by Lisa Cutts
I tripped him up. He went down hard and fast. I heard a crack. The thing that stuck in my mind was that he was wearing a lanyard around his neck and the ID pass attached to it hit him in the face as he fell. And now he was on the floor.
Three uniform officers had run up the stairs and joined us. I’d heard the sirens in the background, but it was only now the red mist had lifted and I could think rationally again that I made the link that they were coming to help us. Two of the three stopped and cuffed the man screaming on the floor. As they turned him over, I saw that the crack I’d heard had been the sound of his nose breaking as it hit the concrete corridor floor.
I turned my attention to Jim and Wingsy. Jim was sitting up against the outside wall of the flat next to the open front door. He had his head tilted back and was prodding his neck with his left hand. Wingsy was crouched down next to him. I had to turn away again so that they couldn’t see me smile as I heard Wingsy say to him, ‘You’re welcome. You may be a Spunk Bubble, but you’re our Spunk Bubble.’
‘Alright, Jim?’ I asked when I could keep a straight face. He nodded at me.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Jim coughed then cleared his throat before saying, ‘As I turned the corner, there was a bloke coming out of the premises. I told him I was a police officer, asked him his name and if there was anyone else indoors. He grabbed me and pushed me to the floor.’ Jim shut his eyes for a second. ‘No idea what his problem is.’
‘Best we take a look in this flat, then,’ I said, as much to myself as to anyone else. I went to step over Jim’s outstretched legs towards the door. Wingsy, asp still in hand, stepped in behind me. Jim got to his feet to follow us inside.
Less than a minute had passed since we’d come tearing up the stairs to help Jim, but it was enough time for anyone inside to have run out. There were no other exits from the flats. They didn’t have individual fire escapes, so, if someone else had been inside, they’d have heard us. And they’d be waiting.
14
From the doorway, I could see along a passage leading to a dimly lit living room. An archway to my left led to a cramped kitchen. It was empty, that much I could see at a glance. Another door after the arch appeared to be a cupboard. I gestured that I was going to open it and then called out, ‘Hello, it’s the police.’ No reply. It contained a hoover and three or four black bags of junk. No room to hide in there.
The three of us stood in the hall, peering into the room that had the curtains drawn and the lights off. I felt along the wall inside the doorway for the light switch. My fingers made contact with it, but there was something not right with the surface. As I snapped the light on and pulled my hand away, I guessed without examining my fingertips that I’d pressed a light switch swathed in blood.
What was left of a smashed white mug lay on the carpet. In the now-illuminated room, dark patches were visible under the china fragments on the floor. A sound made me whip my head towards my right. I guessed the bedroom. I put my hand up to halt the two chomping at the bit to get past me.
‘Mind that,’ I said to Jim and Wingsy behind me, pointing down to the broken pieces littering the floor. Having little time to worry about scene preservation if there was either someone injured on the premises or an offender about to make good their escape, I stepped over the remnants and moved towards the bedroom.
‘Police,’ I called again. I pushed the door open with my asp before rushing forward to the figure on the floor. ‘Call an ambulance,’ I shouted to Wingsy.
An elderly man of about eighty was lying on his right side inside the bedroom door. A large laceration on the left side of his head was bleeding. Against the whiteness of his hair and the paleness of his skin, the blood was stark. He had on a white shirt, too, and the contrast of the blood seeping down on to the material was all the fiercer.
Without any hesitation, he was my priority. Preservation of life. It was a fundamental policing principle but also a human instinct. It was extremely difficult to fight it; it was why people tended to run towards a car accident. That said, I had to make sure no one else was in the room. A very speedy recce told me that the bed was pushed up against the window and the wardrobe door was ajar. Two £20 notes were sticking out of the bottom of the wardrobe. An old-fashioned dressing table on legs and a wooden chair with a red leather seat and back were the only other items in the room.
