by Jake Barton
"Couple of days ago was it? Maybe more, I don’t know. He does this all the time – buggers off out and doesn’t come back for days on end. He sells drugs, is that what you want him for? If you do, you’re wasting your time. I’ve told him time and again he’ll bring nothing but grief on himself selling that stuff."
"It’s not drugs I want to see him about."
"He’ll get his legs broke messing about with them drugs people. He’s always been the same, won’t listen to a bloody word I say."
"Will you ask him to ring me if he comes back?" Donna proffered her card. The woman ignored it and closed the door in Donna’s face.
*****
Deep shadows lingered in the spaces between the streetlights. A fickle moon darted behind the lowering clouds, as if reluctant to give any assistance in the task of evading the deep puddles that were a constant threat to the unwary pedestrian.
From the opposite pavement, the Philharmonic Hotel resembled a giant ocean liner, beached a mile from the sea. Fancy scrolled ironwork and more lights than many towns put up for their Christmas displays. The original façade almost battered into submission by a hundred years of industrial pollution. But it still managed to look good, promising warmth and a refuge from the icy wind winding its way through the buildings from the bitter chill of the Pier Head.
Flitting across the slate-grey sky, storm clouds still gathered like angry bruises. Dexter and Donna crossed the road together, wary of the traffic, and entered the warm smoke-filled fug of the main bar. Customers, thronged three deep at the bar, noted their arrival with relative equanimity. Passing through the bar, all wood-panelled magnificence and glinting chandeliers, they reached one of the smaller rooms already packed to capacity. The odd raised voice acclaimed Dexter’s arrival. He looked around for his contact, but apparently didn’t see him.
He tapped one of the men on the shoulder. "Seen Harpo?"
The other man shook his head. He looked at Donna, his gaze lingering indulgently on her breasts. Donna flushed, awkward with this unwanted attention.
"Who’s this then? The stripper-gram?"
His breath arrived with the force of a boiler-shovel slapping her across the face. Donna gagged and tried to hold on to her last meal. The man reeked of curry – dog-shit vindaloo if she had to hazard a guess. Donna screwed up her face and averted her eyes from his leering face.
He turned his back and addressed the people gathered around him – something about sticking his finger in a dyke. Pathetic really, but the group erupted in peals of delighted laughter. Dexter quickly led the way out of the main crush.
"Sorry about that. Marriott his name is, not that I suppose you’re interested. He was on my squad for a while. Good copper, believe it or not, but not what you’d call subtle."
"Don’t worry about it," Donna said, wishing she had a drink in her hand. "You get used to that sort of thing. If you’re female, it goes with the territory."
"Oh, right."
"Oh, you won’t understand, being a man. It’s that old cliché about being undressed by someone’s eyes. It starts early, well it did with me anyway, and after that it’s always there. You get used to it – you bloody well have to. It’s not just labourers on building sites, all men do it to some extent."
Donna saw his rueful expression. "I didn’t mean you. The time to worry is when men stop looking. Your mate though, he’s a bit obvious, isn’t he?" She nodded across the crowded room to where Marriott was attempting to fondle one of the young girls collecting spent glasses. He looked across and saw her watching and made a kissing motion. Donna looked away. Not while there’s dogs in the street!
"He’s a star, isn’t he?"
Dexter nodded. "In a class of his own," he replied ambiguously. "Good copper, though. Brilliant at the old good cop, bad cop routine."
"I can imagine."
"Oh, I’m not sure you can. He’s at his best as the good guy. One of the others gives the suspect a hard time, and then Marriott steps in as their protector. Has them eating out of his hand in no time."
Donna looked dubiously at Marriott.
Dexter smirked. "Can’t always judge by first impressions."
The room was really packed now, bodies pressed tightly together. Shirtsleeves were the order of the day, jackets discarded over the backs of chairs, or piled up three deep on coat hooks. Leaning into each other, elbows held in tight to protect full glasses, or resting on a mate’s shoulder. An occasional shriek of laughter from one of the women, but they were in the minority. A sea of red sweaty faces, open mouthed, sucking in air. An occasional eruption at some particularly revolting punch line – eyes streaming, heads thrown back in a collective bellow of raucous laughter.
