reality he was only looking after himself. Survival instinct…maybe we are not too different to the other creatures that walk this earth after all?
‘Jim, you got to get me out of here…This will ruin my reputation! As if today has not been bad enough, come on, we’re friends aren’t we’? Though not particularly good with relationships, Jim could not deny that they were bound together by an invisible umbilical.
‘Okay, I will do what I can but you have to understand that Traffic are a law unto themselves and I am not exactly bosom buddies with those lads out there from the ‘Hitler Youth’ movement’.
Wheezing heavily the brief said ‘Can you get me my asthma inhaler, it’s in my personal property, surely they can give me that?
‘Leave that to me’ said Jim helpfully, as he left the room feeling like a mischievous ‘Good Samaritan’.
Hodder signed for the inhaler and whilst the Custody Officer was distracted he palmed the solicitor’s digital recorder, and put it into his pocket. He arranged for a reunion between the inhaler and the brief whilst he, took his ‘booty’ to the CID office to listen to the recordings which he had no doubt would have evidence of him conspiring with the brief.
He switched it on and listened intently.
A letter to HMP Durham regarding a client on remand.
A letter to the secretary of his golf club complaining about misuse of parking spaces reserved for committee members.
A letter to a successful applicant for a paralegal job at his practice.
The solicitor had also dictated a letter confirming his transfer to the Local Masonic Hall in the position of Worshipful Master and how he hoped to play a full and meaningful role in the activities of the lodge.
Holy Fuck! Not a thing about Dean Parks, or the ‘deal’ that they had brokered about him. It seemed that Randall-Ord was going to be as good as his word.
Hodder’s cynicism knew no boundaries. He looked at his watch. Was it really that time? No matter, it was time to get the recorder back into the brief’s property and get the fuck out of here before the shit really hit the fan. So, on the premise of returning the inhaler, the recorder too was returned to Randall-Ord’s property and whilst sealing the property bag he also inadvertently sealed his own fate.
Yet another cab home and yet another feeble explanation to his wife as to why he is late, and, more importantly, why he smells like he has been doing a sponsored swim at a Whisky Distillery.
His side of the bed suddenly felt very narrow. Paralysis overtook him as he was rendered motionless by an elbow to the ribs and a hefty kick to his shin. Is sex out the question he mused? For the umpteenth time that day, ‘No reply’ seemed to be the predominant answer.
He drifted off into a light dreamless sleep and he awoke to hear the thunderous ‘Nordic Goth’ sound of ‘Theatre of Tragedy’ bursting out of his stepdaughter’s room. He resolved that he would have to speak to Lauren…just because she kept to a student’s clock and lifestyle, did not mean that the rest of the house should not get any sleep.
Both Jim and his bladder were wide awake now, and at least one of them was intent on a visit to the bathroom. He listened to his innards demands, and putting on his robe he padded along the landing just in time to see a youth coming out of the bathroom. He had long black hair, with deathly pale skin, wearing ‘y fronts’ with flame patterns upon them. He gave Jim a derisory glance, mumbling ‘Okay’ as he headed towards his stepdaughter Lauren’s, room.
Today had been difficult, tomorrow could be worse. The conversation with Lauren was best left for later…perhaps even for his wife, ever mindful of the ‘mother-daughter’ relationship. He was not in any mood to have an argument with his stepdaughter right now, particularly in front of another member of the ‘living dead’. He returned to bed and buried his head under his pillow only surfacing periodically, to check the bedside clock. He did not return to the land of nod that night.
An early start, to a drab miserable overcast day, saw Jim take a cab from home to ‘The Quayside Taphouse’ to collect the CID car. He walked the last two hundred yards, breathing in the damp coastal air and feeling the first drops of rain.
He approached the car from the front, and was delighted to see that the log book had done the trick. To his relief there wasn’t a parking ticket on the windscreen. That was largely due to the fact that there wasn’t a fucking windscreen. Some bastard had lobbed a brick through it.
As the rain began to fall heavily, he checked the driver’s seat for any hypodermic syringes that may have been pushed up through the upholstery from the underside…the last thing he needed now was to share a needle with some smack head.
It wasn’t really the prick who put the needle there, or the prick from the needle that really bothered him. What concerned him most was the wait for the results of the inevitable HIV test that would follow, and the associated lack of sex that went along with it. He didn’t get a lot of sex, but he certainly did not want any less. He imagined that the conversation with his wife may go something like this…’Honest darling, I have not been shagging around, but it may be a good idea if you had an HIV test…No, of course I do not inject heroin’.
Giving the car a clean(ish) bill of health, he drove through driving almost horizontal rain that the gods had saved up especially for him. Upon arrival at the police station, he parked the CID car at the side of the building just far enough away from the front door and out of sight of the prying CCTV cameras. With any luck, the car would not be seen or needed until much later in the day, when he hoped to be long gone.
