A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington

by M W Foolster

  Both girls shriek up at him, “Cuddly Bear World.”

  “Aye, a copy o’ that an all for me.”

  Winks down at them, and then meets her gaze.

  “Dinae want any arguments, lass. Ok?”

  A beaming smile, a few more tears and Angie finally relents. Raising herself up on her toes, and much to the delight of the girls, she kisses his cheek. Well, Mighty Bear’s cheek as far as they’re concerned.

  Whistling loudly, DI Jordan hails a passing black cab. With Angie and the girls safely inside, the DI waves them on their way, thinking to himself, dirty money made clean, rule one of Jordan's law. Now for rule two.

  He pulls the warrant card from his jacket, and stands glaring at the door that Mr Arazi is foolish enough to believe he can hide behind. The rage building inside him, he yells.

  “POLICE. OPEN UP.”

  Despite startling a few passers-by, nobody pays him too much attention. He raises his leg and smashes his foot into the lock. Feels it budge slightly. Repeats the action, the sound of splintering wood. And the third kick sends the glass door flying inwards. Several pedestrians close by now stand and watch, flashes his warrant card at them.

  “Keep clear of the door, police business.”

  Leaves them murmuring amongst themselves and storms into a dark, and narrow hallway.

  “I’ve phoned the police. You better fuck off now cause they are on their way.”

  Wavering halfway up an uncarpeted flight of stairs, Mr Arazi barely has time to turn and run before the DI, taking three steps at a time, is bearing down on him. Having built up a head of steam, and without pausing for breath, DI Jordan snatches at the man and takes hold of him by his trouser belt. With the screaming male being swung backwards and forwards like a pendulum, the DI continues thundering up the stairs and on to a small landing. Despite a wooden door approaching them fast, DI Jordan has now built up too much momentum to slow himself down and albeit it unintentionally, uses Mr Arazi’s head as a battering ram. But it’s effective. The flimsy wooden door is sent crashing inwards, and left hanging by its hinges. The DI finally releases Mr Arazi, who goes hurtling across a dining table, clearing several china bowls and a glass tumbler full of juice from the surface, before smacking heavily into the wall opposite. With the sound of crunching crockery beneath his feet, and his eyes blazing fire, DI Jordan stomps across the vibrating floor towards the crumpled heap sat shaking with fear.

  “Please... Don’t hurt me.”

  DI Jordan pauses to stare around the small flat. Several black bin liners stuffed full of, and overflowing, with clothing, children’s clothing. Three, no four cardboard boxes packed full of cuddly toys, boards games, children’s’ books, DVD’s, cosmetics, and even shoes. Tiny little pairs of children’s shoes in amongst several pairs of women’s boots. Spots a laptop slung across the top of the boxes, top left open, leans down and gently pushes it closed. And then he notices the cereal spread across the carpet from the smashed bowels.

  “Yah dinae even let the wee lasses finish their breakfast, did yah?”

  Now sobbing loudly, and with his hands clasped together in front of him seemingly in prayer, Mr Arazi slowly rises to his feet.

  “Please, just give me a chance to explain.”

  But the DI is in no mood to listen. Grabbing hold of the unshaven male’s crumpled suit jacket by the lapels, the DI lifts and throws him towards an open door, the silhouette of a bed barely visible inside the darkened room. Mr Arazi attempts to crawl way from the heavy footsteps approaching from behind, but is too slow and is sent flying head first into a wardrobe door from a hefty boot up his backside.

  Yanking the curtains open. “Move, and swear I will throw yah oot the feicking window.” With the room now flooded in light, DI Jordan looks across the unmade bed and at a pink towelling bath robe hanging from a hook on the back of the bedroom door, Angie’s. Removes the belt, wraps it around his hand and turns to the snivelling male.

  “Take aff yah feicking trouser belt and be quick aboot it.”

  “Why?” His eyes wide open in panic, Mr Arazi sneaks a look at the open doorway.

  “Dinae yah even think about it, yah feick wit. And if I have tae tell yah again, yah will seriously regret it.”

  Handing the removed belt to DI Jordan.

  “Please I am begging you, just take what you want and go. I swear I won’t say anything. But please, just go.”