Dexter obviously knew most of them, had worked alongside them, eaten at the same tables, and drunk in the same pubs. He confided that he felt he had little in common with them now. Over the years, he’d wearied of the enforced camaraderie between people whose job throws them together, but would otherwise not be friends. Like every other copper, he’d found it difficult to build relationships outside the closed circle of the force.
"It was hanging out with these blokes that brought the end to my marriage," said Dexter ruefully.
Donna groaned inwardly, he’d returned to the theme of the breakdown of his marriage.
"Do you know she told me she wouldn’t take second place to the job?" Dexter went all pensive as if he could hear the words all over again. "She accused me of not paying her enough attention, of not showing enough affection. When have I ever showed anyone affection?"
Sounds like you weren’t fucking her often enough, Donna thought, but said instead, "Don’t start on that again Dexter, I have enough problems of my own."
He looked hurt.
Oh well, thought Donna with a shrug, his own fault for using me as an agony aunt. She didn’t want to hear about other people’s regrets.
Shaking his head Dexter turned away and pushed his way out of the room into the relative calm of the main bar. Donna followed him, a pace behind as usual. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. Dexter stopped as the crush lessened. He turned, finding her at his elbow.
"Sorry Donna," he apologised. "I’ll ask around for Harpo. Get yourself a drink. I’ll just be a minute."
He reached for his wallet, Donna frowned. "I’ll buy my own drinks. Want anything?"
He shook his head and walked away.
Donna went to the bar and ordered a lager. Sipping it, she wandered away from the crush and stood near two middle-aged women craning their heads around the door of the Gent’s urinals, listening to them exclaiming at the array of ornate brass fittings and highly glazed porcelain. Tourists with their popping flashbulbs and exclamations of amazement were one of the minor irritations of the historic building. Marriott pushed past, grinning.
He leered at the two women, fumbling at his groin. "Get your cameras ready, girls. I’ve got something here to make your old man jealous."
With screams of delighted laughter the women fled back to the safety of the main room.
Donna turned round but couldn’t see Dexter. Across the room, a stray female stood out. Wending her unsteady way between the tables, teetering on improbably high wedges she would have caught the eye in any situation. A cigarette clenched between scarlet lips, she somehow avoided a succession of inevitable disasters. Threading herself past brimming pint glasses perched on the very edge of the circular tables, she always managed to sway her hips aside at the very last moment. Her yellow hair defied gravity, standing in vertical spikes at the centre and fanning out at the sides like icicles on a frozen riverbank.
With the benefit of closer inspection, Donna saw the hairstyle owed a considerable debt to the liberal use of liquid soap as a bonding agent with a handful of wet sugar fixing the spikes in position – an old trick from the punk era, cheaper than hair gel and just as effective.
Seeing Donna, the woman curled her top lip into a grotesque parody of a smile. "Donna?" Her voice was a hoarse rasp.
"It is, isn’t it?"
Donna nodded cagily. The woman was a complete stranger.
"Debbie," she said, "I used to work at the Sports Centre."
"Behind the bar," Donna said, faint memories stirring.
"Yeah." Her pleasure at being remembered was transparent. "Don’t work there no more. Too much hassle and I didn’t like working weekends."
"I don’t go much myself lately," Donna mumbled.
Debbie swayed backwards, moving only from the waist upwards, and looking at Donna speculatively.
"You still look dead fit," she said. "Someone like you don’t need all them fancy machines to stay in shape." Donna winced. Her present fitness levels were a cause of some concern. She might look fit, but by her past standards rated only seven out of ten. Not bad, but she used to worry if she dropped below nine. If Lee, her ex-boyfriend, saw her now, she’d die of shame.
Donna made a motion to move away, but her new best mate, Debbie, caught hold of the lapel of her jacket. "What you doing over this side of the river, anyway? Bit off your patch innit?"
Donna sighed. Where the fuck was Dexter?
