Nick paid no more attention to her remark either and for a moment he settled into melancholic contentedness forgetting that he was on undercover.
An earth-shattering bang dislodged his humble slouch on the sofa and he sprung to his feet. It took far more time for Gina to react, as the danger of the sound echoed through her intoxicated state. A million thoughts raced through his mind, but he could not entertain them at this point and his police training sprang into action just as they said it would at the academy. He sprinted toward the kitchen, bursting through the door with vigour, unprepared for what may lay on the other side.
The small kitchen was empty as he surveyed the room, sloppily kicking through the rubbish. Adrenalin was pumping hard as he noticed two figures struggling on the outside balcony. Tyson was weighed down, pressed up against the steel railing that enclosed the small exterior space nineteen floors up. Ron’s overpowering brute strength made the youth cower and no amount of street prowess was going to overcome this temperate behemoth, as he used a combination of power and manipulation. Tyson fought as hard as he tried to fend off Ron’s pistol. Nick watched helplessly frozen unsure of what to do, and then almost as if time slowed down, he saw Ron, exerting all his strength further, like a champion wrestler, forcing Tyson and almost breaking him in two, over the barrier. Head first he fell.
The memory was still fresh, as Nick recited it to the courtroom. He felt like the hero in a Greek tragedy coaxing the entranced crowd with a triumphant soliloquy.
“D-C Allen was trying to make the arrest, and, in the struggle, Tyson must have lost his footing and fell…”
Nick paused and agonized over the words,
“…to his death.”
“And the girl?” Miles enquired, interrupting Nick’s reflection.
“Sorry?”
Miles returned to his table and recited from his file, “Fourteen-year old minor named Gina Mason, shot dead at the scene.”
Nick was still flabbergasted by the events before him when he realised that he was not alone. He swung around hastily to see Gina carefully advancing toward him. Confusion rushed through his mind.
Did she see the incident with Tyson? What would be her reaction? Maybe she would see them as rescuers, liberating her from her captors?
But then he realised that this scenario involved none of those things, and as he looked more closely at her she demonstrated a rage-filled look of chaos and betrayal and one that was only going to be satisfied by revenge.
Gina smashed the Pipe on an old table and raised it up like a dagger ready to slash the flesh from Nick’s body. Nick backed away slowly as the junkie girl swung the jagged glass wildly, snarling and choleric satisfied only to draw blood.
But then he heard a whizz which followed a bang, as a bullet sailed past him and into the chest of Gina. It happened so fast that Nick needed to recompose as he watched her chest burst open from the invasion of the projectile. She was thrown backward, reeling and slamming onto the floor like a lifeless ragdoll.
Nick spun around, shocked. He walked over to her and despite the fact that she tried to kill him, he felt uncontrollable remorse. He wanted pick her up, dust her off and send her home to her heartbroken parents. But she was dead.
Ron marched past him with a thunderous determination, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.
“What just happened? This was supposed to be an arrest?” Nick cried out to a disinterested Ron, who moved around the kitchen tidying up the crime scene.
“We need to get our stories straight. Tactical will be here any second.”
“What do you mean? They are both dead!” Nick argued in bewilderment.
“Do what you’re told, and everything will be fine,” Ron urged as he wiped down areas of the kitchen furniture that he had touched with an old dish rag.
“I’m not doing this!” Nick protested, realising that he was unwillingly sinking into a conspiracy of deception and murder. But Ron’s patience and been exhausted and in a desperate rage, he grabbed Nick by the scruff of the neck, and spoke as if spitting venom into his ear.
“Listen you little wanker, you do this the way I say! Or I will make this look like your little mess. It’ll hang over the rest of your career,” Ron seethed as he let go of Nick, and the words lingered in the air as Nick’s lack of choices became apparent. He would have to go along with the bully, this murderer, this corrupt policeman – his partner. What could he do, take on all of Scotland Yard? A Trainee’s word against a reputable detective like Ron, a protégé of McNeill? He wouldn’t stand a chance.
