CHAPTER TEN
Sleeping well after ‘an event’ had never been a problem for Dean Parks. He lay in his albeit rented bed watching the local news on a portable TV that had such clarity of vision, that it could have been an outside broadcast from the South Pole during a particularly brutal blizzard. No mention of him on the news then. ‘Not to worry’ he thought. There will soon enough!
The only criteria for staying and this delightful little ‘bijou’ was paying the ‘no questions asked’ landlord in advance. Cash of course.
Many such establishments were known to be ‘connected’ with…‘connected’ may be too bland a word here, were ‘known’ to be owned and run by the ‘high lords’ of the local crime scene who ruled with an unrelenting and extremely heavy hand.
This particular hostelry was thought to be run on behalf of Adrian Burrows, rumoured to be the lynch pin of organised crime on Tyneside. He was more widely known by the name ‘First Aid’ largely because of his extremely violent tendencies and the fact that he was the ‘go to person’ if you wanted some violence ‘dished out’ or even strangely enough when you had accidentally ‘dished out’ violence to the wrong person.
He was known to keep A & E Departments all over the region in full time employment, hence his nickname. He also sat in judgement over criminals and decided their fate as a kind of ‘pseudo judge’ should they do anything that may draw unwanted attention to him or any of his many business interests. He was admired and feared in equal measure depending upon your point of view.
When it came to ‘rent collection’, not for these entrepreneurs an agreed ‘payment plan’ or a simple ‘I’m waiting for my Giro’. His ‘staff’ were known to accompany claimants to the Department of Work and Pensions. They were known to have ‘staff on hand’ to ensure that all paperwork went through the system without a hitch. They were known to give residents a ‘daily allowance’ from their (the residents’) benefits to ensure compliance with ‘house rules’.
This was the kind of place where the landlord would retain passports, birth certificates, National Insurance and banking cards in fact, anything that gave him financial control of the ‘lodger’. They had no standards and even less patience.
Interest rates were so punitive that they made ‘pay day loans’ look like positively gilt edged investments.
Of course, such ‘arrangements’ came at a cost, thus acerbating the lodgers’ financial difficulty, but guaranteeing the ‘hoteliers’ income and high occupation rates. Because most people are creatures of habit, even those who did attempt to abscond owing money, either left the area completely, (one way or the other) or quickly became (more) destitute and (even more) penniless and more often than not they simply returned to the ‘hotel’.
It was a bit like a Victorian Workhouse but without the righteousness.
However, one very useful function of the landlord was to ensure that all court and police bail dates were strictly adhered to. This was not for any moral or welfare reasons, but simply because the last thing he and his paymasters wanted was the hotel being searched by police.
The police and landlord endured an unusual relationship. It was a strange kind of ‘peaceful co-existence’, whereby the landlord would feign respectability and helpfulness to the point of embarrassment, resulting in the ‘guest’ being thrown to the wolves, i.e. delivered into the hands of the police just to ensure the continuance of the status quo but more importantly, the business.
The men, for they were always men who were attracted to such positions, had previously, by and large, been in a similar position to many of their ‘guests’ themselves, be they the product of alcohol/drug misuse, divorce, mental illness etc, and it was seen as climbing some form of inverted social ladder to be elevated to the heady position of landlord.
This was the sort of establishment where customer complaints were dealt with quickly and decisively, usually with a threat or a more direct form of action.
This was the sort of hotel where customers would not comment on ‘trip advisor’, but whose adverse comments would often lead to a ‘one way trip’.
This was the sort of hotel where the only ‘reception’ was a bad one.
This was the sort of hotel that welcomed neither the ‘Hotel Inspector’, the ‘Health Inspector’ nor the ‘Detective Inspector’.
There were no luxuries such as tea, coffee making or showering facilities in his palatial boudoir, so Parks resolved to get up, leaving the spiders in their intricate sunlit webs which spanned every crevice and corner of the room. He decided to head to the centre of Newcastle where he had a pretty busy day ahead of him. He would eat, meet up with an associate and attempt to dispose of his booty, namely some jewellery, the laptop, and debit card. The small amount of cash was exchangeable anywhere, and required no further action on his part.
Parks was not entirely satisfied with his new appearance, he had never been attracted to the concept of shopping for clothing at Tesco before, and, as he studied his reflection in the shop windows whilst he was walking into the city centre, he instantly understood why. He looked like almost everyone else on the street at that time, but ‘Hey’, didn’t that offer him some advantages under the circumstances, a kind of ‘camouflage of the masses’. He certainly did not want to stand out right now because, though the police were largely incompetent, he also knew that when motivated they could present him with some pretty difficult problems.
Parks would get some new clothes during the day if the opportunity presented itself but he did feel unusually confident that they, the police, would not be circulating the description of a cherry blonde young man looking like he had walked straight from the pages of the ‘Tesco Direct’ catalogue.
Newcastle essentially stands on a hillside spreading from the north bank of the River Tyne upwards and outwards into a vast urban sprawl that was largely unbroken for several miles in all directions.
The original buildings on the quayside represented a simpler but much grander age, where the town’s links with its maritime past were evident everywhere. Vast warehouses, bonds and shipping company offices, had long ago been transformed into a new playground for the Nuevo Rich of footballers, lawyers and entrepreneurs who frequented the numerous, upmarket hotels, restaurants and bars.
Parks was an infrequent visitor to the quayside at Newcastle, in fact his visits were largely enforced, when as a consequence of poor performance on his part, he was obliged to put in an appearance at the Crown Court buildings which dominated the riverside skyline as much as the Sage and the Tyne Bridge.
Furthermore, because the quayside had been redeveloped by largely private funding, the proportion of CCTV cameras and private security guards exceeded that in other parts of the city. Indeed, both sides of the river had seen considerable investment in the recent past so much so, that Gateshead was now regarded as having more of a function than merely ‘keeping the other side of the Tyne Bridge up’.
Indeed, the beautiful and innovative ‘Millennium Bridge’ was officially known as ‘The Gateshead Millennium Bridge’ giving the smaller town on the south bank of the Tyne an opportunity to take the plaudits from Newcastle for a change. Gateshead had to wait seventy two years for the privilege to do so, it had however, been well worth the wait!
Of course, Parks knew and cared nothing for these facts, he just knew that ‘it was a difficult place to graft’, hence it should be avoided. Heading down Westgate Hill towards the city centre, he had no idea that he trod the very same pavements as Jimmy Forsyth the legendary, one eyed penniless amateur photographer who immortalised Tyneside in thousands of remarkable black and white images.