Bending down beside the old man to feel for a pulse, I was relieved to hear him moaning. I was also pretty pleased to hear Wingsy come into the room and say, ‘An ambulance is on its way.’ Then I could hear him giving an update to the control room on the victim’s approximate age, condition and injuries. Once my temporary patient had opened his eyes, I tried to explain that I was a police officer, but I didn’t think he was taking any of it in. Once again I could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance; the paramedics would be here shortly.
Wingsy and I made the old man as comfortable as we could without allowing him to get up. He didn’t seem to have any injuries other than the one to his head we could already see, and eventually he told us his name was Walter McRay. I could hear Jim moving about looking for any contact details for Walter’s family, and any medication he might be taking, ready for the imminent arrival of the paramedics.
Once Walter had told us that he didn’t think he had any other injuries, Wingsy asked him what had happened.
‘I had my lunch,’ he said, ‘cleared up and heard a knock at the door. When I went to open it, I could see a bloke outside with some sort of pass on a string around his neck. He waved it at me and said that there was a problem with the water in the block and he’d have to come in and check that the pressure was OK.’ Walter paused at this and took several short breaths. ‘Told him I’d just washed up and it was fine. He said it was for fine for short bursts, but I’d need mine looking at. Like a silly old fool, I let him in.’ Lying on the floor, Walter’s eyes welled up and he raised a hand to his face to wipe the tears away. ‘Turned my back on him, heard noises from the wardrobe there and there was a second fella inside the flat. The first one must have let him in. He was going through my wife’s jewellery box. It’s all I’ve got left of her.’ He tried to move his head in the direction of his furniture. A wince gave away how restricted his movement was.
The sound of paramedics coming into the flat drowned out Walter’s next words. I could hear Jim giving them a summary of what had happened, refusing any medical attention for himself and then showing them the way to the bedroom. Wingsy and I left them to it.
‘Poxy artifice burglars,’ I said to Wingsy when we were back outside on the communal balcony. The misery they inflicted on the vulnerable had always got to me. I let out a sigh and looked over the railings to where the uniform patrol was putting the prisoner into the back of their car. Even from two floors away, I could tell that he wasn’t enjoying his day so far.
I felt the railings give a little as Wingsy lent next to me. ‘I heard Walter say that the other one must have taken his dead wife’s wedding ring. It had an inscription inside the gold band.’
‘What scum does that to the elderly?’ I said watching the patrol car drive away. ‘That’s why they pick on old people, isn’t it? They get confused and find it difficult to identify them. No doubt the cash and property are long gone with his accomplice. He must have got away before Jim got there.’
‘You know what you, me and Jim should do, don’t you?’ said Wingsy.
I turned to look at him. ‘Well, since I hate to think that you might be suggesting a threesome, Baldy, I’m going with we have to go back to the nick to write a statement. That’ll make a change.’
15
Often, everything worked out. I would have loved to be able to say that Allan Ragland, the man arrested outside Walter McRay’s flat for burglary, assault on police and GBH of Walter, was taken to the police station, a Section 18 PACE search conducted of his home address and his accomplice found, arrested, searched and the stolen wedding ring recovered and returned to a
grateful Mr McRay. That didn’t happen.
Ragland, distraction burglar, was arrested, made no comment in interview and had nothing to say regarding the £4,775 found hidden in the loft of his home address. A uniformed search team seized the money anyway and, under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002, he was unlikely to get it back. Nor the Audi A3 on his driveway. He had no job, no income and didn’t appear to be landed gentry. It was a greater punishment for him than the custodial sentence the courts were likely to hand out to a man who had nineteen convictions for thirty-two different offences. It cheered me momentarily, until I thought it through. Ragland would be released from a short prison sentence and revert to type. He would scour the streets for the homes of elderly people and steal their life savings. With no compunction, care or thought for those in his wake, he would pocket the tiny bit of cash his victims had put away month after month, possibly going without heating in the winter. This was the cash he would take to enjoy an easy lifestyle enhanced by the comfort of his brand new luxury car. It was like shooting fish in a barrel for him.
