Payback

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Ricky-Lee spoke with a throaty rasp in his voice when he popped his head around Charley’s office door. ‘The Obs team have confirmed Danny is still in the house, ma’am.’

  ‘He’d better be, or it’ll be a question of which one of the surveillance team will be driving a Panda car by the end of the day,’ she called to the retreating figure heading for the water dispenser.

  The kettle could be heard boiling and the smell of coffee and warm, buttered toast was in the air when she walked back into the incident room. Ricky-Lee had tried his utmost to hide his bloodshot eyes and mask the smell of stale alcohol from her with mouthwash and aftershave.

  ‘Did you manage to catch a few hours’ sleep?’ Charley asked Annie as together they watched the DC chucking painkillers down his throat. He saw them looking at him. His head tilted slightly and a near-smile curved his lips.

  ‘Not really,’ Annie said, turning to Charley. ‘I seem to have spent the whole night with a coffee cup in my hand and my eyes latched on to that dial,’ she said, angling her head at the office clock. ‘Do you think he’s going to be OK?’ Annie nodded towards Ricky-Lee.

  ‘He’ll have two choices,’ Charley said with a forced smile.

  ‘But … he looks shot…’

  ‘He’ll learn not to try to keep up with the Surveillance team,’ she said, elbowing Annie as she saw members of the team arrive with bacon sandwiches. They wafted the food under Ricky-Lee’s nose and, observing his obvious green gills, followed by his objection to the smell of the food, they goaded him further. Eventually, he covered his mouth and ran for the door. Judging by their jeers there was no doubt he hadn’t heard the last of it.

  It was four a.m. as she headed to the briefing to ensure everyone knew their role in the forthcoming arrest – and the reasons for it. The adrenalin in the room was tangible. The team were ready.

  There were four cars in the convoy. With her hand on top of the passenger door Annie closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross across her chest before getting in the vehicle.

  Charley felt her own heart pounding. ‘I didn’t know you were particularly religious,’ she said in conversation as she rolled the car forward.

  ‘I’m not,’ Annie scowled. ‘I left that shit behind me when I left school. I had religion shoved down my throat every day. Priests and nuns telling us how to live a good, honest life. Every day there was one guilt trip or another to send us down, while we prayed for forgiveness. I was regularly told I would go to hell if I didn’t change my ways. I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d been one of the bad kids, but I wasn’t. I learnt to keep my head down and clear my plate because “There were children starving in Biafra”.’

  Charley’s eyebrows were raised. A glance across at her young colleague showed her wringing her clasped hands.

  Annie sighed heavily. ‘And then there was the hypocrisy of the whole thing. The priests telling us what to do and what not to do and all the time they were abusing their power and touching up my brother and his classmates. He was a good kid – he never got over what they did to him…’

  Charley heard Annie’s voice crack, but her eyes were focused on the road ahead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. This was not the time nor place to continue.

  Those whose job it was to batter down the door went to work. The front-line officers in protective clothing stormed in, followed by Charley and her team, all wearing stab-proof vests. Lights were switched on. Shouts of ‘Police!’ went up from several different sources, but the overriding noise was of boots running up the stairs, while downstairs officers veered off into the rooms to search them. The clamour was enough to awaken even the deepest of sleepers. Charley’s heart was racing with anticipation.

  In a first-floor bedroom, they found Danny Ray. White-faced and clearly shocked he had barely managed to raise himself on an elbow before a couple of uniformed officers, followed by the detectives, had surrounded him. Before he could say anything, Charley stepped forward. There was a flicker of recognition on his startled face.

  ‘Danny Ray, you are being arrested for the attempted murder and rape of Jean Weetwood and the attempted murder of Detective Constable Wilkie Connor.’

  No sooner had she begun to recite the caution than suddenly, from under his pillow, Danny produced a piece of wood formed into a handmade truncheon, which he swung at her. She sidestepped the mediaeval-looking weapon and instinctively, with a powerful right fist, hit him in the face with such force that he fell back on the bed and a moment later looked as though he didn’t know what day it was. Charley removed the weapon from his open hand. It was incredibly heavy and her belief was that it was somehow filled with lead. ‘Bag and tag,’ she said, to a startled young uniformed officer. ‘Arrest him. Dress him, and cuff him,’ she said to another. Dragged from his bed, nude, Danny was forced to dress in front of them. Charley turned her head away.

  Dumbfounded, the journalist obeyed instructions. He was motionless as the cops handcuffed him.

  Furious, her heart still racing, Charley turned on her heels. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Annie.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ the younger woman said, grimacing at the red knuckles on Charley’s right hand. ‘Remind me never to upset you. Ouch!’ she grimaced at the sight.

  ‘Yeah, but it was worth it,’ Charley whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I thought for a moment he was trying to hit you with a bloody vibrator!’ Annie gave a nervous titter, which Charley found infectious, and a few heads turned.