‘Jimmy’, whose photographs reflected the changing social and economic face of Tyneside, over the years, were in stark contrast to the image of Parks who depicted nothing more than a lost morality on Tyneside.
As he walked down Westgate Hill, which was ‘the home’ to about thirty motor cycle shops, Parks was consumed by the double standards displayed by the p
olice. Bikers from near and far were known to congregate ‘on the hill’ in vast numbers at weekends. It was not unusual for police to turn a blind eye as leather clad accountants and lawyers had ‘wheelie’ competitions up and down the hill as other motorists went about their lawful duty.
Parks also knew that about a quarter of a mile ‘up the hill’ towards the West End, an area which bore absolutely no comparison to its similarly named cousin in London, that overzealous officers would be seizing less powerful motor bikes from youngsters. It was ironic that these kids were not breaking the law to the anywhere near same extent as their middle class ‘counterparts’ down the road. However, the treatment of the ‘visitors’ was markedly different, largely because they were bringing money into the local economy.
Midway down the hill Parks went into a nearby Tesco Express and helped himself to a couple of carrier bags. He thought to himself ‘At this rate, maybe I should get a Loyalty Card’. He then made a quick diversion and headed off towards the local Gurdwara where he had previously harvested rich pickings.
Parks had no discernible religion, which of the many Gods invented by man would accept him? He knew that if he timed it correctly, then maybe during prayers, he could help himself to any of the large collection of brand new training shoes that stood in the hallway of the building as their barefooted owners prayed to their particular God.
He knew from previous visits to the Temple, that all four of its doors would remain open so that from his point of view he could harvest with impunity, whilst sangat was in progress.
He did not know, and cared even less that the four doors represented Grace, Learning, Peace and Livelihood and if he did he would site the ‘last door’ as the reason for his visit. He did not care that the doors were open to all comers, just so long as they were open. He was however, taking care of his own livelihood, but without any grace or peace, though he was learning about the risks associated with his chosen career.
Nike, New Balance and Adidas were just some of the brands that he could sell in any of a number of City Centre pubs. No one seemed to care that they were either stolen or part worn, so long as they were cheap.
Parks also knew from previous visits that the Community Leaders did not have CCTV installed in the temple. He did not contemplate the higher philosophical reasons for this he simply knew that if he successfully got away with some goodies then he would in all likelihood, evade justice. He also thought that the Sikh community were mildly suspicious of the police and probably would not report the thefts anyway.
Speed was of the essence as he crept into the foyer. He quickly scanned the neat lines of shoes and made a beeline for trainers which were placed randomly adjacent to a wall. As Parks was putting a sixth pair of trainers into his carrier bag, all noise ceased from within the temple. He had absolutely no idea of the protocol, but quickly ran from the building and as soon as he was out of sight of the temple began to walk at a leisurely pace as he gathered his breath and his thoughts.
Parks had never really understood the phrase ‘Shooting fish in a barrel’, but he assumed that it must mean that something was very easy because, this little side line had proved very lucrative to him over the recent past. He liked to keep side lines like this one to himself, because he knew that when he fell upon leaner times, as he knew he would, then would still have this exclusive revenue stream in reserve. He would never have articulated the situation as such, but he saw it pretty much as ‘having something in the bank’.
Upon reaching the city centre, Parks thought at first about going to ‘Cash Converters’ upon Clayton Street, however, he knew that identity and proof of ownership of the laptop would have to be shown. So, with that in mind, he decided to go to ‘The Clock’, an ‘all day boozer’ where he was certain that he could off load some trainers and, if his luck was in, the pc too.
There was probably more commercial activity going within the nicotine stained walls of this once fine establishment, than in the nearby Eldon Square Shopping Centre, a concrete monolith which has blighted the city centre since the mid ‘70’s and which was now showing every one of those years.
The construction of Eldon Square had been temporarily halted as a result of a bricklayers strike, and many an elderly local had wished the project which had effectively ripped the heart out of the city, had never been completed. Grand sandstone buildings designed by John Dobson and Richard Grainger, men who lent their name, and influence to city, were replaced by glass, plastic and concrete.
All in the name of progress.
The dirty hands of T Dan Smith, a corrupt local politician and former leader of Newcastle City Council reached everywhere, and Eldon Square forms a significant part of his unfortunate legacy.
However, right now, occupying the collective consciousness of Parks and ‘Daft Larry’, a serial smoker and drinker was whether, if Larry bought five pairs of trainers for £5.00 each would he get the sixth and final pair free. Size mattered less than price!
It was a strange fact of life that people like Larry insisted on wearing ‘named brands’ but would never consider paying full price for them or shopping for them in the conventional manner.
The deal with ‘Daft Larry’ was sealed and Parks knew that he had enough to eat, drink and stay on Elswick Road for another couple of days at least.
To seal the deal with ‘Daft Larry’, Parks gave him four pieces of gold jewellery that he had taken from Lauren’s room and asked him to sell three pieces with which he was to purchase a watch and keep one piece for himself.
As a gesture of goodwill he offered to ‘keep an eye’ on the trainers and promised him a pint of strong cider on his return. This arrangement clearly met with his approval because ‘Daft Larry’ had not moved so swiftly for a number of years, his nimble movements making a mockery of his years on Disability Living Allowance.
Parks wanted £50.00 for the laptop but because it was not giro day no one had enough money to buy it. He was certainly not going to give it to any one in lieu of cash. This had happened to him once before, when he was later offered his own stolen gear in another pub, by someone who had obviously just bought it from the bloke that he had passed it onto earlier in the expectation that he (Parks) would be paid later. The folly of youth! Once bitten and all that!
It was bad for business to be seen as being too much of a soft touch. It was as bad for business to appear to be too desperate to sell, as it was to appear to be too honest. No, all things said and done, there was a protocol to be observed and a code of dishonour to be adhered to when selling stolen goods.
Shortly afterwards, ‘Daft Larry’ returned with a boxed ‘Timberland’ watch which he gave to Parks. Parks suspected that ‘Larry’ had kept the gold and simply stole the watch. So what, easy come easy go.
£25.00 richer and six pairs of trainers lighter, Parks headed out of ‘The Clock’ and feeling the first hunger pangs of the day, decided that ‘The Five Swans’ offered him the perfect opportunity to ‘check out’ the ‘quality’ of his new ‘Man at Tesco’ look as well as an all-day breakfast for £4.40.
As Parks ‘lived in the here and now’, he would not know when or where his next meal may be coming from, so, it was essential to top up as cheaply as possible and with as much as possible. ‘The Five Swans’ ticked all of the right boxes in that respect. Walking in, and approaching the bar where he had been with Katy the previous evening, there was no obvious signs of recognition, he was partly pleased but slightly subdued because he really did crave recognition for what he considered to be devious and sophisticated offending.