Wingsy and I set about completing our paperwork to hand over to a harassed-looking DC who had landed the job of interviewing Ragland, charging him, remanding him and putting him before the next available court in the morning. We finished doing what we had to do before making good our escape for the night. Assisting in the arrest of an artifice burglar added to the mixed feelings I was having about my eight-hour days. At least I was earning a few extra quid, even though I could have fallen asleep at my desk.
Wingsy and I finished much later than we should have by the time we’d got everything completed. It was dark, and the rain began to fall again as we left the station. We shouted our goodbyes to each other as we ran to our cars. Despite the rain hitting my head and back as I made haste towards my BMW, I ran an eye over the interior of my car before getting inside. Old habits died hard.
By the time I’d turned the engine over and begun to pull out on to the ring road, I was cold, damp, tired and feeling pretty cheesed off. It had been a tougher day than the one I’d expected when I’d hauled myself out of my bed that morning. Or, to be more precise, Bill’s bed.
Driving in the direction of Bill’s home, I crawled through the traffic, watching the people on the pavements on their way back to loved ones. I thought how good it was to have someone to go home to, but I still couldn’t ignore the urge I’d had to go to my own house, shut the door and be alone for a while. The slow-moving traffic did little to improve my mood, so I was looking forward to a relaxing evening. I shouldn’t be so ungrateful for my temporary place of refuge at Bill’s. I was the one staying at his house, and he could ask me to leave. I was physically able to go home and live by myself; it was just that I didn’t really fancy the idea very much.
Pulling on to the driveway, I saw the light on in the hallway and smiled at Bill’s thoughtfulness before he’d left for his late shift. Letting myself in with the key he’d given me weeks previously, I saw that he’d Sellotaped a handwritten note to the mirror hanging opposite the front door. Nina, call when you get in. It’s urgent. Your mum’s been here today.
Momentarily puzzled whether I should call Bill or my mum, and wondering what the crisis was, I opted to call Bill first.
He answered the phone by saying, ‘Hello, Nina.’ There was no ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’.
‘Hi, Bill,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem with my mum?’
I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I had my free hand in my hair, tearing at a clump of my damp locks, and it was only when I saw myself that I felt the pain in my scalp. I put my hand down by my side and listened to the sounds of Bill’s police radio at the other end of the line.
‘She wanted to know where her money was this month,’ said Bill.
‘Oh,’ I managed to say. ‘I’d forgotten about it.’
‘Were you going to tell me about that?’
‘No, Bill, I probably wasn’t ever going to tell you.’
‘Right. Well, when I get home tonight, Nina, I think we need to talk.’
My stomach lurched at this prospect. No one liked the ‘we need to talk’ talk. I knew what he was going to ask me. And I didn’t want to tell him the answer.
16
As I wondered whether I should open a bottle of wine and warm up for the heated debate I knew would begin when Bill got home, my phone started to ring. Willing it not to be my mum, I saw the name ‘Stan’ on the screen.
Smiling with relief, I answered the phone.
‘Hello, Stan,’ I said, going to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew.
‘Hello, Nina,’ he said. ‘I got back from holiday yesterday and wondered if you wanted to come over this evening for dinner if you’re not busy. I realise that it’s late and short notice, but – ’
‘Love to, Stan. What time do you want me there?’ I asked, putting the corkscrew, which Bill had hidden under the food processor blades, back in the drawer.
‘Well, any time, really, but I was planning on having dinner in about half an hour.’
‘OK, I’ll have a quick shower and head on over. See you soon, Stan.’
‘Bye, Nina.’
Twenty minutes later, I was heading towards my old friend’s house. It was the best I’d felt in a number of days. The effort of returning to work and fitting in with Bill’s lifestyle, plus the sudden burst of energy during Allan Ragland’s arrest, were all beginning to wear me down. The latest problem to blight my life was a financial pressure from my parents that I knew I couldn’t meet at the moment. I’d been off sick from work for months, and that meant no overtime.