  “Sae, whit did yah offer her? Free board for sexual favours?”

  Seeing the confused look on Mr Arazi’s face.

  “Angie. Dinae bullshit me yah feicker.”

  “It was business. She couldn’t pay her rent and so I made her a business proposition. I was doing the bitch a favour.”

  “BASTARD!”

  Although the DI had only intended wrapping the bathrobe belt around his hand for effect, it now serves a useful purpose as he drags the man to his feet and punches him several times in the mouth, shouting.

  “And wi’ the wee lasses sat in the room listening tae all yah was saying.” Face bloodied, and now sagging in the DI’s hand, Mr Arazi yet again finds himself being lifted off his feet and mercilessly thrown across a room, his head left reverberating as it thumps into a radiator. Without pausing, the DI grabs hold of the male by his thick, greasy hair, and a loud clanging soon fills the air as he smashes his head back against the metal heater. DI Jordan is about to drag the male back up to his feet when the mobile starts vibrating in his pocket, DS Fuller. With his hefty shoe rammed down on the throat of a sputtering Mr Arazi, the DI gazes out of the window at the front of the Comfort Zone as he talks to the DS.

  Mobile back in his jacket, the DI wraps Mr Arazi’s belt around his mouth pulling it tight, and ramming the man’s arms behind his back, uses the bathrobe belt to secure him to the pipes behind the radiator.

  “Have nae finished wi’ yah feick wit, but am ginae gie yah some time tae think aboot whit yah put that poor lass through. And then we are ginae have another long talk aboot the error o’ yur ways.”

  DI Jordan is just about to step out into the high street when he’s approached by two young, and fresh faced uniformed police officers. The smaller of the two, in fact he’s barely over five foot, looks vaguely familiar, has a horrid feeling he once threatened to use him as bar stall in the Hare and Hound pub. But that was several months back and they had all been out celebrating, perhaps a little too much in his case.

  Flashing his warrant card at them, “All okay officers.”

  Looking decidedly nervous, the taller of the two officers blurts out,

  “We received a call about a disturbance at this address, Sir.”

  “Aye, was a wee bit o’ bother lads but I have dealt wi’ it. The landlord of the building got involved in an argument wi’ a tenant but it has been resolved, sae yah can call it in as a false alarm.”

  “But shouldn’t we at least investigate the crime scene for ourselves, Sir, if one has been committed that is? Or we’ll have the sergeant at our throats.”

  “Nae crime committed lads, sae in’t a problem. Naebody will be pressing any charges and sae winae be any paperwork for yah tae complete.” Breaking into a chesty laugh. “Or me for that. Youse two get back tae the station and if yah have any problems wi’ the feicking duty sergeant, I will come deal wi’ him myself.”

  Both nod, and even if they seem a little apprehensive to do so, turn and walk away from him. The DI listens attentively as one of them calls it in. His mobile vibrating in his pocket, Ds Fuller. With the damaged door to the flats yanked closed, and the officers now out of sight, he storms across the road just as a red haired female comes darting out of the Comfort Zone. Grabs her roughly by the arm and swings the shocked woman towards his car.

  “I winae talk tae yah lass. Now get yur arse in the car before I break yur feicking arm.”

  Ten minutes later, and having kept his eye on the flat opposite the entire time, DI Jordan swings open the car door. The red head smiles down at him sweetly and thanks him
as she eases herself out of the car, if a little perturbed that, despite her best attempts to openly flirt with him, the DI isn’t remotely interested. And she quickly heads off in the direction of the train station. A screech of tyres, and the smell of burning rubber as the DI performs a sharp U-turn before pulling up outside Mr Arazi’s.

  Less than fifteen minutes have passed, and DI Jordan is back staring into the panic stricken eyes of the man in the crumpled, and now blood stained, grey suit. Undoes the black leather belt, and pulls it roughly from Mr Arazi’s mouth. Spitting out some blood, and with his cheek turning purple, he stares at the DI.

  “I heard you talking to them. You are a policeman? I don’t get it, you can’t do this to me. I know my rights. Look just let me go and I won’t say no more about it. I swear it.”

  Pushing Mr Arazi to one side, “Nae bloody likely,” DI Jordan’s stocky fingers fumble with the knot in the bathrobe belt.