In moments of reflection, Parks did not consider himself to be a ‘Nonce’ he viewed himself as some kind of modern day Casanova, albeit one who would spend a considerable amount of time in solitary confinement, should his luck ever run out, as he knew it must. Tucking into his ‘no frills’ breakfast, Parks looked around and saw a number of students, like him, obviously taking advantage of the value on hand. He did not recognise anyone and from the snippets of o
verheard conversation, the fate of Katy had not made the headlines in ‘student land’.
Feeling full of ‘Tim Martin’s finest’, and a bit bored and restless, Parks opened up the laptop and making a private wager with himself said quietly ‘What’s the odds that it’s not password protected’.
It wasn’t, and minutes later, he was sitting centre stage in the cyber world of Lauren Weston.
Sleeping well or otherwise, held no appeal for Hodder and about the same time the previous evening, as Parks was drifting off, Hodder was in a high octane mood.
He could not go home, and he had spent a good couple of hours trying to persuade Baxter over copious amounts of alcohol, to accept his apology and that his priority was to get Grace and Lauren back home just as quickly as he could. He told the younger man that he would not do anything to jeopardise that outcome.
Emotionally dulled by alcohol, he was not really convincing himself, let alone Baxter, and he decided to retreat to the ‘Premier Inn’ at Holystone, rather than any of the myriad of hotels that lined the coast where he could drink all night.
He also knew that no matter wherever he was in the early hours of the next morning, that he would be lying awake enduring the full effects of a hangover. Hodder knew that there was one fact of life that should never be tampered with…one should always sleep through the effects of alcohol. He knew that in the dark lonely hours that his mind would be occupied by Dean Parks and the unwitting but devastating effect that he was having on his life.
Hodder had asked himself repeatedly over recent days whether he was obsessed with Parks, and if it was anything other than the incredible bad luck that brought him to his home. What was it with Parks that had got so far under his skin?
In his drunken logic, he concluded that he may be losing his touch, getting too old or had simply lost his appetite for this kind of work. There was no doubting that police work was increasingly a younger persons’ game and though he was confident that he still had the tools get through the day, it may be that his heart was no longer be in it anymore. Notwithstanding, he knew that he would have to shelve any plans for the future until the matter in hand had been ‘sorted’.
And sort it he must.
Muddled by the fog of alcohol, Hodder, probably against the advice of his sober self, who happened to be ‘out of the room’ at that time, he decided to call Grace. He cared not for the hour, he longed to hear her voice, and even if she rebuked him, any sound was better than the internal recriminations that he was feeling at this moment.
Her phone rang.
He was immediately cut off.
He rang again.
He was cut off again.
He rang again.
It was answered. ‘Jim, not now please. Have you any idea what we are going through’?
‘Please, please just listen…I would give anything for none of this to have happened…did you know that Lauren was going to have a party? Did you know who would be invited? Did you know that some monster would come to our house and spoil everything that we had? ‘Cos, I sure didn’t’. He rushed the words out as if he was on some form of sponsored ‘speak-a-thon’ fearing that if he did not say them now then perhaps, the chance would be lost for ever.
‘But Jim, it’s just that you watch the world go by, almost like a casual observer and you choose to immerse yourself in things that appear to me at least, to be far less important than Lauren and I. Yes, I know that your job is important to you, but, you have to admit that you really do not play any part of our lives…are these criminals more important than your family’?
‘No, of course not, but…’ Grace interrupted…’Have you been drinking Jim’? She did not wait for the answer, she did not need one…’Goodbye Jim’. She ended the call.
A wave of sobriety swept over Hodder…’Goodbye! Goodbye! What did that mean?...He needed a plan and he needed one pretty quickly’…and so, he spent the rest of the night devising, revising and re-plotting the plan that he hoped would bring about the downfall of Dean Parks, which he vainly hoped would coincide with the resurrection of his tainted marriage.
Strictly speaking, Hodder didn’t have to ‘get up’ because he hadn’t actually been to sleep. He stirred, tired and listless, with no appetite for breakfast or the day ahead. He knew that he would have to sandwich his private agenda between the demands placed upon him during the day and deal with the expected avalanche of mundane enquiries which would doubtless land on his desk.
Hodder showered and left the ‘Inn’ promising to go home during the day to collect more clean clothes and ‘gee up’ SOCO to return his home to him. Inhaling deeply, as if that would cleanse him of the toxic alcoholic fumes emanating from deep within his pores, Hodder stared wide eyed at his car which had been ‘abandoned’ across three parking bays.
‘What an idiot’! ‘Was I really that drunk’? He concluded that he must have been very drunk indeed. Suddenly, his memory was jolted back to the drunken phone call with Grace…’Oh God, what did I say? What damage have I done now’?
Checking his phone, he found that the call of which he had only a vague memory was made at 3.10am that morning. He reasoned that because he could not remember the call, and had no idea of what either Grace or he had said to each other, that he had better keep a low profile hoping that his memory and his mood would improve during the course of the day.
Hodder listlessly walked to his car, the door was closed but unlocked…he felt embarrassed and was secretly pleased to be alone. Getting in, he turned over the key only to hear the one sound that even the most ardent of luddites can recognise. The battery was flat, having only marginally less life in it than Hodder. Checking the switches, he had left the lights on.
Another start to another day in paradise…Hodder cursed aloud and said ’Surely today can’t get any worse’.
It would.
He dug his hands deep into his pockets and set off on foot against the torrential ‘perma-nor-easterly’ rain towards Northumberland Park Metro Station, confident that the jolting of the carriage during the fifteen minute journey to North Shields would ‘stir him up’ one way or the other.
Arriving at the office late, wet and cold Hodder was in no mood for humour this morning…making reference to Hodder wearing yesterday’s shirt the crime fighting phenomenon that is ‘Gee-Gee’ said…’Nice threads James, You will have to give me the name of your tailor’.
‘Judging by the amount of time you spent going through my daughter’s knicker drawer, I would have assumed your interest in clothing from my home may have faded by now. By the way…I hope that they are not too tight for you’?
For once, ‘Gee-Gee’ thought that he may have gone too far or could it be that the barely concealed vitriol in Hodder’s voice had registered with him and he concluded that it was perhaps best not to labour the point right now. Either way, ‘Gee-Gee’ lived to fight another day, making feeble excuses as he made his way to the incident room to be briefed on the incident at Hodder’s home. Hodder was about to follow when the D.I. popped his head around the door and said ‘Where you off to Jim’?
‘Incident room…just want to hear if there have been any developments’.