"Yeah, I’m meeting a friend."
Debbie sniffed. "Yeah," she said. "Me too. Doubt he’ll stay long when he sees that lot in the back room – wall-to-wall scuffers. He’s keen enough when there’s nothing else around and he’s after a shag, you know?" She nudged Donna, taking the sting off her bitter words with a broad smile.
Donna smiled back. All girls together. They got into a rambling conversation about men, Donna’s contribution being necessarily minimal, as Debbie recounted with great relish her recent sexual activities. Donna was almost jealous. Almost. By the sound of it, Debbie went for quantity not quality – shopping in bulk, so to speak.
Debbie glanced around, checking to see if anyone was looking at her. Meaning anyone of the male gender. They weren’t.
Up close, Debbie’s peroxide hair appeared sadly at variance to her dark eyebrows while her scarlet fingernails, chipped and broken, had seen better days. Donna rated her perfume as a cross between fly-spray and embalming fluid. She crinkled her nose, but was unable to prevent a violent sneeze.
"Bless you," Debbie shrieked, tossing her head and releasing a fresh cloud of ozone depleting perfume into the atmosphere.
Donna’s unlikely saviour was her recent admirer, Marriott, who ambled past, a pint in each hand. Debbie gave a small whistle of appreciation and nudged Donna again. "Nice arse," she whispered.
Donna couldn’t deny it. He turned, as if he’d heard Debbie’s hormones banging off the walls, and winked. Donna wasn’t sure for whose benefit. Debbie had no doubts, growling deep in her throat. Her eyebrows went up in unison, like a pair of hairy synchronised swimmers rising from a pool. "Think I’ll go check out his truncheon," she said. "See ya." And she abandoned Donna to follow Marriott into the back room.
Donna’s eyes itched, her throat felt like she’d gargled with neat Domestos, her back ached, her shoes were pinching and a three-Paracetemol headache was looming. Otherwise, she felt great.
*****
Donna walked back towards the bar where Dexter stood on his own. He didn’t see her until she touched his elbow. "Harpo’s in the back room," he said. As Donna turned, a character standing alone caught her eye and winked. Wild tufts of red hair rampaging in different directions over a cannonball of a head, the apparition approached, pint glass in one hand and a bottle of Newcastle Brown in the other.
"Oh, Christ," Donna muttered. "Hope I haven't pulled."
Dexter came to the rescue taking her elbow and steering her towards a small alcove at the back of the main room. They were bound for a dark secluded corner where a fat untidy man sat alone on a bench, a brimming pint of Guinness in one hand.
"Is that him?"
"Yeah, that’s Harpo."
"Why is he called Harpo?"
Dexter chuckled, and slowed his pace to answer. "He used to have a great mass of curly hair. Just like Harpo Marx." Donna looked at the man in the small room. He was as bald as an egg. The nickname must have taken root a bloody long while ago.
On the way to the pub, Dexter had told her a story dating back to the time when he’d first met Harpo, many years before. Apparently, Harpo had a pet dog of dubious breed and even more dubious habits and had based his entire philosophy of life around the personality of this dog.
"In what way?" she said.
"Simple really," Dexter replied, straight-faced. "Anything Harpo couldn't eat or fuck, he’d piss on it." Donna had decided there and then this Harpo might be worth seeing.
The man stood as Dexter approached, greeting him with respect and obvious affection. He bowed as Donna was introduced. "Delighted," he said with unexpected courtesy. Donna offered a tentative smile, and at his invitation, took a seat.
"Not drinking, Merlin?"
Dexter shook his head.
"Oh yeah, I remember. You gave up the grog, didn’t you?" Harpo resumed his seat, whether by accident or design narrowly avoiding sitting on Donna’s lap. Dexter took a seat opposite and they sat in silence for a long moment.
"Have you known each other long?" Donna thought someone should say something. Harpo smiled.
He’s rather sweet, Donna thought, like a big cuddly teddy bear. She decided she’d not be sharing the thought with Dexter.