He was going to ‘wing it’. He had enough on his plate right now. Someone else could fill in the insurance forms. Dripping wet, he secreted the keys in a uniform shift in-tray and pondered what he would have to write on the insurance forms if he was ever ‘bubbled’… and it went something like this…
‘After a hard day conspiring with a corrupt solicitor to pervert the course of justice, I decided to ‘fit up’ said solicitor by getting him drunk at the unauthorised expense of the police. I later orchestrated his arrest and prosecution. I later stole from the prisoner’s personal property with a view to blackmailing him. When this failed miserably, I abandoned my co-conspirator to his fate. Oh, by the way, I also dropped some innocent uniform guy ‘right in it’ for damage to a CID car that he has probably never even seen before.’
This was all in a day’s work, and Jim resolved to do what all good Police Officers would do in a similar situation. He was going to fall back on his years of experience and training and lie like fuck. Self-preservation at all costs was Hodder’s mantra. Though it is true to say that he was not alone within the police service in adhering to this philosophy.
The CID office was still deserted when he got there and whilst his suit dried on the radiators, Hodder managed to cobble together a passable remand file, and some other ‘unrelated paperwork’.
Later
on, with a heavy heart and a damp suit, he squelched over to the nearby courthouse, where more in hope than expectation, the CPS lawyer would attempt to secure the remand in local custody of Dean Parks.
Randall-Ord was in the waiting room speaking to a client. He looked up, saw the Police Officer, made a brief insincere apology his shell suited meal ticket, and steered Jim by the arm to a small consultation room just off the main waiting area.
‘Where did you get to last night’?
Having already used up his quota of lies for the day, and unsure of how convincing his improvisation would be Hodder replied…’It’s Traffic, they wouldn’t let me anywhere near you. What happened’?
Doing his best Julian Fellowes impression which he normally reserved for court, Randall-Ord said ‘Actually, old chap, it all worked out rather better than one might have imagined. Something was wrong with the Camic machine. It just would not calibrate. My asthma was really playing up so they contacted a Doctor to take blood. It took him hours to arrive. Apparently, he had to sober up before he could drive, and when he did finally arrive, it should have been him who was locked up not me. I think that the blood will come back negative…even if it doesn’t I’ve always been pretty creative when it comes to mitigation…if you know what my mean’.
As he said this he tapped his nose in a ‘Monty Python’ ‘Say No More, Nudge, Nudge, Wink, Wink’ kind of way.
Jim Hodder was puzzled for a micro second, then, it dawned on him…this bloke was only the new boss of the Masons. He was clearly in a position to pull a few strings and boy was he going to pull them. The words ‘damage limitation’ once again meandered through Jim’s consciousness and on this occasion he was only thinking of himself.
Hodder was delighted to escape from Randall-Ord when the CPS prosecutor, called to him and asked him to hang around for a short while just to answer any queries that may spring up. Obviously, Jim had no choice in the matter, but he really wanted to be back in the office where he needed to surreptitiously ‘burgle’ the D.I.’s in-tray and retrieve the ‘unrelated paperwork’, a report, that he had submitted prior to going to court.
After court, Jim walked into the D.I.’s office and reported that Parks had been remanded to in local custody on a ‘three day lie down’, to as the ambiguous statement goes ‘assist with enquiries’. Whilst talking, he glanced at the in and out document trays on the desk. Both were empty!
There was nothing for it. He would have to do the decent thing. He was going to have to lie to the Boss. He said that he had made a typo on a report he had submitted earlier and wanted to correct it. The D.I. said he hadn’t read the report…’Why should I? You’re a D.S. for god’s sake…it’s your job to check other people’s paperwork before it comes to me. I’m not paid to check yours…I just put it through…I trust you’.
That was the D.I.’s first mistake.
A broad smile and an impish wink filled the senior man’s oval face as he said ‘Besides, I’ve got my hands full with the temps’!
By the time the paperwork was traced through the ‘black hole’ that is the police service admin system, it was too late. Francis Randall-Ord was now officially a Registered Police Informant.
The informant system is supposed to be highly confidential, with informants using pseudonyms to protect their true identities. However, the facts are that most Detectives working within an office, generally knew who was ‘working for’ whom within that office. This system generally served two purposes.
One, it prevented you accidently ‘shafting’ a colleague’s informant, and, two, by far the most frequently used option, it actively assisted you to deliberately ‘shaft’ a colleague’s informant. Hodder resolved to do whatever he could to keep his registration of Randall-Ord a closely guarded secret. If this got out Randall-Ord would be inundated with requests for discount rates on conveyancing, wills and divorces. He would in the truest sense of the phrase be ‘working for the police’. Jim, was by nature an optimist, but he was also a realist. He knew that he had a created a monster and he hoped against all expectations, that he could control it.
