by Cameron Bell
The field sloped downwards towards the bottom of the valley and had a solitary tree a middle of the way across, and a quarter of the way down. The tree was old with overhanging branches and exposed roots. I could see Mike standing at the side of it smoking an e-cigarette, and Sarah alongside the trunk of the tree using a job Samsung. I ambled down.
“All right Mike, Sarah?”
“Yeah … found us eventually then,” Mike cracked.
“I took the scenic route.”
Mike Francis fizzed with nervous energy and if he wasn't fidgeting or talking your ears off, he was vaping. He was thin to the point of needing a good feed, but whatever he ate he burned off. Prior to joining the police he'd been a carpenter and still was, taking cash in hand jobs either side of his shifts. Like me Sarah was new to the team, she was a petite university graduate that wanted to get on the Public Protection Unit investigating sexual abuse cases.
I took a few more paces and saw a sad, scrawny figure sat slouched on his left leg like a puppet held up with only one string. The string was taut blue nylon rope pressing deep into the neck underneath the jaw. The rope created an ugly indent and kinked his head straight against the lean of his body. The tongue, a strangled purple leaked from the mouth and the eyes with a freckle of blood stared blankly ahead at the hillside. The rope from the branch to the neck was a short length. It had been wound several times around a sturdy branch, and the knot in the untidiness of his hair was thick and over tied – he had clearly meant to get it done.
“It is our Mis-per Sarge,” said Sarah and she showed me on the Samsung a mugshot of Arthur Lewis.
He was a local man aged thirty-eight, and had been missing for forty hours, and by the rigor mortis that had set in had been dead for a good number of them. A petty criminal with a persistent drug problem, he had been in and out of prison and had lived off benefits his entire adult life. He had lived alone in a flat provided by a housing association and had been reported missing by his twenty year old daughter. Like many of the people I dealt with he was a sufferer of depression and anxiety and took a cocktail of meds and other substances to blot life out. Given the hand he had been dealt in life, and the despairing grind in flailing and falling, fucking up and failing; I understood how he had arrived here on the mountainside, put a noose around his neck, and just sat down. I was surprised more people didn’t do the same.
I broke away from morbid thoughts and got the ball rolling; the deceased had been found just over an hour ago by a dog walker - they always found people. The dog walker was sitting in her car in a lay-by on the other side of the field. Mike had taken an account from her and had asked her to stay until I came. I read the account, it was comprehensive, and she didn’t need to stay. The scene was easy to manage it was established, with no blood or other evidential material and free of people.
The next thing to do was to work through the list of professionals that would need to attend. Mike had already called for the paramedics so that death could officially be pronounced. I went over the air and rattled the others off requesting: C.I.D. Crime Scene Investigation, and the Force Medical Examiner; I would leave the undertaker until last.
The paramedics were first to arrive to perform a perfunctory role. They hooked up an E.C.G. on his lifeless body and the machine told everyone what they already knew. A form was filled out, and Sarah got the yellow copy to staple to the F13 death form submitted to the Coroner, giving a time that life was pronounced extinct. C.I.D. and C.S.I. arrived together. The young Detective Nathan Keller didn’t have much to offer and clearly didn’t want to be there. He kept looking at his shiny, office shoes and was complaining about a complex case file he needed to get back to. I told him that I had it covered and that I would update him if the Doctor had a Columbo moment and cried foul play. Stumpy the CSI was an old sweat, thirty years as a Copper and a further seven after retirement as a civilian CSI. We caught up as he took photographs and measurements.
We got lucky with the Doc, who was just leaving Merthyr Tydfil when he got the call. A quarter of an hour after the others, Doctor Kozek, a heavyset Pole with a stomach like a barrel, waddled tentatively down the field. His corpulence making him ill-suited to even a short spell rambling over uneven ground. He reached us in a state of discomfort, and for a moment there was the black thought that we may have two deaths on our hands. The Doctor nodded a greeting and took a silent minute to settle the strain. Then when he was ready, he put a pair of latex gloves on and examined the body for trauma.
