by Pete Adams
The doctor stepped out, ‘You are?’
‘Detective Superintendent Bruce,’ Mandy replied, struggling to be polite.
‘You were on the telly yesterday, Pugwash, what a hoot,’ the Doc said, chortling, and became preoccupied with who he was going to cure next. Mandy became civil, never a good sign, and clearly the doc picked up on this. ‘Mr Austin has a concussion, there’s no serious physical injury. We’ll keep him in overnight...’ the doc drifted.
‘Can I see him, please? Mandy asked.
‘Try not to disturb him, we’re waiting for a bed in the assessment unit.’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ and Jack imagined her sticking her tongue out to the nurse; will she never grow up? He closed his eye in mock sleep and applied his unwell face, sensed her presence, breathed in her perfume as she leaned into him, could feel her warm moist breath on his face as she kissed him on the lips. Jack pulled her down and gave her a deep kiss. She screamed, and the nurse and doctor came running. Jack lay there, cats and cream, Mandy spluttering, ‘This man’s okay, I want him in my office in an hour.’
‘Amanda,’ the Cheshire Cat.
‘What?’
‘Magic word?’
The doc defused the ticking bomb, ‘Superintendent, calm yourself.’
Jack patted the bed. ‘Amanda.’ The doctor left.
‘Jack, you gave me a shock...’ Her concerned face, and he liked it, made the moaning worthwhile.
She didn’t succumb to his smile, odd, he thought, so he resorted to police work. ‘They knocked me down and nicked my bike.’
‘What are you saying?’
Lovely face, and Jack had to fight the urge to kiss her again. ‘Get Frankie to run their ferry info, look for vehicles carrying bikes, small amounts of drugs smuggled within the frames of bikes, families taking bikes on holiday. Little and often can add up.’ He was excited and wondered if she understood. ‘I got this bike at Bazaar Bikes, would trust Ron with my life, but his assistant, Chas, was keen I didn’t take this particular bike, see?’ He saw she didn’t, so he reinforced the logic, ‘He didn’t know what a Scooby Doo was, see?’ Nope, ‘My garage last night? Looking for the bike, see?’
Mandy rubbed her face in thought, and Jack stopped so he could watch, multi-tasking not being a strong point. ‘Jeyziz fluid, Jack,’ Cod Irish, it warmed him, ‘shut-up while I think. I’m off, I’ll come and see you later.’
He put his hand on her arm. ‘Will you buggery, I’m coming with you, so make some calls,’ he stepped off the bed, ‘can you help me put me round the houses on?’ slipped the gown off, ‘oh, my pants as well.’
‘Jack, you’re revolting,’ swished the curtains and left.
Jack was reluctantly discharged, packing some atom bomb Paracetamol, and Mandy drove them back to the station, the briefing shifted to midday.
‘I wanted to speak to that little girl,’ Jack murmured; she looked at him as she drove, he was subdued.
‘I checked on her while you were arguing with the triage nurse. Gail's with her and specialist officers are going to talk to the women and children, you will stay put in the station.’ Jack decided he could ignore this, life was about sifting; he had a blinding headache for which the supersonic, atom bombs had yet to deal with. Mandy, sensing he was ignoring her, asserted, ‘What if they were after you?’
‘Then why take my bike?’
Mandy butted into his elucidating, ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to Michael, he’s going to phone Alana. He’s worried, so do us all a favour, stay out of trouble and shut-up. I need to think.’
He turned fully so she could see his miffed face; she laughed and told him to feck-off. No appreciation for a sick man that girl, made a mental note to work on his I’m-not-well look.
In the CP room, Connie and Frankie were working the oracle; Nobby, Jo-Jums, Paolo and Cyrano, heads down. Jack pulled up a wheelie chair and by rote spun one over for Mandy. By rote she wheeled it to where she wanted to sit, not squashed next to him.
‘Paolo, the interrogations?’ Jack asked.
Paolo gave a slightly Italianate, Gallic shrug, which Jack secretly admired, ‘Nothing, lawyered up, expensive suit, interesting, eh? We’ll charge them and hope for a good follow-up on the murders.’
‘When are you interviewing again?’
‘Soon.’
‘Mind if I sit in? Mandy’s not letting me out to play,’ Jack chastised himself for reacting like a spoilt child, but thought, she started it, and accidentally said, “Ner.”
‘Jo-Jums?’ Mandy resumed control.