  A search of the house soon revealed Danny Ray’s personal incident room, with maps and pictures of victims and crime scenes, including recces for locations. Four groups of pictures to the top left-hand corner were enough to make Charley’s heart skip a beat: PC Susan Vine, an aerial map of the area where she lived, internal pictures of her house; a picture of Kristine, an aerial picture of the farm, Peel Street, the police headquarters and surrounding grounds; pictures of Charley riding Wilson and last, but not least, a picture of Ruby at the club.

  ‘Look at all this,’ Annie said.

  ‘Let’s keep digging,’ Charley said with a nod of her head at the search team. ‘Find me a pair of brown brogues, will you? Please God, don’t let him have got rid of them,’ she pleaded. ‘We’ll have a full debrief in the incident room at noon. That should give you time for one of you to be able to update me at least, even if you haven’t finished searching.’

  Outside, Charley stopped and took a long deep breath of cool morning air. Focusing on the garden gates ahead she saw they had been taped off and two uniformed officers stood guarding the entrance, one of whom she recognised as Susan Vine. The sight of the officer triggered her to move forward. A statement would be required from her as to Danny Ray’s threats at the hospital.

  ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ Charley asked the policewoman. Susan looked tired; her eyes were reddened.

  ‘As soon as I’m relieved, believe me, I’m off to my bed, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long night.’

  The update from the team who had gone directly to the newspaper offices where Danny Ray worked was positive, the editor herself shocked by the news and fully co-operative.

  Could the day get any better Charley wondered? And then she got the news that Wilkie was being released from hospital, although he still couldn’t speak for long periods or hold a pen. That would come in time, she was told, and she hoped that when it did he would be able to communicate the information about Eddie’s death.

  Visibly shaken, a handcuffed Danny Ray was helped out of the police car when it pulled up in the station yard. He was ushered into the custody suite, where he entered as a remand prisoner who had been arrested for, but not yet charged with, the attempted murder and rape of Jean Weetwood and the attempted murder of Detective Constable Wilkie Connor.

  The custody suite sat at the heart of the police station. The only access to the area was by someone inside opening the door. Sergeant Jack Cooke’s lip turned up at the corner in a lazy gri
n as, at his command, Charley was allowed access to the suite. Sergeant Cooke was a short, thick-set, bright-eyed man with a large, bulbous, purple nose and an expression that was both droll and complacent. He sat behind the custody desk, perched on a buffet, his eyes focused on the computer screen in front of him. Shouts and thuds could be heard from the cell area.

  ‘He’s not a happy bunny,’ Jack said, nonchalantly. His eyes still didn’t leave the screen. Charley went to stand at the other side of the desk. Tilting his head, Jack narrowed his eyes and waited. Another three bangs and an angry roar. ‘He wants to make an official complaint about his wrongful arrest and is presently insisting I get Divisional Commander Roper in.’

  ‘You’ll have a job on; he’s golfing.’

  He closed his eyes slowly and nodded briefly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you got him in a paper suit?’

  Jack turned to face her this time and nodded again. ‘And he’s being monitored, as per your instruction.

  ‘Suicide’s far too good for him. Has he been seen by a doctor yet? We need him deemed fit for interview.’

  ‘The doc?’ The CCTV screen was secured on the wall to his right and he looked up at it. ‘Aye, she’s here now,’ he said. Charley could see the figure of a young Asian woman carrying a black bag, being escorted by Marty from the front desk down the steps leading to the cells. Once at the door, the two could be seen chatting and laughing. The officer requested access and Jack responded by pressing another large green button to his left. The officers waited for the doctor to appear.

  ‘By the way, mi’laddo tells me he’ll be going home once he’s seen Roper. According to him, Roper’s a good friend.’

  Charley looked quizzical. ‘I think “good friend” might be stretching it a bit. Anyway, I think whatever relationship they may have had in the past will just have come to an abrupt end, don’t you?’

  At the closing of the door behind the doctor, Jack raised his chin. ‘Hello, Dr Ande,’ he said, seeing the doc in the holding chamber. Jack released the steel-barred gate and she walked towards them. ‘How bloody lovely to see you.’ He made a flamboyant open-handed gesture to introduce the two ladies. ‘Doc, this is Detective Inspector Charley Mann, the person in charge of the murder enquiries.’

  Secretly, Charley surveyed the prisoner as he gave his fingerprints and DNA, her heart still unbelieving, her head knowing otherwise.

  The offence he’d been charged with was deemed a holding charge, which enabled the police to place him before the court for a remand to police cells so he could be interviewed about other matters: these being the two murders.

  ‘He doesn’t want the duty solicitor. Apparently, he has another friend who’s been called to the Bar! And, flummoxed or not, he remembered the guy’s phone number.’ Jack showed Charley the barrister’s details.

  She studied them for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think I know Donald, do you?’

  Charley returned to the office to discuss the forthcoming interview strategy with the elected officers. Assumed to be off the cuff, but actually well-rehearsed and polished, interview questions were considered and agreed. After questioning him regarding the attack on Jean Weetwood, they could charge him with murder, and attempted murder, when the evidence was irrefutable.