Ron moved over the dead girl’s body and delicately picked up her hand, as she still clutched the broken glass pipe. He skilfully removed it, his knowledge of forensics apparent. He then confronted Nick, holding the sharp glass close to his abdomen.
“Now brace yourself. This is going to hurt,” Ron said with anticipation.
“What? Why?” Nick exclaimed with worry.
“The bitch attacked you. We had to shoot her in self-defence,” Ron said, his anticipation turning to morbid jubilation.
Miles looked on at Nick absorbing the content of his testimony as Nick stared back at him and then at Ron, who returned his glance with the same jubilant expression he had on that fateful night, but now it morphed into pride. McNeill shared Ron’s pride displaying an unusual glimmer of emotion
“She attacked me with the broken pipe,” Nick confirmed. The tide of opinion had turned in the courtroom. The occupants looked at him with approval and empathy. To them this was a trainee detective who had risked his life to infiltrate and subdue a known drug dealer and sex groomer. To them he was a monster, a by-product of society’s illegitimate offal, not worthy of grief, remorse or guilt. They were happier without him and others like him. He would not be missed and the Met who were risking the lives to get the job done, should have been congratulated and rewarded. It didn’t matter that the proper arrest procedure had not been followed or that the detective had acted with unnecessary force. Maybe force is what was necessary. This was a brave new frontier. Nick could read it on everybody’s face and despite the resultant conflict from that night, this brazen bending of the rules could work in his favour. He stopped as he looked directly at McNeil and they made a connection. They were both thinking the same thing.
Miles realised that he had lost the sway of the commission, but he took one more stab at the detective.
“A fourteen-year-old? Was she that dangerous that she had to be shot?” Miles declared.
“No…” Nick retorted.
Nick stood up and pulled his shirt from his suit trouser, revealing a slash scar on his abdomen.
“She gave me no choice.”
2
McNeil stood proud and proper in his office staring out the enormous glass window that enclosed it. He portrayed a steadfast frame, solid and upright, demonstrating a command that masked his indignant lack of emotion. He filled every inch of his Police dress uniform with a devout poise and retained purpose. To him the uniform was more than professional attire, it was a symbol of a more intrinsic experience – a code that spelled moral order, an antidote for the chaos that seemed to go hand in hand with life in this teeming city. For life could only be served through diligent and rational initiative which stifled the seemingly carefree freewheeling extravagance of the human condition. Passion and emotion were opposite bed fellows to the logical and objective reasoning of his simple constitution. And as far he was concerned, that was how he saw the modern Scotland Yard, a sharpened instrument striking at the heart of an apathetic city.
The sun was setting on what was a tumultuous day and the warmth of the light energised his outlook. He embellished it glowing like a brass statue in magnanimous awe.
Nick knocked gingerly on McNeil’s door, almost so softly that it might have been missed, but it was followed by a loud holler that was unmistakably firm, preparing him for the bilious conversation that was to follow. He gulped on his weak saliva and entered, taking a deep breath. Nick was greeted
by the back of McNeil who stood gazing out the window. He moved slowly taking in the contents of the meticulous office, unsure whether to speak cordial words to announce his arrival.
“First brush with the I-P-C-C today,” McNeil uttered without any need for pleasantries or even the need to face Nick.
“You did well. Kept your nerve,” McNeil continued.
“Thank you, sir,” Nick responded, still addressing the back of McNeil’s head. “Although it’s an experience I could have done without.” He exclaimed further attempting to make light of this frosty exchange.
“Yes, indeed,” McNeil agreed, his demeanour softening. “Hypocrites,” he barked further, leaving Nick slightly bewildered.
“I don’t follow sir.”
“They expect us to uphold rule of law, but to deliver it with the diligence of a parking attendant,” McNeil sneered.
“It’s getting harder to see where the line is,” Nick replied, hoping his remark would serve to appease the Chief Superintendent’s line of thinking.