‘Sorry…out of bounds to you…it’s for the best’…he smiled with as much manufactured insincerity as it was possible for one human being to muster in one sitting. He then walked from the office.
‘Bastard’ said Hodder not caring whether he was heard or not…followed by a barely audible ’You just watch this space’.
Licking his wounds and licking his lips, Hodder decided that it was ‘breakfast time’ and it was going to be a ‘North Shields Continental’…a strong black coffee and a bag of cheese and onion crisps from the C.I.D. shop…paid for in full. He was in enough trouble without falling foul of the custodians of the shop.
Moments later, a rather too cheerful Baxter waltzed into the office, without saying a word it was obvious to Hodder that Baxter was delighted with the service that he was receiving from the N.
H.S. and any talk of ‘cut backs’ would not be entertained by him. Baxter knew only too well of the turbulence in Hodder’s life and felt that it would be inappropriate, not to say churlish, to go on about his own private life when it was obvious that Hodder’s was apparently in such a state of terminal free fall.
The younger man explained that he had been to the custody suite, and for once there were not any prisoners that required their attention, just the usual array of ‘drunk and dizzies’, absconders etc…’nothing for us to get worried about’.
At least that was something. Just as thoughts of David Palma and by default Dean Parks began to fill Hodder’s mind, Baxter said ‘Hospital. We have to go to the hospital’. Jim was about to reproach his younger colleague when Baxter continued…’We have a stiff and a ‘nearly stiff to deal with…remember’?
Working in ‘overdrive’ Hodder was about to tell Baxter to deal with the ‘plonkies’ alone, when he realised that he could seize the opportunity whilst at the hospital, to check up on Katy…albeit unofficially, and to check what progress if any was being made to trace her attacker.
If Baxter was blessed with the ability to mind read, he would have learnt that Hodder was pre-occupied with his own agenda and not by ‘the plonkies’, but the words ‘Okay Jeff. The hospital it is then’, seemed to sate Baxter. If Hodder had been ‘gifted’ with mind reading skills he would have learnt that Baxter was on a ‘private mission’ too.
Had Baxter stopped to think he would have realised that this was just the negative influence of Hodder rubbing off on him once again. But, on this occasion, he did not care.
Just as Hodder and Baxter were leaving the office a telephone rang as he made to answer it Hodder called out to Baxter that he would see him outside the office ‘At the front door’. Baxter nodded and left the office.
‘North Shields CI.D. Detective Sergeant Hodder speaking’.
‘Ah Jim’, it was Doug, a civilian ‘General Office Assistant’ whose primary role was to deal with a vast and varied array of abusive phone calls and visitors to the ‘front counter’ of the police station…’Jim, there is a bloke here saying that he wants to talk to someone from the C.I.D. he won’t say what it is about…’
‘No worries Doug. Leave it with me’.
Hodder walked along the corridor to the front office not quite knowing what he was going to encounter, but this in actual fact, was not in the least bit unusual because on a daily basis one could encounter a whole variety of ‘nutcases’, to genuine individuals with ‘pukka info’. None the less, it was still a bit of a mystery.
As he entered the foyer Hodder saw two men walking nervously back and forth like expectant fathers’ at the maternity ward. Doug caught his eye and discreetly nodded in the direction of the men.
In a micro-second, Hodder had formed an opinion. Both were ‘prigs’ one considerably younger and blacker than the other, both extremely well built. What on earth can this be all about he thought as he extended his hand to the elder of the two, who was clearly the senior man as he introduced himself.
The elder man said ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately’.
Hodder directed the men towards a small interview room set just to the left of the main door. He held the door open for both men and invited them in. The elder man walked in without hesitation, the younger man seemed to be reluctant.
Addressing the younger man Hodder said ‘Are you coming in’? The younger man did not respond but the elder man who was already seated said in a pronounced Mancunian accent ‘No. He isn’t’. It was clear who was leader of this particular pack.
With experience, correctly or otherwise, Police Officers learn very quickly to assimilate information and form opinions about individuals whom they encounter, and even an officer as obviously as flawed as Hodder was usually pretty accurate in his assessment.
In a flash he saw, a well-built white man in his early sixties who still cut an imposing figure, not muscle bound, but not overweight either. He had obviously been a ‘handful’ in his time, and probably still was. He was impeccably dressed in smart designer casual wear with slightly too much gold to be described as ‘tasteful’. He was let down by the self-inflicted tattoos on his well-worn knuckles and a tell-tale ‘jail-time’, Swallow just below the collar line, but not far enough down that it did not fly into sight from time to time. Hodder wondered if this tattoo migrated south in the winter.
This man, in the unspoken opinion of Hodder, had obviously done some serious crime and time. He clearly had wealth but absolutely no class whatsoever. Who was this man? Hodder had not met him before…he was certainly not local and he was not one of the ‘big players’ from the ‘the town’ (Newcastle).
‘How can I help you Sir’? Hodder hated calling criminals ‘Sir’ but as this person was a wholly unknown entity, it was probably best to err on the side of caution until circumstances dictated otherwise.
‘I would like to offer a reward for the arrest and conviction of the person who assaulted the young student’.
‘What student would that be Sir’?
‘The one who was assaulted at a party’.
Hodder was unsure, what if any press coverage had been given to the incident and continued ‘That is very kind of you, but I can assure you that we have sufficient resources at our disposal and we are pursuing active lines of enquiry’.
‘Have you arrested anyone’?
‘Obviously, I am not at liberty to discuss any police investigation with you or anyone else’.
Sensing that he was getting in too deep Hodder said ‘Sir, it’s most generous of you to offer to help the investigation, but can I ask who you are’.
‘Just a concerned citizen’.
‘Then I trust Sir, that you will allow us to investigate this matter in our own way’.
The man leant across the table between Hodder and himself, and said with unconcealed hostility ‘Have it your own way’. With that the man stood up dwarfing Hodder, and without another word he walked from the room, the door slamming closed in his wake. Hodder went after him before seeing him exit though the automatic sliding doors at the front of the building.
Looking outside Hodder saw that a black Infiniti FX 5.0 V8S was pulling away from the kerb in an easterly direction. He frantically scanned the horizon for Baxter and he saw that he was impatiently sitting in an unmarked C.I.D. car tapping his watch in a way that reminded him of a very irritated Sir Alex Ferguson. Was there any other type of Sir Alex Ferguson? thought Hodder as he ran over to the car.
Hodder attempted to open the passenger door. It was locked, he banged impatiently on the door window and saw Baxter mouth the words ‘Hang on. Hang on. He jumped in and was immediately embarrassed when he instructed Baxter to ‘Follow that car’. Baxter, not usually taken to swearing said in mock disbelief ‘Fuuuuurk Off’.
