by R J Holligan
Maxwell to off his hoodie and tee shirt, then his track suit trousers and crusty trainers and socks. He stood there in his boxer shorts, shivering. “And the rest,” said Quayle, really wishing he could avert his eyes. Maxwell slid his boxer shorts off and stood there with his hands over his crotch.
“Hands away and lift your balls,” said Quayle. Maxwell ignored him trying to be defiant despite being bollock naked.
“Do as you’re fucking told, you maggot dick,” said Findley.
“No fucking way, they’ll all be watching on the cameras,” said Maxwell. “There’s no cameras in here,” said Quayle. Findley smiled an evil smile
“What plays in the Search Room stays in the Search Room,” he said flexing his hands and cracking his knuckles and taking a step towards Maxwell who stepped back quickly and banged into the concrete wall.
Quayle stepped in between them. “Look John I’m not into this macho bullshit, let’s get this done,” Quayle said grabbing both of Maxwell’s wrists and pulling them above his head. Findley took a look.
“Turn around,” he shouted. “Yeah, he’s clean. Well clean for a chav from the Compton,” he said, throwing Maxwell a green boiler suit. The young man awkwardly put it on. Quayle put on a pair of latex gloves and searched the clothes and trainers, taking the laces out and sliding them back across the floor to Maxwell.
“You boys have fun in there?” asked Nichole mockingly.
“Absolutely, don’t worry if he’d tried to rape you, you wouldn’t have noticed anything,” said Quayle making the universal small dick sign with his hand. Nichole winked.
Fifteen minutes later they had all grabbed a brew and were in a small office off the main open plan floor where CID detectives worked. They were gathered around a computer monitor.
Here we go,” said Wilson. The footage started playing. The screen showed Thompson and Wilson loitering at the base of the stairs of some flats on the Compton Estate. Wilson was hastily donning his Covert Carriage System. It was similar to a shoulder holster type affair, but for the UK detective, instead of a Glock and spare clips, it carried handcuffs, PAVA spray and a baton. The pair already had their covert stab vests on. Finally, suitably dressed, the pair split up one hiding in the lift, one slipping behind a service door.
Here we go, here comes laughing boy,” said Wilson. The external door opened and in strolled Maxwell, hands tucked in his hoodie whose pockets were bulging. The service door sprung open and in came Wilson. Maxwell bolted to the lift door and hit the lift call button. Sliding open the lift doors revealed Thompson who grabbed Maxwell and pushed him into the atrium. Wilson cut him off and the pair had supposedly got their man. There was some unheard dialogue and Maxwell seemed resigned to his fate until Wilson produced a pair of handcuffs.
“I’d told him we just wanted a word and this muppet tells him we’re going to handcuff him to search him,” said Thompson.
On screen it all kicked off. Wilson had got one steel bracelet of the handcuffs over Maxwell’s wrist when he started swinging with his free arm. A suspect with one cuff on and the steel jaws of the other swinging free is a cop’s nightmare. Wilson doggedly clung on as Maxwell pulled him towards the service door. Thompson beat the struggling pair to it and barred the door. Maxwell pushed Wilson into Thompson and all three went spilling through the doorway.
“And over we go,” said Thompson. The footage ended and then began again. This time a camera mounted high on one of the tower blocks caught the trio as they spilled out of the door. Both men had got hold of Maxwell but neither had a winning angle. As he struggled with the detectives with one hand, Maxwell used the other to throw various items from his pockets. Wilson decided to let go and reappraise his grip.
Free from the weight, Maxwell pulled Thompson a couple of metres. Until Wilson body slammed Maxwell to the floor.
“Ouch, and that’s what fucked his elbow, you fat chunk,” laughed Nichole.
“And here comes the cavalry,” said Wilson.
“That’s all folks. I thank you,” said Thompson with a mock bow.
The footage ended as the marked car with Quayle and Nichole aboard arrived and cut off the sight of the melee. By the time they had written their statements and logged and labelled their exhibits and made sure they were securely lodged in the evidence room their shift was almost at an end.