“Absolutely. We are in danger of becoming dinosaurs, extinct in the face of a savvier criminal. Democracy. Bureaucracy. These are meant to help us protect the citizen, not those who threaten it.”
Nick felt his heart quicken, as a sense of foreboding began to constrict him. Where was McNeil going with this? Although there was nothing he could do but stand silently in the middle of McNeil’s glib office and listen.
“I’ve had my eye on you for a while. Watched you climb the ranks. When I saw you in the dock today, I knew. You have that certain look in your eye. It’s a look I use to have once,” McNeil declared as he turned to face Nick, with a new-found resolute respect.
“The rules of the game have changed, adapted and we need to adapt with it,” McNeil continued as his words began to draw Nick in. “You did well today, kept your wits about you and earned favour. My favour.”
Nick’s body relaxed as McNeil’s words began to massage like a fragrant oil, lubricating his meagre resolve.
“Allen is too much of a blunt instrument – sloppy. He almost exposed himself and exposed us. But you on the other hand…” McNeil waxed, conscious that his words were having the desired effect.
“You are shrewd, cunning and very bright. That’s what I could use more of,” McNeil exclaimed as he slyly slid a shiny new I.D wallet over his desk toward Nick.
Nick stared at it as though it was salvation freshly served before him. It had an inherent beauty only he knew, satisfying an indescribable inadequacy from somewhere within. A tiny part of him resisted like an innate sixth sense that warned him of the unscrupulous elements that he was soon to be in league with. But his resistance was futile, for this token on McNeil’s desk was the endorsement that he needed to fill a very large hole.
“I need detectives who aren’t afraid to push the boundaries, to get results. A new Scotland Yard, not just in name only,” McNeil continued as he noticed the sudden glint in Nick’s eye. Like the devil, he had captured Nick’s soul.
“I’m not afraid to push sir. I won’t let you down,” Nick exclaimed.
“I know you won’t. And with that comes a few extra perks. High-profile cases, the big arrests. A career to match that ambition,” McNeil affirmed, as he extended his hand to Nick, closing the space between them to seal the deal. “Detective Constable Shankar,” McNeil said slowly so that that the words carried reverence.
Nick stared at it and considered the implications of entering into this arrangement, trying to control his reckless compulsions. But then the lure of the detective badge was overwhelming. He shook McNeil’s large hands which seem to envelop his own. But then just as quickly McNeil let go and the warmth of the exchange vanished. He retreated to his neat austere desk. Nick took that as a sign to leave. But the anti-climax of the end of the meeting made no impression on him as he opened the door. He had got what came for.
~
The twilight had yielded to the night light as Nick eloped from the Black Cab that had pulled up the narrow street. He paid the Cabbie promptly not even waiting for his change which delighted the driver. Nick shut the door as the vehicle groaned away and he strolled a short distance to The Green Man, a typically old-fashioned tavern, complete with scuffed woodwork, beer sodden carpets and the characteristic and unmistakable smells that had been festering for a hundred and fifty years.
Nick took no time to push his way through the hordes of patrons squeezed into its tiny recesses, swilling away at frothy cold brews. He rested up against the bar in time to meet the round-faced, bawdy owner Stewart, who was a third-generation publican. “Shank,” was all the words that Stewart could muster, not one for chit-chat that existed beyond any talk of Arsenal, his favourite football team. On this subject Stewart could rival any town Cryer presenting detailed analysis, statistics and history. Ordinarily Nick would indulge the dour landlord, but he was in no mood for it, so he met Stewart with the equally cursory, “Stella”.
“Sure?” Stewart inquired with surprise.
“Long day,” Nick replied.
Stewart disappeared with repugnant disinterest and Nick surveyed the place, carefully studying the inhabitants going about their social engagement. He felt a sense of superiority as he took in each person, regarding each with suspicion, expecting that they should recognise that his was now a powerful office of the law – a full detective. His glory was short lived as Stewart returned with his pint. He paid and grabbed the beverage, sipping its welcome refreshment.