He checked the head, neck, chest, and back for ligature marks and wounds. He said to me,
“Can I have the body down please?”
Stumpy cut the rope midway to preserve the knot, and I lowered Lewis to the grass. Doctor Kozek then unbuttoned Lewis’s trousers and inspected the left leg and buttock.
“Yes, see the blood pooling … it is as it should be. He hang in this … situation and the blood sink down to here.”
I updated Bronze by phone that there were no suspicious circumstances and left Mike and Sarah arrange the undertakers.
◆◆◆
I got back to the Kuga and fell into the seat. I had only managed to grab a few hours sleep and now I was struggling. Death now fatigued me, it didn’t use to, and in such situations, I was closer to indifferent than compassionate. That had changed when my wife had died; it wasn’t that it made me care more for the death of others, it was that their death amplified my own grief. It had been eighteen months, but it often felt like eighteen hours. I started the car and headed back along the valley towards the station in Ton Pentre.
Chapter 3
I was driving out of Treorchy when the Control Room put out a 999 call.
“Immediate response: Thirteen Margaret Street, Pentre. Female Jade Hanford reporting that her ex-partner Nicky Larkin is outside kicking the door in.”
I racked my brain for where it was, the location vague in my mind. The call was put out again over the radio - I jumped in anyway,
“Foxtrot Echo 40 on route.”
“Roger that, are you single crewed?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I’ll see if I can get another unit to back you up. Jade Hanford is a high-risk victim of domestic abuse from Nicky Larkin. Larkin has warning signals for weapons, violence, drugs, escaper, fail to appear, offends on bail. He also has a wanted marker … his licence has been revoked and he has been recalled to prison.”
Nicky Larkin - this was not going to go well. I had a history with Larkin; he was nothing special to me, just one of a number over the years that I had had regular run-ins with. However, he did not feel the same way; he thought I had it in for him and he hated the fuck out of me. I first had dealings with him when he burgled a school in Port Talbot at age fourteen, and our paths must have crossed at least a couple of dozen times in the proceeding eleven years. There had been foot pursuits, cycle chases, searches; there had been abuse, threats and fights, interviews and court cases. He had assaulted me, I had assaulted him, and he had made complaints against me which hadn’t gone anywhere. He had bragged to other Port Talbot scrotes that he would run me over, and in the right circumstances he might have. In the right or wrong circumstances, he was capable of practically anything.
The last I heard he was over the wall doing a four year stretch for a knifepoint robbery of a betting shop - he needed double that to cool his heels and wear him down. Although, in reality he had probably only served just over two before being released on licence. Larkin, a Port Talbot boy was off patch, as was I - an old rivalry to be resumed on new ground.
I pulled in to the side of the road, got my smartphone out, opened Google maps and put the address in. It was the third left turn on the road I was on, and I was less than thirty seconds from it. No lights or sirens - it didn’t pay to raise alarm and have him scoot.
I took the third left turn and climbed a steep street of old terraced housing that had been built for miners at the beginning of the last century. I dropped down a gear and crossed over
the junction with Hill Side Street. Then I dumped the Kuga at a careless angle near the end of the street and got out to check for house numbers. Thirteen was on the left side of the road and end of the terrace; and it was the right address because the white UPVC front door was off the hinges.
I turned my radio down and entered cautiously from the pavement, pausing in the hallway to listen, the naked stairs in front of me, the lounge to the right. I heard a commotion from the back of the house; a burst of adrenaline felt like falling and my limbs shook. I stepped into the drab, sparsely furnished lounge with its nicked walls and battered sofa. A stale smell thick, heavy and ingrained clogged my nostrils and the stains on the cheap laminate floor stuck to the soles of my Altberg boots. I heard Larkin's crude voice from the enclosed kitchen behind,
“It’s not fucking over … it’s not. I loves you Jade and I want us back together ... I can change, I have fucking changed for fuck's sake! Gimme another chance, c’mon!”