‘Wallace and Kettle are at the printers, good Intel from KFC.’
‘Whoa, KFC?’
‘Komputers Frankie and Confucius, Jack,’ Jo-Jums said, matter-of-fact, Mumsey.
‘You’re making up nicknames?’
Jo, inured to Jack and all his states, continued, ‘We’re seeing if the printer can ID anyone.’
‘Cyrano?’
‘Following up the bikes, KFC are looking for regular number plates travelling to and from the continent and a tie-in with the CCTV. We’ve discussed an approach to Hogwarts but…’
Mandy interrupted, ‘Hogwarts?’
‘Bazaar Bikes, Jack calls the owner Ron Wheelslie,’ she explained.
‘Carry on...’ Mandy contemplated clumping Jack.
‘We’ve a tail on the assistant, Chas Joliffe, and surveillance on the shop. We think the scam is nicking bikes off the street, sending them over to the continent where they get filled with the stuff, to return with the families to be distributed, and all disguised as refurbished used bikes. Clever, and maybe not as small as you suggested, Jane.’
‘So, wait and see?’ Jack enquired, holding his head.
Cyrano moved an inch or two, excited. ‘Yeah.’
Jack carried on talking to Cyrano, waving his hands to indicate to everyone this was a thought bulletin, ‘I still think it isn’t just a drugs bust, just as I don’t think this is just trafficking, prostitution or porn. My gut feeling is this is funding something. So let’s wrap-up what we have and get the extended enquiries underway, which leaves vice, Paolo, any word?’
Paolo swung his chair to look at Jack, ‘As expected, they want to make their own Biscuit enquiries, said you’d speak to them.’
Jack remained unfocused, tapped a tune with his fingers, guessed correctly, it was Doctor Who and smiled at his brilliance. ‘Paolo, let’s keep our powder dry; Jo-Jums, find out what you can, if we go in knob-handed, their antennae will start twitching.’
‘Okay, do you mean mob? You okay with that Jo?’ Mandy summarised.
‘Prefer knob,’ Jo replied. ‘What about the women and children, if they were off the radar, then why? People disappear every day, but it's normally noticed, and local women and children, is that possible, and if it is, how? We need to take a deeper look at social services?’
Jack knew he was right to keep looking at Jo. ‘Softly, softly, vice and social services.’
Mandy pressed, ‘Jo, contact our team at the hospital, get some personal histories.’
There was a ping from KFC; their equipment had grown to four screens. Sensing the room was focused on them, Frankie and Confucius spun in their chairs, ‘Why don’t you tell the guys what we have, Connie?’ Frankie suggested.
Connie looked nervous, Frankie encouraging. ‘We set up program to run multiple trips, repeat car registrations, look for comparison where we have CCTV. We have match on two plates, large family cars, both have bike rack and three bike, we track, and they return to England, one tomorrow and other in four day.’
Jack was animated, ‘What d’you think, Cyrano?’
‘Put a team on the ferry, and when the passengers are off the car deck, we check the bikes. If we get a hit, I suggest a tracker on the vehicle and follow them when they disembark,’ Cyrano responded.
‘Registrations for owners?’ Jack asked.
‘Doing that, but we’ll likely find they are dodgy plates and stolen identities,’ Frankie answered.
‘Cyrano, you okay with manning, monitoring Hogwarts and this ferry business?’
‘I’m okay.’
Jack was energised. ‘Good, we may just be getting somewhere. Nobby, bring the wall up to speed then get on with whatever it was we agreed you would do, and forget what I said about a home life. That was then, this is now.’
Mandy quietly added, ‘Except you, Jane, you’re grounded, and if you can take tomorrow off, do that.’
‘You and me kid, and Top Deck shandy,’ Jack ejaculated.
‘Jane, deckchair, or home,’ Mandy was firm.
Jack shrugged, lollopy, ‘I want to see that girl and Martin.’
Mandy capitulated like she knew she would, ‘I’ve stuff to catch up on, then I will take you to the hospital, and the vet, you cannot be trusted on your own.’
‘I’m interviewing the skinheads, you’re welcome to join me, Jane,’ Paolo suggested.
‘I will.’
Jack’s rising esteem was deflated by Frankie, ‘Jane, your new phone.’ Frankie held it up to whistles, an iPhone. ‘It’s synched and ready to go. I’ll give you a quick demo.’