“Stand Down,” said the Inspector, better known as The Boss. Quayle was making his way across the unlit car park when a figure stepped from the shadows, their face hidden save for illumination of a cigarette.
“No need to shit yourself,” said Findley. “Just to say sorry for putting you on the spot back there. He was just getting right in my grill, the little fucker,”
Quayle inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. “No worries, he was getting under my skin too. Night John,” said Quayle. After spending twelve hours in an overheated Police Station with too many bodies. Quayle savoured the chilly afternoon air. Tomorrow he was going to the allotment.
Chapter 13
It was one of those cold but clear days when winter hadn't quite gone, but spring was making its presence known. Quayle had woken early despite being due in for a 'late'. He grabbed a coffee and bacon sandwich at Jasper's Coffee Shop and then headed for the 'Tool Box' on the High Street. It was a Tardis of a shop; small from the outside, but crammed to the gunwales with hammers, spades and a hundred other sundry items inside. It had the slightly musty but alluring smell beloved by weekend woodwork hobbyists and gardeners.
Adopting the cynical viewpoint that Bozza adopted, Quayle assumed that in his absence his shed would have been broken into and everything stolen. So he was stocking up on tools for Allotment 101, namely a spade, fork and rake. He also bought a half pint of Aquadulce broad beans to mark the start of the planting season. For everything else there was an on-site shop at the allotments that supplied all a gardener could want.
Quayle parked his clunker on the rough gravel car park and taking a spade from the boot walked across to his plot. Some of the old boys had already turned their plots over and here and there the ubiquitous piece of wood with a seed packet taped to it were posted like harbingers of the growing season. It was then he saw a figure squeeze through a hole in the wooden fence that bounded the allotments and run alongside the canal. Clad in black, the figure hid behind a series of compost bins and heaps. A chill ran down Quayle's spine. He knew that being in the job just a few weeks had changed his awareness. Hours of standing on wet streets on a Friday night or in piss stained alleys covering the backs of houses whilst looking for criminals who'd s skipped bail or there was a warrant had been issued for had given him a crash course. Six months ago he would have never seen it. But now he had...
Reversing the spade in his hands akin to a weapon he made a wide arc off the path and came up alongside the shed. On the front of the shed a new hasp and padlock has been added the chicken wire window had been boarded up from inside and the formerly patched and leaky roof had been re-felted. “Nice job,” thought Quayle creeping behind the shed. Standing silently he looked at the back of the shed. Nothing untoward at first, he thought. Then he saw a straight-line running opposite to the grain of the shed's exterior planking. Someone has installed a narrow door at the back. The new lock on the front was just window dressing. Quayle thought about calling for back up. But he didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. Running a few scenarios he thought of rushing the door and going in swinging with the spade. But he didn't know who was in there, their capabilities and if they were armed. If he was in charge, he' call in a Land Shark and shove it through the door and wait for the fireworks.
Taking a less dramatic approach he walked up and rapped on the door. “Police, identify yourself or we'll send the dog in. Heel Sabre,” he said.
“How do I know your coppers?” a voice replied.
“I'm shoving a warrant card under the door. Put it back out when you've seen it or the dog will be in next,” shouted Quayle. Standing to one side he slid his warrant card wa
llet under the door. The card disappeared and then slid out a few seconds later. “Okay I'm opening the door, come in,” said the voice. The door swung inwards. Quayle clutched the spade ready to clobber the intruder. Stepping into the dark interior he found himself staring down the twin barrels of a sawn-off shotgun.
“Good bluff with the dog, PC Quayle,” said the man with the gun, putting the safety catch on and placing it on the table. “Mr Palfreyman, I presume,” said Quayle letting the spade drop to his side. It was the man from the drunk driving incident that rainy night. Quayle put his hand out and Palfreyman shook it. Dressed in black, he was tousled and unshaven. But he looked in good condition. “Let's get some light,” he said flicking a Zippo and lighting a Coleman Hurricane Lamp. “So you're the mystery voice of the
Airwave asked Quayle.