"A bloody lifetime," Harpo answered. "He was my Guvnor for over twenty years. Good times. Do you know how he got the name Merlin?"
Donna shook her head. She’d never heard Dexter called anything but Dexter.
"One particular result. Against one of the big men. Dexter, you’re a bloody magician, someone said. Merlin the magician. Get it?"
Donna nodded warily certain this would develop into a lengthy reminiscence. She was right.
"Remember that night, Merlin?"
Dexter made no reply, although Donna could see from his expression that he was well aware of the night to which Harpo referred.
"Big Tommy Rankin, down on his fucking knees in the interview room. I’ll never forget that," Harpo said, taking a long pull at his pint. Dexter nodded, and Donna realised from the glance he shot her that the other man had not actually witnessed the event of which he spoke. "A nutter, they reckoned when he got to Court, wasn’t that it?"
"Unfit to plead by reason of insanity," Dexter agreed. "He’s in Broadmoor still. Maximum security. Likely to stay there until he dies."
"Its not enough, is it? I mean, considering what he did. I reckon they should have brought back hanging for him."
Harpo was on a roll now, regaling Donna with details of the arrest and how Rankin had been Dexter’s first major result. The man had considered himself above the law, and it was to be that arrogance that brought him down.
A huge man, his protection and money-lending empire was built on fear. Prepared to ‘go the limit’ over any bad debt, no matter how small, Rankin constituted a one-man crime wave twenty odd years ago. His victims always refused to talk to the police, fearful of the inevitable painful consequences. When he discovered a taste for torture, even the criminal underclass were revolted at the drastic escalation in violence.
"Why, what happened?" Donna asked, eager to show off her investigative skills.
"Two bits of kids, aged fifteen at most, sniffed a bit too much glue and decided to mug one of Tommy’s bag-men," Harpo said. " Too stupid to notice he’d only just started his rounds. They got away with no more than fifty quid."
"They got caught though?"
"Oh yes, within the hour, apparently. Rankin doused them with petrol and set fire to them."
Donna gasped.
"It gets worse," Harpo continued, "He struck the match himself and then pushed them, just barely alive but screaming like banshees, off the roof of the tower block their families lived in."
"That’s horrible."
"Yeah, pure Tommy Rankin, that. Mind you, it was the beginning of the end for him."
Dexter cleared his throat. "He’d crossed the line, see? Oh, it
took a while to build a case, four more died and a dozen seriously injured, but his own kind turned against him in the end."
"It was enough for Merlin, girl. He found witnesses, got evidence, enough to take Rankin down. What a day that was."
Harpo sat back at the conclusion of his grisly tale and took a long pull on his pint. Donna sat very still, realising perhaps for the first time that these two old colleagues had inhabited a world alien to her experience.
"He eats the paint off the walls." Dexter’s words startled Harpo who had seemed to be on the point of dozing off.
"What?"
"They have this theory that pastel colours calm a violent personality. Rankin scratches the paint off the walls and eats it. So much for fancy theories."
"You’ve seen him?"
"Not for years," Dexter replied, shaking his head. "I didn’t want to see him, but I went there once. Hoping he would cough up to some kids who went missing back then. Worth a try, I thought. He kept smiling at me. Refused to answer any questions, just sat there smiling. All he’d lost was his freedom. That’s not enough for what he did."
"Should have topped him," Harpo stated, banging his clenched fist on the bench in a rare display of emotion.
Dexter sighed heavily. "Wouldn’t help the victims, would it?"
"It would have made their relatives feel better. Me as well."
"Yeah," Dexter replied.
Harpo certainly had a point there, Donna thought.
Harpo lumbered to his feet. "Please excuse me, Donna," he said. "Call of nature." He went on to provide rather more detail concerning his troublesome bladder than she really needed to hear. A dull sense of futility crept over her as Harpo staggered away.
Was all this tedious crap taking them any further forward? Donna thought not.
"This is helpful, Merlin," she said.
Dexter scowled. "It’s known as tact, young lady," he said, in such an accurate impression of Roper’s pompous tone that Donna burst out laughing.