Larkin was pleading, but all the same there was bite in his voice, and he wouldn’t plead for long before he snapped and hit. How to play this? I spun through factors and options: kitchen meant pans and knives, confined space and Jade an unknown element in the crossfire. Reasoning with him would be pointless, CS spray was out - everyone would end up getting some and it affected me badly. I could go straight for the ASP, but if used this ran the risk of catching Jade on the backswing. Another problem was with a baton in hand I wouldn’t be able to handcuff. Then it would be fast in and hands on; try to keep hold of the fucker and wait for the cavalry to arrive. I readied myself and crept along the separating wall towards the archway, my view of the kitchen limited to the side of the fridge.
“Get the fuck offa me! We've been through this a million times: rows, girls, drugs, police, prison ... it's doing my fucking head in. You turn up here, kick the fucking door in telling me you've changed. Yeah, big fucking change … twat!” complained and provoked a female voice, harsh and caustic, running the gamut of tone and pitch.
“Are you fucking someone else, is that it, is that what you've been up to? I'm going to turn this shit-hole upside down, and if I find anything that proves you're fucking behind my back … I'll fucking do you, I swear, I'll open your slut face like a fucking purse.”
I moved into the archway and Larkin was standing with his back to the fridge – I was shocked at what I saw, and a queasy spill of adrenaline sank into my gut. Larkin had bulked up. No longer was he a stringy and Mephedrone gnawed lunatic bouncing around Sandfields Estate like a demented jack-in-the-box. He must have hit the weights hard in jail and probably the roids to; he was now a very solid six feet two head case entering his prime. He had five inches and twenty years on me, though probably in truth not that much weight.
I leapt at him nonetheless and clamped double grips on his left arm at the wrist and elbow. I tried to turn the elbow for an entangled arm lock and wasn't quick enough in the execution. Larkin instinctively stiffened his arm into a rigid pole, then jerked it back to pivot and turn into me,
“Cutter,” he spat.
His hatchet like face flashed hateful malice, and I caught sight of his stubby, malnourished baby teeth. Greyed and ground down by stimulant drugs and bruxism. Larkin leant back and heaved, and I was pulled like a hooked fish. He was strong, so I went with it and crashed him into the back door. We grappled against the door, the UPVC giving to our weight. I sought to arrest, he to get away. I crowded him with my shoulders and pressed my forehead into his cheek, and intimate information was exchanged in our struggle: the stench of cigarettes, small cries and bad sweat. I could feel his desperation, and perhaps he could sense my fear, not of violence, but of the peril of restraint.
“Fuck you Cunter,” he spat in rage.
Cunter was a name they had for me. I replied low and cold,
“We'll see who gets fucked.”
Larkin grabbed a handful of hair with one hand and cupping the back of my head with the other yanked me bent. I strained to straighten up, but got nowhere, he had me locked down tight. There was a brief pause and I cross guarded my face; then I felt an upward smash and my skull shuddered. I caught another knee on my forearm, and a further cracked my forehead. The red mist descended, no more half measures, one of us would fall.
I could see waistline and down and there was only one spot to hit. I shifted position and banged away angrily with both fists - the release pleasurable. Rocking and bouncing around the grimy, chip pan kitchen, I hit hip and thigh and took a glancing blow along the jawline. I dug in a hard hook close to the payoff and could feel Larkin flinch, and then spasm into further violence, rag dolling me up to speed and launching me at the sink. I slammed shoulder first into the unit below, and not knowing if I was hurt or not, flipped over with my hands up anticipating a follow-up boot in the face. It didn't come; Larkin was at the back door.