  A yelp of pain as the belt is torn from his wrists.

  “

  Please, just think about this, you are a policeman for fuck sake,”

  Yanking him upright, the DI pushes him back out into the living room.

  “Yah live in this same building?” No reply.

  A heavy wallop around the back of the head and Mr Arazi decides to answer, “Yes, the flat above.”

  Having been frog marched up another flight of stairs, pushed face first through the door to flat 2, and tossed across the floor, the horrified man lays gawking up at the DI.

  “Yah got any food in this shithole?” And with the petrified male having nodded towards the kitchen, DI Jordan is soon rummaging around in the fridge, his hands emerging with a cooked chicken leg and a can of beer.

  “Sae how much dae yah charge for the flat?”

  “Two hundred pounds a week.” And having seen the DI’s expression. “It’s the going rate.”

  Gnawing away on the chicken leg, his steely eyes boring into Mr Arazi,

  “Sae how far behind was she wi’ the rent?”

  Drawing his knees up to his chin, but too scared to stand.

  “She owed four-hundred.”

  “And did she tell yah why she got behind wi’ it?”

  “Look, I have got bills of my own to pay, am not a charity. People have problems in life, how it is, right? And she…” Fidgeting uncomfortably, Mr Arazi drops his head.

  “She what?”

  Still refusing to meet the DI’s gaze.

  “She didn’t exactly do herself any favours. Not exactly friendly, and as for those damned kids running around making a racket at all hours. She was bloody lucky that I didn’t thro…” The chicken leg suddenly whacks him in the forehead. “Fuck that hurt!”

  “Aye, was meant tae. And we know whit kinae favours yah had in mind, dinae we?”

  And then the DI spots something on a computer table.

  “In tae photography, are yah?”

  Picking up a digital camera, the DI scrolls through the images, and his hand is suddenly trembling as he takes a sharp intake of breath. The sound of feet pounding, the DI turns sharply to see Mr Arazi making a run towards the door. Instinctively throws the camera towards the escaping man, and scores a direct hit on Mr Arazi’s head. That is enough to cause him to lose his balance and send him crashing face first into a glass coffee table.

  “Yah sick bastard.”

  Now crawling on all fours through the broken glass, blood pouring from an open gash to his cheek, Mr Arazi feels a powerful hand grasp hold of his calf.

  “It isn’t how it looks. It is not even mine.”

  Digs his nails into the a thin red rug, but that only leads to it being pulled along with him.

  “If yah went anywhere near those lasses.”

  “I swear on my life, I didn’t. It’s all a mistake. Please, I am begging you, it isn’t mine.”

  The light breeze on his cheek draws the DI’s attention to a pair of curtains fluttering wildly, the vein throbbing painfully in his forehead as he roars out in anger, and swings Mr Arazi towards the window.

  “Yah got more o’ that filth in here, yah sick fuck?”

  A quick glance across at the desktop PC, just as he is being swung out through the open window, answers that question. DI Jordan squeezes Mr Azari’s calf viciously in his powerful hands as he dangles the panic stricken, and shrieking male, in mid-air. And then the images flash back into his mind. “Feick it.” The DI releases his grip.

  A scream, and a dull thud. But then silence. DI Jordan leans out of the window, expecting to see Mr Arazi limping to his freedom. But no. Instead, he finds himself looking down into a large, metal industrial bin, at Mr Arazi half buried in amongst several refuse sacks, his head lying at a strange angle, his now lifeless eyes staring back up at him. DI Jordan sips from the beer can, maybe not intentional but it was bloody well justified. After all, considering how he’d come across the evidence on the camera, the bastard would definitely of walked free from court. Struggles to drag his eyes away from the corpse below, not that the sick pervert is the first to die at his hands. Guzzling down the last of the beer, he screws up the can and throws it at the bin below.

  “Aye, and that bastard deserved it an all.”