He spotted a recently vacated table in an ideally located quiet area of the pub. Eagerly, he moved to it and sat down. The physical relief soothed his constitution. The events of the day had taken its toll and solitude was a welcome friend.
The beer was going down all too well, and Nick had missed the sensation and comfort it brought like the familiarity of an old lover.
But then she appeared.
She could always find him. Not that he was trying that hard to hide. Something instantly made his heart flutter and blood boil at the same time, a feeling of affection and anger, muddled together in a cocktail of passion. She moved with a disgruntled cacophony, almost as if she was ready to take on whomever stood in her way. She spoke with a fire, her words emanated from smouldering embers that were once the fuel of salacious thoughts. Yet occasionally when he looked into her epic blue eyes, her old charred soul echoed remnants of pure love.
She dressed in dramatic opposites, as though two diametric ideals expressed their disquiet in her choice of wardrobe. Today was no exception. An elegant purple velveteen blouse which would have been quite eloquent had it not been paired with a frilled skirt that looked like it had been butchered to reduce its fore-boding length, compelled to rest in the middle of her athletic thighs. All of it was barely held together with minimal button and zip support, burdened to display as much leg and cleavage as possible, tended by trademark black lace lingerie which spent equal amounts of time on parade as her fake-tanned orange skin.
Nick watched her swagger toward him. As she realised his gaze, she asserted her stride, attempting to present a demeanour that was above her station. She stopped before him with a callous self-assurance, trying to obscure him from everyone else in the world. Whether this was protective or selfish, only she knew.
Nick took a deep breath of her. Perfume mixed with her heady musk and he couldn’t tell which was more intoxicating. The scent of Carley Banks was unmistakeable. It invaded his nose like a rapturous potion, awakening a ravenous estranged affection.
“Thought you were done with this place. Done with drink?” Carley sneered.
Nick barely looked up at her as scorn dominated, “I’m not in the mood for it tonight,” He retaliated.
“You have such a way with words. Makes it hard for a girl to say no,” Carley announced indignantly, matching his contemptuous reaction to her.
“A word you rarely use!” Nick snarled.
Carley scoffed before she pithily replied, “Only with you”.
The remar
k had exasperated Nick as she clearly knew what to say to rile him and he knew that it was inevitable that this exchange would result in him giving in eventually. Other couples might embrace, kiss or even hug when they saw each other, but not them. They needed to have their customary tussle before either succumbed, like two powerful opponents who deep down respected each other, but had to conduct the ritualistic dance of antagonization before the delicately agreed ceasefire. Nick’s emotional exhaustion began to weaken his fortifications and his body language displayed signs of a truce.
“So how long are we going to do this for before you let me sit down?” Carley exclaimed equally eager to end the hostilities.
Nick relented and gestured for her to sit down as he swallowed the rest of his now warm beer. Carley slid in next to him, as a minor calm descended over the both of them.
Carley looked unashamedly at Nick as he toyed with the empty glass, watching the last drop of beer glisten at the bottom. He could not understand how she was capable of getting such passion from him. Even though she made him crazy there was something in a deep, dark place that nobody saw, where he cared for her. He had tried in vain to hide it, and he knew that was what infuriated her, for maybe her reaction was out of a need to hear it. But right now, he could not bring himself to admit it. So, all she got was his disdain. But with uncharacteristic liberality he put his hand into his pocket and removed his new detective badge and placed it on the table proudly.
“Look,” Nick declared.
Carley looked at it, considering the gravity of this outcome. She smiled disingenuously through her teeth, trying to be proud of Nick’s achievement, but she could not. She knew what this token on the table represented.
“You lied?” she asked with afflicted ruthlessness.
Nick’s sense of accomplishment retreated as he turned away from her gaze realising that her intuition had found his vulnerability.
A Time Honoured Killing Page 2