Palfreyman nodded and sat down on a folding Army cot that had a rolled up sleeping bag.
“Sorry I didn't reply, I had to deal with a shoplifter who pissed herself,” said Quayle.
“No problems, my Airwave ran out of juice and it was getting a bit risky sneaking in and out of the SNT station. So I've been here doing my Dances with Wolves Act for a while,” he said lighting a rollup.
“The Natives are probably a bit less dangerous than the Lakota Sioux,” said Quayle.
“Yeah a couple of old boys had a shuftie but the new lock seemed to assuage them,” he said exhaling smoke.
“No need for the artillery then,” said Quayle, nodding towards the shotgun.
“Nope, but it’s always good to have insurance,” he replied.
“Indeed, but what I'd like to know is where I fit in? asked Quayle.
“Well that depends on whether I can trust you. Why don't you tell me now what you know?” he said.
Quayle to a seat on an upturned wooden crate. “Well, you got off a drink driving charge, you got a top brief for something paltry and somewhere along the way Special Branch got into the mix. As for who you are, you're a ghost with the legend of a child who's buried in a churchyard down the road. Plus you have access to firearms or at least underworld contacts. All in all stuff that's way above my pay grade,” said Quayle.
“Well that's a bit of a dichotomy isn’t it? A probationer but a probationer whose put all that together under their own steam. Impressive and why I chose you,” said Palfreyman.
Quayle looked perturbed. “Chosen for what?”
Palfreyman stood up and checked outside. “There's a group of us, we've been doing black bag jobs for decades. We thought they'd paid us off and let us go. But they're like vampires they always come back for more blood,” he said. “When you pulled me in, it ran a flag up the pole and they came and saw me in Custody. They ironed out the charge as they don't want me in the spotlight. But it also meant they had me in their sights. They told me they wanted me to put the team back together for another job. I said “No” and then they ratcheted up the pressure. I cut and ran, and I lost the tail they had on me. I've had to go off grid totally. Luckily, I had some cash and stuff stashed away for something like this. But now it's got more complicated.... “he paused.
“They know about your daughter,” said Quayle.
“How the fuck do you know?” spluttered Palfreyman stubbing out his rollup in a tin camping mug. “Karlie Courts, that surname was one of your team's cover names right?”
“Bang On,” said Palfreyman. “She's got her mother's taste for dangerous men,” he said lighting another rollup.
“Yes, got herself involved with Patrick Marber and the Crayfish mob. They sound like a gang of teenagers but they're Class A when it comes to their merchandise and their level of violence,” said Quayle.
Then his work phone rang. He picked up. “Quayle it's Bozza, the wheel's not just come off, the whole fucking wagon's crashed.... Central Police just shot Marber's best pal dead. They were after Marber, but he'd fled. His mate came out of the house brandishing a trenching tool. They thought it was a sawn-off and dropped him. ROCU decided to go for broke and do three raids at once on the Crayfish properties. So we've got a manhunt and loads of scenes to clear. Get yourself in ASAP,” he said cutting the call.
Putting the phone back in his jacket Quayle looked at Palfreyman. “Speak of the devil. Central Police just killed Marber's best mate. Now he's out there pissed off with coppers. I've got to go. Take this,” said Quayle handing over the burner Blackberry. “There's a pub called The Lamb and Flag about two miles down the canal going South. I'll call you tomorrow on this and we'll rendezvous there. And take this too,” said Quayle sticking a sheaf of twenty-pound notes on the table. “I expect the whole plot dug over by my next visit,” he said s nodding at the spade. “You're on,” said Palfreyman.
The station was buzzing when Quayle arrived. Armed officers waddled down the corridors
clutching their sub machine guns, Glock pistols in holsters on their legs. The briefing room was full as Quayle wandered in after grabbing a fresh battery for his radio.