  For some reason, Charley’s debris-strewn desk distressed her – it was usually kept orderly by another. It was lit by a harsh fluorescent striplight, whose artificial glare reflecting off the office windows showed how dark it was outside. The atmosphere in the room was one of quiet satisfaction: at times she had thought there was more chance of her understanding the off-side rule in football than solving the case.

  Snippets of conversation drifted into her office from the incident room, but most of it was drowned out by the endless fevered chatter of a team wound up by the success of their enquiry and the buzzing of the telephones. Most of the team sat at their desks, transfixed by their screens: the HOLMES team updating, the remainder either writing up reports, updating the dry-wipe boards or conducting telephone conversations with others, in the hope that they would lead to the solid conviction of the perpetrators.

  She wanted justice for the two murdered victims and their families so badly, as well as for Jean Weetwood; but also, perhaps selfishly, she wanted it for herself.

  Still deep in thought, she sat behind her desk, where the paperwork overflowed to such an extent that documents threatened to fall onto the floor. Feeling the onset of a headache, she brushed the articles aside to open her desk drawer and search for paracetamol. Popping two pills from the foil wrap, she placed them into her mouth and swallowed them down with the dregs of a cup containing cold coffee. It had skinned over; her throat lurched and stomach heaved, but with an effort she managed to keep the pills down, though her face reddened and her eyes filled with salty tears in the process.

  They say you didn’t know what you had until it was gone and it was true; she missed Winnie and vowed to go and see her at the next opportunity. Winnie had always been there to clean up her mess, even taking her clothes to be washed or cleaned if she’d left them around when she was in uniform. She brought her team homemade cakes and soups. Mother hen, she was. Now it was time to pay her back in her hour of need.

  Charley would have loved to be with the team rooting through things and finding the evidence to put Danny Ray where he belonged. A satisfied smile crossed her face. There was going to be a vast number of exhibits; the team would be seizing all his clothing on her instruction.

  ‘I’ll find those brogues if it’s the last thing I do,’ she muttered under her breath. Popping her head around the exhibits room door, she was expectant that the empty wooden-slatted shelves would be full of packages and parcels very soon – every item would be revealed to the defence whether it was used or not, that was the process; although the defence didn’t have to reveal their evidence beforehand, which she still thought gave them an unfair advantage in court.

  There was a vast amount of work to be done, but, no matter what it took, she didn’t want Danny Ray seeing the light of day again. The young, innocent boy she had once played kick-a-can on the street with, the teenager she’d partnered at the school disco, the boyfriend with whom she had once thought there was a future … Roper had been right on one thing: if Danny hadn’t startled her that night, she would have floored him – and Danny Ray had known it.

  Her thoughts were broken when Divisional Commander Brian Roper walked into her office.

  ‘Sir! I thought you were…’

  ‘Golfing? I was.’

  Her haste to rise from behind her desk caused a pile of papers to fly to the floor.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he said, as she scrabbled around his feet to retrieve them.

  Charley hesitated and looked up to see his scowl.

  ‘You really are pathetic, do you know that?’ Roper hissed. ‘Does the Chief know yet?’

  She shook her head, trying to clear the commotion within.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Huffing and puffing, he left the room.

  Chapter 24

  Charley was at her office window, looking out over the yard.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Annie, coming in. Without waiting for an answer, she sat down, screwed up her face and gently slid off one shoe. Kneading a big toe, she continued. ‘Can you begin to imagine having to turn your shoes upside down and inside out to let the water pour out at the end of the day?’ she asked, shaking her head in disgust. ‘I know, I know, it sounds absurd, but back in the day the broguing on a pair of wing tips wasn’t just for show it was a necessity.’ She looked quizzically at Charley and carried on. ‘Brogues weren’t meant for the boardroom; they were specifically designed for the bog, first worn by English and Irish countrymen who had to slog around their soggy farms all day. But you’ll probably know all this coming from a farming family.’

  Charley appeared distant. ‘They don’t have complete holes now, only abbreviated, decorative dots that give the shoes personality
,’ she said flatly.

  ‘You sure you’re OK, you look rather er … odd.’

  The briefing room was packed. The clock struck twelve. The attendees fell silent the moment Charley stood up. As she was about to speak, she became aware of the door opening at the back of the room and the shuffling of feet as those standing in front moved to allow someone through. The crowd made a pathway and she realised that it was the Divisional Commander, who unceremoniously pushed his way to the front. With a nod of his head to those assembled, and an uncompromising look at Charley, he sat down uncomfortably close beside her.

  Though bewildered to see him at the briefing, she found herself surprisingly unaffected by his presence, so focused was she on the job in hand. Maybe that was a good thing.

  Firstly, she thanked everyone for their efforts, thus far. ‘For those of you who don’t know, Mr Danny Ray was arrested at his home this morning, as planned. Thanks to your sterling work, all went to plan. He was alone and still in his bed when the team forced entry. Presently, he is complaining about his wrongful arrest and has refused the duty solicitor, expressing a desire to use a friend of his, who is a barrister. Mr Ray had the details readily available and therefore the barrister has been contacted.’