Jack felt sick, hated learning new technology, the phone was synched and he was sunk.
Twenty-Four
Frankie’s fingers flicking the phone icons made Jack feel even greener about the gills. ‘Slow down, Franks.’ She did, hardly discernible, indicating phone numbers and e-mail addresses he never knew he had, transferred from his computer to the phone. Jack looked, ‘Where’s my computer?’
‘We nicked it, you never use it.’
Miffed, Jack asserted himself into unknown territory, ‘I was thinking of doing an e-mail.’
‘You can do that on your phone now; Connie and I are here if you need help.’ If, he thought, his desk looked bare without the computer, but upon reflection, the last thing he wanted was people thinking he was a nerd, and walking along with the phone out in front of him, his finger moving icons, Jack bumped into the door. ‘Watch out for that, Jane.’
‘Nice timing, Franks, did you put the settings in I asked for?’
‘All there,’ she called back, giggling at Jack’s discomfiture.
Jack put the phone in his pocket, felt the smooth slim object slide in, better than the feel of duct tape and elastic bands. He had a conspiratorial word with Barney as he passed through reception to the room where Paolo was interviewing the fat skinhead, knocked, and walked in.
‘Inspector Austin has entered the room at 11.53 am,’ an assistant Sissy said.
‘Is it that time already?’ Jack said, pulling himself a spare chair, sitting at the end of the table and looking at the skinhead, whose face was a mess. A ponging camouflage vest emphasised, rather than disguised, rolls of blubber, fat legs encapsulated in cargo-pants. Jack knew these trousers, Michael had told him, pockets all over the place, for cargo he imagined; black boots with no laces. The lump of lard lounged silently, smugly, and Jack could understand why Paolo had the hump.
Jack turned his attention to the suave solicitor, slim, works out probably, well groomed, sharp suit. Jack looked under the table, highly polished shoes, shiny buckles like he was King feckin’ Charles, back up he inspected the shirt and tie, the finely cut hair, dark, poncy gel; women like running their fingers through that stuff? He knew instinctively women would prefer his hair; experience, he supposed. A nondescript face, ordinary looking, Jack almost felt sorry for him.
‘I presume you have finished looking at us, Inspector?’ the irked solicitor said.
Jack played with his new phone, ‘And your name, Sir?’
‘Thackeray, Lionel, solicitor,’ the solicitor replied, maximum smarm.
‘They call you Len?’
‘No, Mr Thackeray.’
‘Well, Len, why won’t your client tell us who he is and what he was doing at that house yesterday when he knifed a policeman?’
‘Mr Thackeray, and my client is denying he attacked one of your men.’
‘Len, maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong hand, we have fingerprints, witnesses confirming he knifed a policeman, and had he not been so incompetent, he would have knifed me as well. At the very least you can advise him to tell us who he is?’
‘Fuck-off, copper,’ the skinhead exclaimed.
Jack responded when the rolls of fat had settled, ‘Oh, Buddha speaks, and what Carmen are we expecting today, pray?’ Paolo was bemused and wondered what Jack was doing, but he had at least got a response.
The skinhead, a bloated and beaten up face, the picture of dimwittedness, turned to his solicitor, ‘Who’s this Buddha when he’s at home?’
‘You, since you will not tell us your name,’ Jack interjected, smug now, still playing with his new phone.
‘It’s not fucking Buddha, its Greg Varney.’
Jack looked up. ‘Any relation to Reg, you know, On the Buses? I ‘ate you, Butler.’ Jack was doing an impression of Blakey off the sit-com On the Buses. There were stunned looks, and Jack thought the impression was good, but it appeared nobody had seen the series.
‘What’s he talking abowt?’ Buddha asked.
Before the solicitor could jump in with a caution, Jack went on, ‘Reg, we’ll be charging you with assault on a police officer, kidnap and holding against their will women and children, rape of the women and the children, and we have you tagged for the murder of one of the women and possibly a police officer.’ Jack looked at Paolo, squashed a grin and scratched his scalp. ‘I’m a little rusty on the wording, I’m a pig sty thinker, well, starry thinker as I had a bang on me loaf of bread this morning, but does that sum things up, DCI Willie?’