‘I fucking mean it, just don’t get clocked…something is up’.
‘What would that be then’?
‘I don’t know, but let’s get close enough so I can P.N.C. that Infiniti’. The brake lights of the Infiniti told them that it was turning left from Upper Pearson Street and heading towards Tynemouth Road. From there it could head in any of three directions and be lost within minutes.
However, much to Hodder’s surprise, the driver was strangely cautious, so cautious in fact, that the manner of his driving screamed out to any experienced Police Officer…’I don’t want to be stopped, but probably deserve to be’. Hodder just hoped that a passing panda or overzealous Traffic Officer, as most of them tended to be, did not come to the same conclusion and ‘blow it out’. Whoever the occupants of the Infiniti were, they would quite naturally come to the conclusion that he had requested the stop, thus scuppering any chance that he may have of finding out the real purpose for their presence in the town.
Baxter and Hodder followed the Infiniti at a discreet distance, using the basic surveillance technique of keeping ‘innocent’ cars as ‘cover’ between them and the target vehicle so that a
ny unexpected occurrence would not result in them discovering the efficiency of the rear end crumple zone of the Infiniti…other road users could have that pleasure!
The day was getting stranger by the minute as the Infiniti entered the grounds of the General Hospital. Both of the men who had just been into the Police Station, got out at the main entrance, as the Infiniti clearly not on auto pilot, was driven around the car park looking for a space. As the Infiniti manoeuvred into a ‘Staff Only’ bay Hodder noted the registration number and did a P.N.C. check. The vehicle ‘came back’ as belong to Denny Bostock from Didsbury, Manchester and there was a ‘marker’ showing that the vehicle was ‘of interest’ to Greater Manchester Police (GMP) Serious Organised Crime Team. Of immediate interest to Hodder was that GMP were asking that all sightings of this vehicle be reported to them and a note made of all of the occupants.
Hodder told Baxter to pull over. He told him to follow the Infiniti driver, another black man, obviously ‘hired muscle’ who was walking towards the hospital. Jim’s reasoning being that he could not do it because he had been seen by the two passengers. Baxter was instructed to keep in touch if he discovered why these strangers were now visiting the hospital, and if he (Baxter) was ‘rumbled’ then he should tell the police at the hospital that he had been instructed by Hodder to inform them that someone was making ‘unusual’ enquiries about the victim.
Hodder meanwhile, was going back to the ‘nick’ to try to establish what interest Denny Bostock had in Katy, and from a self-preservation point of view how he was going to feed this new information into the incident room. He knew that he was going to ‘freelance’ to resolve this problem, but he was certainly not going to advertise the fact. And, on a not entirely unselfishly, he wanted to go home for a change of clothing, and to attempt to extract his home from the clutches of Northumbria Police.
Sensing a long day ahead, Hodder headed off to his home and once again was met by the far too efficient Crime Scene Manager who was able to tell Hodder that he expected to be free of the scene by lunchtime and that subject to the consent of the Senior Investigating Officer, he could probably move back in. This came as some relief to Hodder, who was once again ‘videoed’ collecting some clothing, just because his colleagues were almost finished with the scene did not mean that some devious defence lawyer would not seek to discredit him…too late he thought…beat you to it!
As he drove back to the office Hodder felt more upbeat that he had for a few days and the shower that he intended to have would only add to his rising spirits. However, once back, it was paperwork time, a short intelligence report to ‘the room’, a quick email to Ben Heath regarding the visitor, as an ‘insurance policy’, and it was time for ablutions. Whilst showering, Hodder allowed himself the luxury of thinking that he may actually sleep in his own bed for a change, albeit alone, but it was at least a step in the right direction.
Suddenly, work intruded his thoughts and he started to weigh up the pros and cons of contacting GMP to make some enquiries about Denny Bostock. He thought better of it, they would find out anyway, via the incident room. He simply could not risk being a fly in the ointment at this point in time. One way or the other, sooner or later, he would find out all he needed to know about Bostock.
Clean, dry, refreshed and changed, it was back to the office just in time to note a missed call from Baxter. A voicemail told him that according to nursing staff at the hospital, Denny Bostock was Katy’s grandfather, and a very concerned one at that. That may explain the offer a reward, but it went nowhere to explaining the interest of GMP in a man who had all the hallmarks of being a ‘target criminal’…there was clearly more to this man than met the eye.
Frustrated at getting no response from Hodder, Baxter decided that he needed cheering up and headed for Ward 7 where Peter Sykes was still resident. He did not think for a second that Sykes would be sitting up in bed cracking jokes and telling anyone who may care to listen about the ‘hauntingly cheeky bouquet’ of Snirmovv Vodka and its life reducing qualities. No, this was all about seeing Hannah, even though it had only been a few hours since he had left her. As he walked along the corridors he began thinking to himself ‘Is this the real thing? How would I know’? As he turned a corner to enter the ward he was walking on air, but resolved to keep his feet firmly on the ground only.
Then he saw her. He felt a sudden nervous tightening of his stomach muscles as he watched her dealing with a patient. She was so natural, so gentle and though the pun did not occur to him at the time, so patient. She glanced up, obviously noticing some movement in her peripheral vision. She smiled one of those uplifting smiles which radiated warmth, affection and charm. He was putty in her hands and hoped to be again that evening. Hannah got up from the patient said something that appeared to be calm and reassuring and walked over to where Baxter stood transfixed like the fool he felt himself to be.
She walked passed him heading for the seat behind the nurses station and as she did so, her hand gently brushed his outer thigh. She knew exactly what she was doing and her impish smile betrayed her otherwise calm exterior. ‘God’, she knew how to fluster and frustrate him. ‘Hi, I was wandering how Mr Sykes’ is?
‘Well, Officer, he has improved dramatically, he has regained consciousness and his vision appears to be coming back. It is still blurred, but all the signs are that after a quick trip to ‘Specsavers’ he should be okay. Would you like to see him’?
Without realising what he was saying Baxter said ‘Is he allowed to see me’?
They both burst out laughing and Baxter countered by saying ‘What I meant to say was…‘What about the Doctor? Has he done his rounds yet’?
‘Oh I don’t think that will be a problem, follow me Officer’.
He found this game of ‘cat and mouse’ very amusing and strangely erotic, but he had to snap himself back to reality and return to ‘job mode’…there would be time for fun and games later…with any luck.
Baxter knew all about the dark humour that existed amongst hospital staff and nurses in particular. He knew that like the police, that they too were at the ‘sharp end’ and often faced adversity in difficult and trying circumstances, and like the police it was their version of ‘gallows humour’ that got them through the day. He also suspected that like the police that they were also of the opinion that if it wasn’t for the public it would be a really great job.