I rolled to my feet and followed through the flung open door, along the cracked garden path, Larkin bounding ahead. The gate was blocked by an upturned sofa and bags of refuse, so Larkin veered right, through a knotted morass of grass and brambles and vaulted with abandon at the six-foot wall. The grass had hampered him, and Larkin had only got half over by the time I had reached the wall. Chest astride the top, with his left leg cocked over and the other dangling in front of me. I seized the dangling leg at the ankle and calf, and furiously with all my weight and strength cranked the leg outward against the knee. I pulled like an incensed dog, repeatedly wrenching the limb against its natural motion. Larkin howled, and the knee cricked and cracked, and the whole thing looked and sounded hideously comic. I then callously tossed him over the wall, and he cried out again.
I quickly heaved myself over the wall to see him already on his feet and hobbling down an alley towards the main road. I chased him down and caught up with him without effort. Larkin heard my heavy approach and stopped, turned and raised his hands.
“Fuck off!” raw, full of exasperation and anger; his brow split and bleeding he edged forward.
I answered from a distance with a spearing left jab to the kisser. Larkin's head whipped back, and wrong-footed he stumbled on his heels like a drunk Cossack, collapsing noisily against a blue metal garage door. He lay propped up awkwardly next to a smear of dog shit and pieces of broken glass. Larkin looked up at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated to black beads and his mouth bloodied. I stared down at him wanting to do more,
“Enough! ... you are under arrest for using violence to secure entry.”
I drew my CS spray, Larkin looked beaten – I hosed him anyway and watched him crawl on his hands and knees amidst the glass and shit, spluttering mucus and snot, streaming tears, eyes screwed tight against the burning crystals. What they called me was undeserved, but not wholly undeserved.
◆◆◆
Back-up arrived, and Larkin was cuffed and stuffed into the back of a police van and taken to Merthyr Custody. All the way up the Rhondda Fawr Valley he headbutted the cage and threatened to rape our wives and burn down our houses – this was not unusual, and it was water off a duck's back. Larkin kicked up a fuss at the custody desk complaining that his knee was fucked, which in fairness it probably was. I had some bumps and bruises, so arrested him for assault police. During the caution, I could barely conceal my enjoyment as he went off his nut in an indignant tantrum. We'd keep the recall to prison for later after the investigations into the offences were concluded.
The Custody Sergeant authorized Larkin's detention and directed that he be taken to the hospital. Larkin was escorted to the hospital by a couple of my team, checked out, patched up and brought back for an interview, charging and shipping off back to prison on the revocation of his licence.
Meanwhile, I spent three enjoyable hours writing a tactical statement, comprehensively rationalizing and justifying my actions. An old Sergeant of mine had once given me some sage advice. He told me that you must paint a picture, a vivid picture, so it can be seen that what you did in the circumstances was the only thing that you could
have reasonably done. In this case some of it was a stretch, nevertheless with a little creative license I made it all fit.
Chapter 4
The fallout was brutal. I had expected a complaint and one was made. Removed from the chaotic mash of crisis and criminality Larkin had time to seethe, and stew and get even. The sickener was how hard they came at me. The Inspector handling the case had flown up the ranks and was on the fast track to becoming a Chief Inspector. He was doing a six-month attachment in the Professional Standards Department and he wanted a scalp for his portfolio.
Alexander Pritchard-Hayes was smart and repugnantly ambitious and wanted to demonstrate his integrity by throwing me under a bus. I had I suppose made myself a viable target, in that I had been in this position before, in fact, several times in twenty-three years policing at the sharp end of society. However, it was my belief that if you stood in harm’s way, you often had to do harm yourself. I admired how Orwell had put it,
“People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”
Pritchard-Hayes served the Regulation fifteen on me and I was told that I was to be placed on restricted duties. This meant that I was to have no direct contact with the public. During our meeting I noticed that he had slate grey, reptilian eyes, and these were set in a smooth almost bust like face that watched you with the cold dispassion of a predator. I was an opportunity to be had and could expect no mercy - he was Caligula and I was getting the downward thumb. He treated me like a Pleb too. There was the guise of courtesy and respect, but it was thin, and it couldn't hide a superior conceit and a downward looking gaze. I nodded and said as little as possible even though I wanted to knock the smugness out of him. I was stoic and almost silent, less give him any rope to hang me with.