However, he also knew that in an organisation based entirely on truth, trust, responsibility and justice, that as well as there being no truth, trust, responsibility and justice, there were also no such thing as a secret.
And so it was that Detective Sergeant Jim Hodder came to the conclusion that he was fucked!
As he walked back into the CID office, Hodder felt that he was entering a ‘hard hat area’. He had to stay cool, and in order to ascertain the mood in the office, he set about ringing his mobile (which he had had the foresight to turn off) and leave a long, pointless and utterly bogus message. It looked like he may be in the clear after all, either that or the damaged car had not been discovered yet.
The main topic of conversation appeared to be a recent very serious crime…someone had screwed the CID shop and an almost full box of ‘Kit Kat’s’ were gone. And worse still, there was not even an IOU in sight! This was major stuff. Jim wondered if they were going to set up an incident room and draft in staff from other Command Areas. This was just the sort of crime that attracted big money funding from the Home Office, and perhaps even a mention on Crimewatch.
‘Gee-Gee’ announced that he was certain it was ‘that lot along the corridor’, by which of course he was referring to his uniform colleagues. In the best traditions of the police service, he resolved to get to the bottom of the matter, thus scuppering any chance of him visiting the custody suite any time soon.
‘Gee-Gee’ a man reputed to have an attention span that, even a gold fish would mock, was soon onto another topic and this time it really was important. By all accounts, there was going to be a ‘bit of a do’ on at the ‘Lodge’ that evening and the lads agreed to set off for home early, ‘cos it was to quote ‘Gee-Gee’ ‘A D.J. job’.
The guys agreed to leave when the ‘back shift’ came in. That would give them enough time for a couple of pints before they all went home, before they all came back again, arranging to meet ‘Upstairs’ (in the Police Social Club) at 6.30pm.
Jim declined the offer of an early pint lying that he had a few errands to run for the CPS, but that he would happily look after the ‘factory’ until the back shift came in. The lads did not have to be told twice. He reflected how quickly that ‘Kit Kat Gate’ had lost its importance amongst his colleagues as they scrambled out of the office, making a ‘bee-line’ for the pub.
When the late shift came in, Jim briefed them and collected the keys for an as yet undamaged CID car, and headed off for some peace and quiet which entirely by accident he found in a pint of Ruddles County in ‘The Quay Taphouse’.
As he entered, he recognised a large jovial man who had been behind the bar the previous evening. On this occasion he was doing the Times crossword with a balding friendly man who was displaying an encyclopaedic knowledge of American States, Geology and for some unknown reason Japanese Knotweed. Looking at Jim the large man said…’Two days in a row…you will be becoming a regular at this rate…I saw you in here with ‘Francis’ last night. Is he your boss? You spent a fortune getting him pissed. I hope he got home alright’.
Jim mumbled something about them working together ‘occasionally’. By way of diversion he offered a couple of crossword answers, had a corned beef toastie, a few more beers and before he knew it, it was 10.15pm.
Time to go.
Where the hell was Jeff Baxter? He had better be back tomorrow. He was probably the only realistic chance he had of ‘keeping the wheel on’. He needed to work with someone that he could really trust.
When Hodder returned to the office, the main topic of conversation was damage to one of the CID cars and how no one could find the log book, so a witch hunt was bound to ensue. Apparently the D.I. had diverted all resources from ‘Kit Kat Gate’ and the entire department had turned their attention to identifying the mystery driver of the damaged car.
As Jim wa
lked out of the office and upstairs to the Police Social Club, he said to no one in particular, but loud enough to be heard…‘probably that lot along the corridor’.
As he entered the club, the’ post party, party’ was in full swing. All the usual suspects were there, looking for all the world like the woodwind section of the BBC Symphony Orchestra. Surveying the crowd Jim saw the D.I. in ‘full flight’, minions laughing loudly, at his boorish, unfunny jokes. The D.I. back slapped a very familiar looking slightly taller overweight man.
Oh No.
It was Randall-Ord.
The D.I. turned around unexpectedly and caught Hodder’s eye and frantically waved him over. There was nothing he could do…he walked towards the men and as he got closer Randall-Ord said ‘Hello Sergeant, I was surprised that you were not at this evenings function’. As he was the only person not in Penguin attire it was a fairly pointless question. Before he could answer the D.I. said ‘Didn’t know you two knew each other’.
‘Oh yes’ said the brief as he slowly sipped his whisky, narrow, snake-like eyes pinning Jim to the spot…’Oh yes,…we know each other’.
Hodder was really beginning to believe that ‘There is no situation that a Police Officer cannot make worse’.
The Sweet Smell of Rain Page 3