Before Paolo could ask about “pig sty,” Jack’s phone rang. ‘Oh fuck, this is new, how do you answer it?’ The solicitor leaned forward, looked at Jack’s caller ID, Remand Centre, then in a smart arse manner showed Jack how to slide his finger to answer the call, handed it back with a cheesy grin that reminded Jack of the Prime Minister and his oily sidekick, ‘Cheers, Len. Hello, yes, this is Inspector Austin.’
‘You do not have to shout,’ the solicitor commented.
‘Righto, Len.’
‘Thackeray.’
‘Whatever,’ Jack said, then into the phone, ‘we have four individuals being charged, sex offences against minors, so we’ll need them isolated.’ He looked up, Paolo nodded. Jack spoke again into the phone, ‘Johnny, if word got out, these lads will be brown bread by morning.’ The solicitor put his hand up as if he was in class, one nil, Jack thought, and let him wait while he listened, keeping his hand up in his now well-practiced Halt the traffic signal, ‘Hang-on a mo, Johnny. Yes, Len?’ slightly irritated.
‘Thackeray,’ shirty; two nil, ‘I could not help noticing the caller ID, and I must insist my client has a safe remand cell.’
Jack made some noises in his mouth that he thought were quite good, committed to memory, and forgot them; was it raining this morning? ‘Len, can I ask you one thing?’
‘Thackeray, and yes!’
Jack applied his Oooh-err look, usually reserved for sexual innuendo, but often worked in situations like this; and they say Austin can’t multi-task. ‘No need to raise your voice, is there?’ Jack looked around the table and everyone, including Buddha, nodded. ‘Right, who did you vote?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Len asked, shaking his head in a patronising young conservative way.
‘Humour me, Len. Hang on Johnny, be right with you,’ Jack laughed into the phone, ‘shut-up, you tosspot.’
Frustrated, but thinking he will run this country hick copper around for a bit, ‘I voted Conservative, Inspector,’ the solicitor answered.
‘Well, Len, I thought so, therefore you will be the first to feel comforted that we are all in this together, the Big Society and all that. You see, the cutbacks have hit the Remand Centre,’ Jack pointed to his phone. ‘Johnny...’ Jack drifted off, leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, a broad smile growing, ‘I’ve known him for...’ he scratched his head, checke
d his fingers for detritus, ‘...blimey, twenty-five years, hang-on.’ Jack got back on the phone, ‘Johnny how long...? Shut-up, it's longer than that, we played rugby together more than twenty-odd years ago.’
Len interrupted, typical of a rude Tory boy, ‘Inspector, please.’
‘Hang-on, Johnny; sorry, Len, it’s probably twenty-five years. Johnny was a prop, they get a lot of bangs on the head in the front of the scrum, anyway, a wing of accommodation has been closed, redundancies, reduced capacity.’ Jack tried to count on his fingers, but was in danger of dropping his new phone. ‘Bloody shame, a double whammy, as the kids say.’ Jack looked to Buddha to see if he was impressed he was so up to date with the expressions of youngsters and concluded he must have fat in his brain. ‘No staff for special watch prisoners either, see, and the high-risk wing is full, a treble whammy really, because as the eight hundred dip recession hits the normal man and woman in the street, so they feel the need to go out robbing, and we feel the need to nick ‘em.’ Jack grinned, accentuating his intelligent look with a head wobble, as if he had made an obvious point, then continued. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to explain this to you, but for the benefit of Buddha here.’
‘My name’s Greg, not fucking Buddha.’
Jack responded, ‘Yes, yes, all terribly interesting, Reg, but as your solicitor will have already surmised, we don’t have the accommodation to keep you isolated, so you will have to camp down with the, shall we say, normal criminal types, who, shall we also say, are not overly enamoured with child molesters. The point of ameli...or...dation, I was deluding to…’ Buddha was looking glassy eyed, and Jack thought he would introduce a dramatic pause, it would also cover up his not knowing amelioration, take note Paolo, he continued, ‘...was, that Len, being a Tory boy, would understand we are all in this together, and no more so than you and your mates, sunshine. Excuse me,’ and Jack returned to his call, ‘Johnny, no, doing the ABC with Buddha. You’ll see him tonight, he doesn’t seem to understand we can’t stop his association with other prisoners.’ Jack paused, listening to Johnny, looking at Buddha, the implications sinking in, Der! ‘Johnny, no can do.’ Jack put his hand over the phone and said to Paolo, ‘He’s worried, asked if we could hold them at the nick, but I’m not sure that will be okay. Hang on, Johnny.’