Sykes looked only marginally healthier than his former drinking pal Fred Tamblin, who was still occupying space in the refrigerator in the mortuary. Hannah spoke to Sykes in a way which exuded compassion and professionalism and as she did so, an uninvited thought passed through his mind…’Hodder could learn a thing or two from her’.
When Hannah mentioned that there was a Police Officer here who wanted to talk to him he not unexpectedly said ‘I’ve got nothing to say’. Baxter sensed that the opportunity to talk to Sykes may escape him especially, if his condition continued to improve and he was discharged from hospital.
Baxter said ‘Look Peter, as far as the police are concerned we simply want to know where you bought your Vodka…you may not be aware but it is part of a batch of counterfeit Vodka. We need to get it off the streets to stop anyone else coming to harm’
‘The Doctor said that I should make a full recovery, so, from my point of view there has been no harm done’.
‘There is another person ill in hospital and all we want to do is get the stuff off the streets before anyone else ends up here. We do need to know where you got it from’.
‘Bought it from a bloke in a pub and before you ask, I was pissed can’t remember the pub or anything about the bloke. So, I can’t help you’. Baxter was learning to be resilient, that may have been because Hannah was still at the bedside or because he was actually starting to get to grips with this ‘investigation lark’.
‘Look Peter, you may not know this but, the stuff that you and others have been drinking contains some pretty unpleasant ingredients namely Methanol, that’s Bra
ke Fluid or De-icer to you and me. Some bottles contain chloroform, no need to guess what that can do to you. The lucky people and believe me you are one of them, actually pulled through…others don’t’.
‘You are wasting your time. I can’t help you’.
‘What you actually mean is that you will not help me’ said Baxter.
‘Either way it means the same thing. I’m saying nothing’.
Baxter sensed a ‘chink’ in Sykes’ armour but was mindful that he was still seriously ill and did not want to be seen as pushing him too hard. ‘That’s no problem…I tried asking Fred Tamblin but he wasn’t saying anything either’.
Sykes seemed momentarily buoyed by this ‘good news’…’Told you mate. You are on your own’.
‘And so is Fred’.
‘What do you mean by that’?
‘Well, you are certainly making better progress than he is’.
At this point, Hannah who was feeling increasingly uncomfortable made her excuses to leave, she sensed that a bombshell was about to be dropped.
‘He is a tough old boot…’
Baxter interrupted and said ‘Not as tough as you think Peter…he didn’t make it’.
Sykes winced as he pulled himself up into a seated position and said ‘What do you mean’?
‘What I mean is that your so called ‘code of honour’, ‘vow of silence’ may be the stuff of gangster movies but it will not help your mate now…he died and it could just as easily have been you too’.
Sykes had spent the best part of his stay in hospital being restored to some form of health and as the colour drained from his face he inhaled deeply and said…’But it was only snide Vodka we were told that it was Kocher and that we were only getting it because we could shift a few bottles of the stuff’.
‘Have you sold any…we have to get it back to stop anymore damage being done’.
‘Bullshit. This is bullshit you’re just trying to trick me’.
‘Have it your own way…Do you fancy jumping in a wheelchair to identify his body? Believe me, any other deaths will be down to you. But, a word of warning…do not expect us to be so accommodating if anyone else ends up in the morgue…this is your one opportunity to get yourself out of the shit. This offer is only valid whilst I am at your bedside and I have to go now’.
Baxter got up and saw a look of utter bewilderment upon Sykes’ face. He was as the saying goes ‘Between a rock and a hard place’. Baxter and Trading Standards, who had provided him with his information, had no idea how many bottles of the stuff were in circulation and it was clear that this investigation was going nowhere very quickly. Baxter began to walk away from the bed and Sykes tentatively said ‘Err, Mr Baxter, can I have some time to think about this. Fred croaking and all that has come as a bit of a shock’.
‘No’. Was Baxter’s curt reply as he walked towards the exit. He had barely taken half a dozen steps but with each step Baxter was thinking ‘Quick, quick stop me before I leave…for God’s sake don’t call my bluff’.
Sykes did not take the bait for now. But he would.
Hannah was busy with other patients as he exited the ward. He resolved to text her when he was outside hoping that she had not walked away from him in disgust.
About the same time that Hodder was arranging for an industrial cleaning company to deep clean his home, Dean Parks was enjoying another drink in the ‘Five Swans’ at the expense of Lauren.
The stolen laptop was really interesting. Not password protected and once on the internet he established the email address of the (previous/lawful) owner and Parks set about installing a ‘Password Finder Tool’ with three keystrokes he saw that the Facebook password for ‘Lauren Weston’ was ‘Gothisgreat’. Soon afterwards Parks was exploring her list of ‘friends’ and soon found one of great interest to him.
There was only one ‘Katy’ listed. Katy Bostock was about to become his first victim of a ‘cyber-rape’ and the good news was that Parks could take his time because he was going to be contacting her via Lauren Weston’s Facebook account.
Parks marvelled at his cunning, and took a long celebratory gulp as he sent a message to all of Lauren’s ‘friends’…..it said ‘Great party everyone, shame Katy spoilt it all…bitch deserved what she got LOL’. Parks smiled as he swallowed as he sent. That was enough for now.
Satisfied with his day’s work so far, Parks decided to explore the darker reaches of the laptop hoping to find a pin number for the debit card which was still in possession. He decided that if he did find the pin then he would empty the account before passing on the card to some unsuspecting junkie in exchange for some stolen trainers.
He looked in the obvious files marked ‘Lauren’s stuff’ but he just could not find the pin. He was about to power the laptop down when he decided to look in ‘My Photos’….just a bunch of odd looking Goths, and family photographs. He looked at a photograph of a very attractive middle aged woman. He mused whether she may be Lauren’s mother ‘cos if she was he may have to make some ‘plans’ for her. Then he saw it…’Fucking hell’ he said quietly to himself, or so he thought because his voice prompted a rather rotund bar maid with a tattoo of a faded rose on the back of her left wrist, to walk quietly over to him and said ‘Can you please mind your language’.
He apologised immediately. The last thing he wanted was for the police to be called. After all, the day had just taken a turn for the better. As he closed the laptop he decided that he was not going to sell it. Not for now at least. Parks felt in total control, and the feeling was really good.
But there was one thing that Parks did not know. However, he would learn it soon enough.