  Andrew McNuff, guilty of being drunk at the wheel of the car that mounted a pavement, hitting an eight year old boy and killing him instantly. And that lad had been Jamie Hendrick, his nephew. Young Jamie was walking home from school one autumnal afternoon, head buried in a comic and oblivious to the approaching danger, when his life had been so cruelly snuffed out. The driver didn’t even stop, just sped off. The burned out shell of McNuff’s car discovered on some wasteland within hours, and the man himself found several days later hiding out in his brother’s attic. Pleaded innocent, claimed his car had been stolen, that he’d stayed at his brother’s because he feared for his safety having been wrongly accused of the crime, and, despite his own admission that he’d spent most of the day drinking in a local pub, he’d left the car parked up and walked home. But footage from a CCTV camera across the road from the pub proved otherwise. And it should have been no more than a formality for the jury to declare him guilty. However, McNuff’s clever defence barrister had other ideas. With entry of the private property, which housed the CCTV camera and it’s hard drive, having been conducted without a search warrant being issued, the evidence was deemed to be inadmissible in court, and led to the case being thrown out.

  McNuff had shown no remorse and never once offered any sympathy to his family, even sneering at them as he’d cheered and waved his fist in triumph at having left court a free man. But he’d live, if only for a few more weeks, to regret those actions. In fact, McNuff would still be alive now if he’d pleaded guilty and served a prison sentence. As it was, McNuff did eventually sign a written confession, offering his heartfelt apologies to the DI’s sister, explaining that he couldn’t live with the guilt and pleading for her forgiveness. Perhaps the writing was difficult to read, but considering the means adopted by the DI in encouraging McNuff to put pen to paper, that was to be expected. DI Jordan had then decided that McNuff shouldn’t have to go through life with such a heavy burden of guilt, and threw him off a cliff top. The corpse was discovered a few days later, the coroner’s verdict, suicide. Jordan’s justice.

  Adjusting the black sacks he’d rescued from Angie’s flat, which are now carefully placed into his car boot, the cardboard boxes beneath them, the DI pushes it shut. A quick glance at the back seat, the laptop concealed beneath an old blanket, as is the huge LCD television he’d ripped off Arazi’s wall, a Blu-ray DVD player and forty or so films. The two lasses will love the TV. Pats his pocket, yep the remotes are safely tucked away. He nearly drops the green petrol can clutched tightly in his hand on hearing a loud explosion close by, and looks up at a plume of smoke snaking it way into the sky. A wry smile. With all of the shops closing early, and their owners rapidly heading off home, an unexpected solution has presented itself to what could have been a total disaster. Arazi’s flat i
s an end of terrace property, and the building next to it empty. Lady luck is certainly smiling down on him. Still smirking, he heads back into the hallway and up to the top flat. Leaning out of the window, he pours petrol from the container into the industrial bin below, saturating both Mr Arazi and the smashed PC he’d thrown against the wall in anger, after seeing the contents on the hard drive. Some tissue rammed into the top of a brandy bottle, the DI lights it and let it drop. The whoosh has him leaping backwards, a stench of petrol in his nose. Into the kitchen, turns on all of the gas rings and the oven. Lighter in hand, he lights the large church candle sat atop the worktop opposite the gas hob and exits the crime scene.

  23 The Comfort Zone

  DS Fuller is surprised at just how dark the Comfort Zone is, but then again, maybe that’s the main appeal for its customers. A discreet and romantic setting, apparently, wonders if Susie would like it in here, if only. And then he can almost hear the DI's voice bellowing in his head, that Susie can wait and to get his sodding priorities right. Realises that he can't afford to screw this up or allow himself to get distracted, dreads to think what the Gov would do to him. Right, he needs to act inconspicuously, blend in, become invisible, and it’s not like the Gov can, so this is down to him. Shoulders hunched, he works his way through the business crowd, most having removed their jackets, and the men their ties, in the hot and stuffy environment. With DS Fuller's appearance having already drawn a few curious glances from the clientele, he then manages to accidently tread on the foot of a smartly dressed woman at the bar. With the words ‘you stupid bloody buffoon’ still ringing in his ears, he eases himself up onto a bar stool and attracts the attention of the female bartender.

  "A pina colada, if you please"

  He surveys the room but no sign of the suspect, doesn’t help that the lighting is so poor. Remembering the quip the Gov had made in the Jolly Roger, can't resist asking her,

  "So are you, like, cutting back on electricity in here?"