No Questions Asked

by Menon, David

  ‘Go on Mrs. Mitchell’.

  ‘Then Lucy Thompson and her bastard son moved in across the road and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she and Gary were picking up where they’d left off years ago. And they were! Right under my very nose they were tormenting me with their sordid little affair. I couldn’t stand it! I was having nightmares about Gary leaving me for her and forming a nice little family with the filthy slut. I just couldn’t let that happen. It was beyond me to even contemplate it. Am I getting through here, detective? Are you seeing any of the intense pain I was being subjected to?’

  ‘I’m just waiting to hear the whole story, Mrs. Mitchell’ said Rebecca who watched intently as Debbie’s face ran through everything from confidence to doubt to certainty to loathing. She believed that some of what she said was true. She just couldn’t make up her mind yet which bit that was.

  Debbie took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I approached Terry Latham. I became friends with him. The thought of what he was made my skin crawl of course but to connect with him was a necessary part of what I had to do. Don’t forget I was being driven mad by the presence of Lucy and her son. I wanted her to suffer. I’ve seen scores of low life sluts like her parading their children about and getting every state benefit they can get their hands on. I knew she’d once worked for Bernie Connelly because Gary blurted it out once when we had a row about her. I read in the paper that the Paradise club was up for sale and I decided to buy it. I have private money of my own that Gary knows nothing about. So I bought it and I got the manager Brett Collins to approach Lucy and offer her a job. I thought that Gary wouldn’t like that but in the end he didn’t seem to bother. He carried on fucking her. Then Bernie Connelly offered me double what I’d paid for it so I decided to get rid on the proviso that they kept Lucy on in case Gary did end up being riled by it. I’d doubled my money and I’d got Lucy into a vulnerable position. Gary may have tolerated what she did but there are strange men who go to those kind of places who might’ve put her in danger’.

  Rebecca leaned forward. ‘So you were prepared to do that to Lucy Thompson just to get back at her?’

  ‘Yes’ said Debbie.

  ‘And where does Bradley come into this?’

  ‘I’m getting to that’ said Debbie. ‘I thought that … I thought that maybe Latham could be tempted back into his old ways if he saw Bradley who was a cute kid and just the sort men like him like. I told him where Bradley would be last Sunday morning and he said he’d meet me there but only on the understanding that he could prove to himself that he really had turned his back on his old days and wouldn’t be at all interested in Bradley’.

  ‘You were prepared to deliver an eleven year old child to a paedophile just because he was your husband’s son, or so you thought at the time, by another woman?’

  ‘I told you I was driven mad with jealousy and frustration that I couldn’t get pregnant myself’

  ‘And that’s an excuse for what you did?’

  ‘It’s a reason’.

  ‘Oh of course, silly me, there’s such a difference’ said Rebecca who was outraged by what Debbie had told her. ‘Do you have any idea of the lasting damage paedophiles do to children?’

  Debbie started crying.

  ‘And you can forget any idea of using tears to arouse any sympathy’ said Rebecca, angrily. ‘You absolutely disgust me. I’ve heard some things in my time but I never thought I’d hear anything as low as this. So what happened on Sunday morning when you introduced Terry Latham to his date?’

  Debbie regained some composure before carrying on. ‘Bradley was already dead. He was lying there completely motionless. Latham bent down and tested his pulse. But it was no good. He was dead’.

  ‘You’re expecting us to believe that?’

  ‘Yes, because it’s true! Then I saw the rucksack and worked out how I could use it to frame Gary for the murder or at least place him under suspicion’.

  ‘You really are cool in a crisis aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve always been like it’.

  ‘How did you know that Bradley Thompson was going to be there that morning?’

  ‘I read the text messages on Gary’s phone’ said Debbie who was still crying. ‘I know I shouldn’t have done it. I know it was wrong and that none of it was Bradley’s fault. But he represented everything I wanted but couldn’t have’.

  ‘But now you are pregnant’.

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘And you were planning to keep that from your husband?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘And you’ve entered into a relationship with Fiona Braithwaite?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘What do you think DS Wright?’

  ‘I think that claiming to have found Bradley already dead is rather too convenient’ said Ollie.

  ‘Yes, my thoughts exactly’ said Rebecca.

  ‘What?’ said Debbie. ‘I didn’t kill him! He was already dead, I swear he was!’

  ‘Well you see’ said Rebecca. ‘It isn’t even very imaginative to claim the same as your husband that Bradley was already dead when you found him’.

  ‘But its true’ Debbie pleaded. ‘I was shocked when we found Bradley like that’.

  ‘But not shocked enough to prevent you from thinking of a way to stitch up your husband’.

  ‘Look, I’ve told you absolutely everything I know’.

  ‘Except for the bit where you held your hands round Bradley’s neck and strangled the life out of him’ said Ollie.

  Debbie banged her fist on the table. ‘I didn’t kill him!’

  ‘Be careful of getting too worked up, Mrs. Mitchell. Think of the baby’.

  ‘Oh fuck you bastards!’

  ‘Okay, that’s it’ said Rebecca. ‘We’ve heard enough, DS Wright?’