Hodder sent another email to Ben Heath explaining the family connection between Katy and Denny Bostock. He knew that this shrewd method of manipulation between Heath and himself would ensure that he was kept informed of all developments, and that Heath would be seen by the investigation team as being a captain with his hand very firmly on the tiller. Shortly after sending the mail Hodder’s mobile rang. It was Heath. ‘Do fancy a coffee…my place…five minutes’. This was not exactly an invitation and as Hodder walked towards Heaths office he felt strangely elated. Why? His life was imploding yet he was happy to be back in familiar surroundings because he knew that the minute that he went home sober or not, he was in for a very long night.
As usual, the door stood open, he gave the cursory/obligatory knock and saw his friend and colleague pouring coffee. No digestives, he hoped that this was not a formal meeting. Heath looked and beckoned him in with a nod of his head. ‘Close the door Jim’…this was not looking good but then again Hodder had a habit of viewing things from a pessimistic point of view.
There really was no need for the banalities of small talk and Heath said to Hodder as soon as he was seated. ‘I have spoken to Grace on the phone’…’Oh yes’ said Hodder the second word being said in such a way that it lasted rather too long and suggested a question rather than acknowledgement.
‘Naturally, Jim she is devastated with what has happened and she wants you to know that she does not hold you responsible because she now understands that both you and she were duped by Lauren. The fact is that if you knew she was going to have a party then you would have went out for a meal locally, so that you could both be around to keep the lid on things if they got out of hand’.
‘Ben…why is she telling this to you and not me’?
‘We have been friends for a long time and I just think that she wants to clear the air’.
Hodder put his cup down knowing that what he was about to say he would never say to any other Senior Officer…’Who rang who’? For the first time in many years he saw Ben Heath looking very uncomfortable. He shuffled uneasily in his seat, he took off his spotless spectacles and began cleaning them unnecessarily. When he replaced them he said…’Well, Jim as a matter of friendship I felt that I should explain to Grace that it was me who wanted you back here and that none of what has happened was your fault, or indeed her
s. I also explained that whether I had asked you to come back or not, the incident at your home would still have occurred. I did not mean to interfere with your private life and I am sorry if you think that I have overstepped the mark’.
If any other officer, senior or otherwise had have done this, Hodder would have went ballistic however, he was grateful for the support. Hodder felt strangely moved and struggled to get the words out ‘Do you know what her plans are Ben’?
‘Naturally, she has some reservations about going back and has even talked about putting the house on the market, but she seems to have calmed down and has come around and is seeing the bigger picture’.
‘Not a picture big enough to know that it was Dean Parks, because if she knew that he knew where we lived that would screw everything up between us’.
Heath said ‘Don’t worry, I told her that we are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry…I take it that you are not going to tell her’.
Hodder looked across the table, fixed his friend with a stare and said…’If I told her about Parks she would never come back and I would probably never see Lauren or her again…lets just try to keep it that way’.
‘Fine by me said Heath…oh by the way thanks for the info about Bostock a most interesting character…he is the Manchester equivalent of ‘First Aid’.
‘Bloody hell’ said Hodder so he is not just a concerned grandfather he is out for blood’.
‘Absolutely…Parks had better hope that we find him before Bostock does’.
‘Do you know Ben, and I probably shouldn’t say this I don’t care if Bostock gets to him first after what he has done to my family. I find it very strange agreeing with the actions of a career criminal but I can see his point of view. He may be a ‘scrote’ but I kind of feel sorry for him.
‘Remember the deal Jim…no interference….oh and by the way SOCO are finished with your house’.
‘Absolutely Ben’. Hodder got up and as he turned to close the door he looked directly at Heath and said ‘Thank you’. Hodder walked down to the office in a kind of stunned silence, moved by yet another demonstration of loyalty by Ben Heath, a man whom he knew in his heart of hearts that he was going to betray, though not out of any sense of malice but purely out of necessity.
When he got to the office he rang the cleaning company who agreed to meet him at his home in thirty minutes time. Things were beginning to look up for the first time in what appeared to be eons.
Hodder entered his home alone and whilst he was waiting for the contractors to arrive he took his time to walk around and whilst doing so he saw numerous small adhesive measuring stickers placed (by SOCO) on or next to relevant exhibits or positions. His memory was drawn back over many years to when he worked on a shooting in nearby Monkseaton. On that fateful day in April 1989, 22 year old Robert Sartin, took his father’s double barrelled shot gun and began firing indiscriminately at any one within his vision. Sartin killed one man who was walking to church, and injured another fourteen. He is still detained.
The psychological injuries inflicted upon the residents of this quiet leafy suburb, for indeed, Tyneside does have then, remain to this day and the insensitivity of the police long after the investigation was over, meant that those stickers that remained on doors, walls and the street served as a constant reminder to the residents of the horrific events of that day. Hodder would ensure that there was no trace left of the incident before he would even consider allowing Grace and Lauren back home.
Leaving strict instructions with the contractors, Hodder returned to the office to be met by Baxter who greeted him with the words…’You up for a P.M.(Post Mortem Examination) this afternoon’?
‘Hey, I know I don’t look very good at the moment and have been having my troubles but surely I don’t need one of those yet’.
Baxter was delighted to see that something resembling a sense of humour was appearing to return to Hodder and he said with a smile ‘Do you want yours before or after Fred Tamblin, I’m sure the Pathologist will be able to fit you in’.
‘What time is it set for’? said Hodder.
‘Two o’clock…so you should have plenty of time for your lunch…what do you fancy?...Liver and Onions’?
Hodder who clearly was returning to form said ‘I’m more of a steak and kidney man myself’.
Every visit to the mortuary always reminded Hodder of one of his first. This occurred way back when, as a young probationer he was encouraged to join in the ‘jolly japes’ of life on a uniformed shift. On this occasion, a senior P.C. told him that they were going to play a joke on the new female Sergeant.
Eager to be accepted into the fold Hodder readily agreed. So, he was briefed to climb into one of the body fridges at the mortuary. Once inside, he was told that the Sergeant would be asked to come to inspect a body in one of the drawers. All good so far, thought Hodder as he lay under a sheet, only then realising that the drawers were not separate compartments. He was shocked to see that that he was surrounded by corpses. Some fresher than others, but he could not lose face now!
The young Hodder waited and waited as the young Hodder got colder and colder. Suddenly, after about twenty minutes or so, the body next to him tapped him on the leg and said ‘God, it’s fucking freezing in here isn’t it’?...Hodder nearly died of panic and claustrophobia as he heard the entire shift standing in the mortuary and laughing at his expense as he remained locked within the fridge. So much for the Sergeant being the target of the joke!