I’d never considered my police officer’s pay either fantastic or particularly low. Some days were so brilliant, I felt a bit guilty even taking a wage. Other days were so low that trebling my salary would not have been enough. One New Year’s Eve was spent arresting a suspect with HIV and hepatitis B who spat at me and tried to bite me. Great memories.
My trip down memory lane brought me, literally, to Stan’s house. I pulled up on his driveway and walked up to the porch. A black cat ran in front of me and stood waiting by the door. I rang the doorbell and edged inside the porch, encouraging the cat with my foot to go in the other direction. Stan opened the door as I was attempting to push its feline face away from the door.
‘Hello, Miriam,’ said Stan.
It took me a second to realise that he was talking to the cat.
‘Let her in,’ said Stan. ‘Hello, Nina. It’s great to see you.’
I gave up my battle with the cat and watched Miriam run straight inside towards the kitchen. Stan gave a chuckle and said, ‘She must think we’re having chicken. She’s always here on poultry night.’
‘Getting a bit hacked off here,’ I said. ‘You look more pleased to see the cat than me.’
My words served their childish purpose. I got my hug, and very welcome it was too. My face pressed against the motif on Stan’s jumper, I relaxed for the first time in a while.
‘Miriam pops in from time to time,’ I heard Stan say through the ear that was not full of lambswool. ‘I may even have a cat flap put in.’
I pulled back to say, ‘Have you got sunstroke from your cruise or has retirement from the police finally sent you senile? It’s not your cat.’
‘Enough about the cat,’ said Stan, peering at my face. ‘You look exhausted. What’s bothering you? Money, or Bill?’
I felt like crying. I had to put my hand across my mouth to stifle a sob. I struggled to meet his gaze and covered my eyes, just too late to stop Stan from seeing the tears threatening to escape.
17
In Stan’s kitchen, tears drying and wine breathing, I felt pretty foolish. My old friend and confidant allowed me to regain my composure and muster what dignity I could with bloodshot eyes and Hallowe’en mascara, before speaking.
Even then, his question was, ‘How many potatoes do you want?’
‘Three, please, and it’s both Bill and money.’
I watched
Stan’s profile as he got out plates. I’d known him nearly forty years, since the day he’d rescued me and my sister from our childhood kidnapping. He had never let me down, not once. He’d been the reason for me joining the police, and even now I relied on him.
He brought the food to the table and sat opposite me. I felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘My mum came round today when I was at work,’ I said across the steaming dishes of food. ‘She told Bill that I give her money to help out with my sister. I’m so annoyed with her. She shouldn’t have discussed it with him. It’s none of his business.’
To avert my eyes from Stan’s, I concentrated on heaping peas and carrots on to my plate.
‘Or are you actually annoyed with yourself for the guilt you still feel for your sister’s mental health?’ asked the ever-perceptive Stan.
His words hit home. The result was that my wavering hand shot diced carrots over the tablecloth.
‘Nina,’ said Stan, ‘I know I’m treading on eggshells every time I try to raise the subject, but your sister was affected by the kidnap in an entirely different way from you. What she endured was not the same thing as you did. You should never feel guilty about that.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I managed to say, seeking out a cube of carrot from behind the gravy boat. ‘My mum still shouldn’t have told Bill about the money. He’s really hacked off that I didn’t tell him. He knows I’m struggling without any overtime – I moan about being broke often enough. I can see why he’s annoyed with me.’
‘Perhaps after all these years you really should stop giving her money. How much do you give her?’
I concentrated on cutting my steak. I acted as if it was particularly troublesome although it was cooked to perfection and Stan knew it. But it meant I could look at my plate as I said, ‘Four hundred pounds a month.’
I could hear Stan’s intake of breath.
‘How can you afford that?’ he asked.
‘I can manage as long as I don’t go out much. All I buy are clothes and wine.’