  ‘I think so, ma’am’.

  ‘Then we’re going to hold you pending further enquiries, Mrs. Mitchell’.

  ‘But you can’t! I’ve got a very important job and I’m pregnant!’

  ‘It doesn’t alter the fact that in our opinion you murdered another woman’s child’.

  Antonia Squires was getting more concerned about the activities of her husband. John had gone back to being the kind of thoroughbred avenger that reminded her of the old days back in Rhodesia when they were growing up. It was a civil war back then. It was all about white people who’d come mainly from Britain but also places like the Netherlands and Germany in a struggle against the largely intellectually inferior black majority population. Antonia had supported that struggle and when Mugabe had taken power she’d been happy to leave a country that was going to go to the dogs for absolute certainty and yet her heart had broken as she and her family fled across the border into South Africa and then dispatched themselves to the far four corners of the earth. They left land behind that could’ve built the economy of Zimbabwe. But they were never allowed to try. They were thrown back to the nations of their ancestors and had to try and build their wealth again.

  Except that some didn’t manage to do it. She and her husband John had started their carpet shop and indeed it had been moderately successful in their newly native Cheadle, one of the most quintessentially white south Manchester suburbs. At least it had been when they first moved there at the beginning of the eighties. Now it was holding out against the onslaught of the diluting of English culture by a multi-culturalism that was not necessarily welcomed by everyone, including her husband John who was doing his best to fight against it and had turned to working with someone who Antonia was distinctly uncomfortable with to help him in his task.

  ‘So what does he have for you to do tomorrow, John?’ Antonia asked. They were sitting at the dinner table and were at the coffee stage after the main meal of pork chops. She was eyeing the bottle of wine they’d shared for the meal which was almost empty and was about to go and open another one when John ended his pause after she’d posed her question and answered her.

  ‘I never know until I get to work, Toni’ said John. ‘You know tha
t’.

  ‘And how far will you go, John?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How far will you go to fulfil the job description issued by your new best friend Bernie Connelly? Have you killed someone yet? Probably. Have you made someone fear their own shadow? Probably. We may not always like the cumbersome rules with which the police have to function but surely that’s what makes the difference between the lawless land we grew up in and the lawful country we now call our home? This is not Bulawayo in 1978, John! This is Manchester in a time when attitudes have changed. The undermining of our society doesn’t come from those who are labeled as the lawless, John. The undermining of our society comes from your new best friend and boss’.

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘For the time being’.

  ‘You make it sound as if you’ve lost faith in me, Toni’

  ‘I have in some ways, John. I’ve lost faith in that side of you who would rather work with Bernie Connelly than sell carpets to the masses’.

  ‘We’ve got to stand up and be counted, Toni’.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the future integrity of our society! We’ve let the lawless take over and we’ve got to get it back’.

  ‘And the oh so law abiding Bernie Connelly is going to do that? Don’t make me bloody laugh! What do you think would happen to society if he and his ilk took over?

  ‘There would be justice, Toni’ John asserted. ‘There would be real justice restored to ordinary people’.

  ‘Oh don’t make him sound like some bloody Robin Hood! The people on the ground would see one useless tyranny replaced with another. Nothing would change for them. The only difference would be that if they didn’t do as they were told then someone like you would come along and rearrange their face or smash their kneecaps. I’m under no illusions, John. I know what you do. I just fear the extent to what you have to do’.

  Before John could respond there was a ringing of the front door bell and Antonia went to answer it. She was shocked to see two police cars with about half a dozen uniformed officers plus Detective Superintendent Jeff Barton who she’d met before.

  ‘Mrs. Squires?’

  ‘Yes? Detective Superintendent Barton?’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Rebecca Stockton. Is your husband in?’

  ‘Well yes, he is’.

  ‘Could we come in then, please?’

  Jeff didn’t wait for an answer and pushed his way gently past Antonia Squires. He and Rebecca found John Squires standing in the living room and the uniformed officers apprehended him and placed his hands in cuffs behind his back.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Antonia, anxiously.

  ‘You sent your two goons to confiscate my car the other day’ John sneered. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘John Squires, I’m arresting you for the murder of Terence Arthur Latham …’ Jeff read John Squires his rights and then added ‘ … We also want to question you with regard to the murder of David James Harrison’.

  The uniformed officers led Squires through the house and outside to the car.

  ‘John?’ cried Antonia, frantically. ‘It’s okay my love. They had me up for murder last year remember and they were wrong then and they’re wrong now. I’ll be back before you know it’.

  ‘We have a warrant to search this house, Mrs. Squires’ said Rebecca. ‘We expect your complete co-operation’.

  THIRTEEN

  John Squires sat in the interview room beside the duty solicitor. He would’ve thought that Bernie Connelly might have got hold of someone decent for him after everything he’d done on his behalf but when he used his one telephone call to try and get hold of him he couldn’t. His mobile had gone straight to voicemail and when he thought about it he hadn’t seen Connelly since early that afternoon.