“Listen up, as you know this is a fluid situation. And that fluid is mostly shit,” said the Boss. “As you will all probably know, Floyd Eagleton was shot a few hours ago by Central Police during a raid to apprehend Patrick Marber. He was not present at the time. ROCU have got nicking him their top priority and in doing so have carried out raids at three sites in our area and in Central's. Our shift will be covering the scene guard duties,” said the Boss.
A uniformed officer with a lot of cauliflower ??? on his shoulders entered and the room fell silent. “Ladies and Gents, I'm Superintendent Harrison. I need to inform you of Operation Sentinel which has been put into effect due to new intelligence which has come to light in the last hour. We have credible intelligence backed by social media chatter that suggests Patrick Marber had issued a threat to kill an officer of this force or one of Central's. We know that the Crayfish crew are in possession of automatic weapons such as Skorpion sub machine guns and possibly hand grenades. Therefore, new rules of engagement are in play. No pursuits will be made by unarmed officers, there will be no single crewed units. And all Scene Guards will be protected by covert Armed Response Vehicles. I would also like to advise you not to travel to or from work in half blues or any piece of uniform. Don't wear your identity badges or lanyards in public and please vary your routes to and from home and remain extra vigilant at all times,” he said matter of factly,
The Boss doles out the jobs. Quayle and Bozza were assigned to a storage facility where a rented container had been raided.
“Fucking hell, a Skorpion, that's a nasty piece of Czech kit, six hundred rounds a minute. I fired one we'd seized once in Afghan. Awesome,” said Bozza as he moved the car through the school run traffic. A grey unmarked containing four armed officers followed at a discreet distance. Quayle's mind was elsewhere. Talk of automatic weapons and grenades sounded like something from a film. A ripple of fear had gripped Quayle when he thought back to the horrific killing by gun and grenade of two female Manchester Police Officers who had responded to a fake burglary call made by the psychotic killer Dale Creegan.
“Cheer up we've got the Cavalry riding with us,” said Bozza. A few hours of standing around and we'll be sorted. No paperwork, no scrotes to deal with and no stinking Handover Packages,” he said.
Right now, a huge pile of paperwork seemed a Gucci job, to Quayle. They drove up to the cordon and parked, waving to the two uniformed officers from the previous shift, who they were relieving. “Fresh bait,” said one cheekily over the radio. They all exchanged one fingered salutes.
“Right you get on that cordon and I'll go and fetch some coffee. The press won't be nosing around, they're all be at Craddock Rise,” said Bozza.
“How do you know? “asked Quayle donning his heavy florescent traffic jacket. Multi-layered and multipocketed it was more akin to a one-person tent than a coat, but it kept out the elements perfectly.
“Cos, I called ‘em. Best way to ensure a hassle-free shift.” he said with a wink and walked off. Quayle radioed into c
ontrol that they were in position. The covert ARV also confirmed their position, parked at the entrance to the industrial park. Any vehicle coming in would be easily spotted by them before they got to the police tape that cordoned off the container park. Quayle stuck his helmet on and slipped on his lined leather gloves. Dusk was beginning to fall and for once he thanked God for the disappearing weak winter sun. Darkness thought Quayle made them less of a target. Then it began to rain...
Chapter 14
Fortified with sugary strong coffee, the pair had completed their shift without issue. Bozza told Quayle to go straight home. Dumping his sodden uniform in a large plastic evidence bag, Quayle had s driven home wearing only his boxer shorts and trainers. Bozza had been chuffed that the ARC guards had not seen him slip the packet of children's crayons under the wiper blade of their van in the dead of night. Rivalry between regular uniform officers and the 'Gun Monkey's' was legendary. They were well known for making arrests and requesting that uniform cover custody of their prisoners and carry out the processing and ancillary paperwork. So had grown the legend of the fact that Gun Monkeys were illiterate and only used crayons.