Just before two o’clock that afternoon, Hodder and Baxter made their way to the mortuary at the General Hospital but on this occasion, much to Baxter’s dismay, they did not go through the labyrinth of corridors that make up the hospital. Instead they went to the service door which is located at the back of the mortuary. This is the route by which patients who die in the hospital or elsewhere, or are collected by Funeral Directors enter or leave the building.
In a hospital with many design faults, at least some thought had been put into the location of this door…it is not visible to any member of the public. Ringing the shrill bell, located high enough up so as not to be the plaything of annoying children, it was answered by ‘Lurch’. This odd man who had seen both officers on numerous occasions before, always asked who they were, insisted on the production of Warrant Cards before allowing entry. Hodder often wondered what his response would have been if he had have said ‘Officers Burke and Hare here for the P.M.’ However, as ‘Lurch’ clearly had no sense of humour it was probably wise not to do so.
After signing in Hodder and Baxter donned surgical smocks and shoe covers, before entering the ‘main arena’. Body fluids were a real pain to get out of Marks and Spencer suits! The mortuary at the General Hospital is about forty metres long and about fifteen metres wide. Set in the centre of the room are approximately six guttered dissection tables and as they entered each had a body upon it in varies stages of dissection.
There is no such thing as dignity in death.
Set along one of the walls is a viewing gallery for the faint hearted and underneath the gallery window is a vast array of stainless steel measuring, weighing and storage receptacles.
Scrubbing up at this time was Dr James Wu, the resident Pathologist, he was clearly getting ready to start and Tamblin who was laid out in all his naked glory on a dissection table a matter of yards away, was completely unaware of his fate.
Wu who knew both officers, was a tall gangly man, with a friendly disposition, who often interspersed medical commentary regarding his findings with one liners of such quality that Hodder often thought that he ‘moonlighted’ as a Christmas cracker joke writer. He generally got a titter or two but strangely not from ‘Lurch’ or his ‘patient’.
Tamblin’s neck was supported by a broad wooden block with a semi-circle cut out to enable the head to remain still whilst the examination was in progress.
Wu said ‘Ah gentlemen, how nice of you to come to see me again, I trust you are well’…a real English eccentric,
despite his oriental name. Hodder knew from previous P.M.s that Wu usually wore a garish bowtie under his gown and today was no exception…it had numerous bikini clad women upon it posing 1940’s style, much like those seen on the fuselage of aircraft during the second world war.
However, as he was the man with the scalpel in his hand, and the medical knowledge in his head, his lack of political correctness and poor comical timing was tolerated by all those present, except Tamblin who, of course, had no say in the matter.
On a steel tray to the side of the ‘operating table’ lay a vast array of pristine stainless steel medical instruments and to the uninitiated, many, particularly the saws and bolt croppers had no place in a hospital…how little they knew.
The Pathologist began by speaking into a digital recorder making various observations regarding the physical condition of the cadaver. Dr Wu then selected a scalpel and working from each of Tamblin’s shoulders made deep incision to from a ‘Y’ shape ending just above the pubic line. After a bit more internal work with the scalpel large flaps of skin were peeled back exposing the rib cage and lower intestinal organs of Tamblin.
The smell was indescribable but had absolutely no effect upon Wu, ‘Lurch’ or for that matter, Tamblin. The same could not be said of Hodder and Baxter who though having witnessed this on numerous occasions still found it extremely nauseating. Any officer who vomited during a P.M. found his reputation in tatters…it was a rite of passage not to ‘chuck up’ particularly during one’s first P.M.
This too, did not apply to Tamblin.
The rib cage was removed using the bolt croppers exposing all of the major organs. In keeping with all in his profession Dr Wu always liked to give Police Officer’s, especially those who looked particularly nauseous, a conducted tour of the internal organs as he removed them one by one before placing them in stainless trays for further examination, weighing and eventual dissection.
It was about this time when Hodder heard ‘Lurch’ who was standing at Tamblin’s head start to talk to the corpse. This was completely normal (for Lurch) and none of the mortuary staff found this to be in the least bit unusual. Seconds later, Hodder saw ‘Lurch’ ‘peel back’ Tamblin’s face before taking a stainless steel circular saw to the top of his skull which he set about removing with studied and practiced precision.
There then followed a once heard never to be forgotten ‘popping’ sound as the top of the skull was levered off using a short instrument. The Cerebrospinal Fluid which surrounds the brain then began dripping onto the floor. Hodder often thought about the plight of the nightshift cleaners in the mortuary. What a job! Not quite brain surgery but pretty close to it!
With an ‘Aha’ Dr Wu produced a liver so enlarged and diseased that he seemed genuinely impressed…’A very fine example gentlemen…now if that is not a lesson to us all, then nothing ever will be’. Wu, a keen wine enthusiast, was rumoured to have an extensive and expensive collection at his home which he consumed and replaced with equal enthusiasm.
The removal of the brain is often seen as the end of the examination, the body being now, nothing more than an empty shell. ‘Lurch’ had the unenviable job of stitching the cadaver back together…he would win no prizes for neatness!
Tamblin’s death was still ‘not suspicious’ and up to this point, neither the external or internal examination had suggested his death may be due to anything other than years of neglect, excess and abuse. As a consequence Hodder felt that he and Baxter’s presence was no longer required. They had formally identified the corpse which under the circumstances was probably as much as they could do but, in an organisation like the police service protocols must be adhered to, no matter how unpleasant.
Prior to leaving, Hodder reminded Dr Wu that he would be most interested in the toxicology results particularly when there now appeared to be three potential cases of poisoning due to ‘snide’ Vodka. Hodder and Baxter then left with indecent haste gulping what passed for the fresh air of Tyneside as they got outside the mortuary.
Hodder asked Baxter to ‘swing by’ his home just to check on the progress of the cleaners. When they got there the contractors were in the process of leaving. Hodder was delighted when he saw the results…even as a trained Detective he would not have been able to tell that anything untoward had occurred there…he would be able to sleep in his own bed that night.
After settling the bill, he told Baxter that he was taking the rest of the day off and when Baxter said that he fancied going for a drink Hodder was immediately apologetic knowing how many times he had ‘twisted’ Baxter’s arm to do just that. Unlike Hodder, Baxter was understanding and left Hodder at home promising to collect him for work in the morning.
Home at last, Hodder set about changing all of the bedding and after grappling with the ‘user’s guide to quantum physics’ that was the washing machine handbook he washed the dirty laundry. He resolved to contact Grace in the morning…one more night would not plunge him into a deeper crisis…he hoped.
It was only his own ‘dirty laundry’ that he had to sort out now and he was certainly not going to be washing that in public because as history had taught him there is no situation that a Police Officer could not make worse.
The Sweet Smell of Rain Page 10