  ‘Isn’t forensics a wonderful science, Squires?’ said Jeff. ‘Our forensics team can comb the area above a bridge where someone is said to have committed suicide by throwing themselves over it and onto the oncoming traffic below, and lo and behold they find DNA samples that match the inside of the car owned by Bernie Connelly that you’ve been driving and were caught speeding in a couple of days ago’.

  ‘Fascinating’ said Squires.

  ‘Which means that we can say with certainty that you were on that bridge with Terry Latham when he fell to his death’.

  ‘As I said, detective, quite fascinating’.

  ‘Oh come on, Squires, don’t mess me about because I’m really not in the mood’.

  ‘I could of course claim that this is all personal’ said Squires. ‘I could say you had a personal vendetta against me after it was found that my brother had been fiddling with your underage nephew last year’.

  ‘That would be unprofessional’.

  Squires laughed. ‘As if that’s ever stopped a police officer from doing the wrong thing before? You’re in the wrong job, detective. You should be on the bloody stage’.

  Jeff then let a silence fall on the room that became almost deafening. He watched whilst Squires became increasingly uncomfortable and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, his legs, his fingers. He turned his face this way and then that, his eyes going all round the room.

  ‘It would be a lot better for you in the long run if you gave us a full and frank confession, Squires’.

  ‘Well if I knew what you wanted me to confess to then I might be able to help you’.

  ‘What’s it like working for Bernie Connelly, Squires?’

  ‘I know that you and he have got history’.

  ‘That wasn’t the question’.

  ‘He’s a very fair boss’.

  Jeff laughed. ‘A very fair boss? I guess that can only be decided by whoever is on the receiving end of his kind of fairness’.

  ‘That’s a subjective view, yes’.

  ‘So you define fairness to me?’

  ‘Bernie Connelly is a man who plays by his own rules and does whatever he can to get the job done’ said Squires. ‘But he doesn’t pick on all the wrong people like the police often do. He doesn’t get it wrong so many times like the police do. And he makes sure that people pay the appropriate price for what they’ve done’.

  ‘And you enjoyed helping him dispensing this curious definition of fairness?’

  ‘It gave me the chance to feel like I was doing something useful to clear up all the shit off the streets. Perhaps you’re too good and proper to understand that’.

  ‘But does it mean acting outside the law?’

  ‘Define acting outside the law, detective’

  Jeff grinned. ‘Very good. Well maybe a night in the cells might change your mind sufficiently. Goodnight, Squires. Sweet dreams’.

  Martha Langton and her fellow MP husband Nick had a flat in the Victoria area of London for when they were ‘down south’ at work, which usually meant from Monday morning to Thursday evening. It was Nick’s mother who looked after their three kids when both Nick and Martha were down in parliament. Martha got on quite well with her mother-in-law and she’d done a pretty good job raising Nick so Martha didn’t worry about anything.

  They were both sitting at the kitchen table reading the papers. Nick was going through the Times and Martha had the Guardian. They were holding each other’s hand across the table. They tried as much as they could to keep the intimacy in their relationship but were often too tired to do anything other than cuddle when they got to bed. Martha hadn’t got much sleep lately. The anonymous note she’d received at the constituency office had unnerved her a little. It was part of the responsibility of a politician to delegate responsibilities to your staff but the last thing you wanted was for those to be placed potentially in danger by whatever campaign you’re running. Martha was determined to try and overturn the government’s position on the proposed European law to combat paedophilia across the entire EU.

  ‘I see they’re still having a go at Bradley Thompson’s mother Lucy’ said Nic
k who was reading a piece in the Times telling more lurid stories about her.

  ‘It makes me sick’ said Martha. ‘And it makes me so bloody angry. You remember that couple from Berkshire last year whose child went missing and was then found dead? There was such an outpouring of public sympathy for them that still goes on today and yet nobody ever raises one word of criticism for the fact that they left their daughter to play outside the pub where they were whilst they had dinner with friends inside?’

  ‘Bloody irresponsible I agree but they’re a professional, middle class, good looking, articulate couple who look good on TV. Lucy Thompson is a lap dancer. There’s your answer, darling’.

  ‘Yes and it makes me very bloody angry, Nick. How fucking unfair it is that just because someone is a lap dancer they’re deemed to be unworthy of public sympathy but if you’re a middle class professional then you are worthy of it. Urgh! I’d like to do unspeakable things to some of those bloody hacks’.

  ‘How was Lucy Thompson when you went to see her the other day?’

  ‘How do you think? She was still utterly distraught that Bradley had been murdered but even more so because it was a neighbour who did it. Yes I know she was having an affair with the woman’s husband but why did her son have to pay with his young life for that? It makes me wonder if we can ever get to a place where tragedy is tragedy and your job and your lifestyle don’t have anything to do with anything’.

  ‘And you’re treated the same if you’re a lap dancer on benefits or you’re an articulate middle-class pair of professionals’.

  ‘Precisely’.

  ‘It’s a bloody tall order considering the public love to read salatious gossip about people they don’t know and have never met but who they love to pull down so they can feel better about their sorry sad little selves. But we’ve got to keep trying’.

  Martha’s mobile rang and it was closer to where Nick was so he picked it up for her. He looked at the caller id and smiled ‘Oh it’s your boyfriend’.