by Dan Laughey
Yours sinceerly, Cameron Jenkins, self employed plaster [someone had added –er at the end]
Sant was no great writer but even he had to shake his head at the poor standard of English. The second letter was even worse, though thankfully, shorter:
to the leeds police higha ups:
me names mr tipper from over Kippax and neva in me life ave a had a pleaseman cum to me and hit me with his wood bat the trat it wos bang out of order all a wos doin wos snoggin a gorjus chik a met at a niteclub and she tastie like strawburies and wotnot and out of blu cum the trat with is bat and starts smashin it over me bloodie hed and all a wos seein wos stars in the sky low it wos cloudie as eck and wen a cum round am in the please station and that pleaseman is kickin me in both nee caps and shoutin bad words and swearin and not even offrin me a cuppa the trat so am rightin now a formal complaint agenst pleaseman who calls him sen dryden low he mite be makin it up he is a bully and shod be beehind bars not workin as a boy in blu
Your mr george tipper from over Kippax
A comment had been added by the officer on duty at the time:
This statement is unreadable and undated and can’t be sent to the Ombudsman in its present state. I will phone the complainant and ask him to write his report again (in correct English) or retract the statement in full.
There was no record of any follow-up correspondence. The complainant had given up.
The third letter, however, was of a higher vintage in the writing stakes:
To the Police Ombudsman for England and Wales overseeing West Yorkshire Police:
I would like to draw to your attention a serious incident in which I was involved earlier this evening, Thursday 29th October, outside Yates Wine Lodge, Woodhouse Lane, Leeds. I arrived at the public house at nine o’clock with two work colleagues after dining at Malmaison. We had shared two bottles of red wine at the restaurant and had decided on one last drink before catching the return train to Knaresborough.
At about half past nine I was accosted by a young woman who claimed that she knew me. I told her, politely, that she must be mistaken, but she insisted she was from Knaresborough and had talked to me one day whilst out shopping. I remained uncertain but then, to my surprise, she grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the bar. At first I refused to buy a drink for her, but she insisted I must – she was feeling dehydrated – so I bought her a pint of lemonade. I had a half pint of lemonade because I didn’t wish to consume more alcoholic beverage.
We talked some more and then she tugged me by the arm and led me out to the terraced seating. It was here that she forced herself upon me. I tried to pull away but she was stronger than expected. She forced me down onto a chair, sat on my knee and brought her lips towards mine. I tried to resist but she held both sides of my head in a vice-like grip.
I cannot say that I was not flattered to receive a show of affection from a woman younger than I, but it was not my intention to engage – and I did my utmost to avoid the encounter.
What happened next was outrageous. A police officer, who I discovered later to be Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden, grabbed the young woman around the neck and lifted her off me with unreasonable force. Then he turned his attention to me. He thrust my chair backwards, came nose to nose and hurled abuse at me using language that would not be acceptable even on Saturday afternoon at the football stadium. I tried to walk away so as to calm his unprovoked anger but he followed me, pushing me to the ground with his full weight. I was unable to move and believe I may have bruised a rib in the process. {I will visit my GP in the morning and obtain a prognosis}
Meantime I could hear some witnesses to the incident criticising DS Dryden’s violent behaviour. The officer responded by threatening them with arrest before marching me to a waiting patrol car and then to Bridewell Police Station where I am now, writing this complaint.
I have been told, unsurprisingly, that no charges will be pressed and that I am free to go, but I want to place on record my dissatisfaction with the way I was handled – or should I say, manhandled – by DS Dryden. I am more than happy to answer any queries you or your representatives may have about the incident described above, and include my contact details below. My solicitor’s particulars are included under separate cover.
However, may I also put on record the fact that I am a married man with two children and would not wish my family to be made aware of this unfortunate event. I would therefore respectfully request any correspondence be made in confidence only to the email address highlighted below.
Sincerely yours,
Samuel Smith, Management Consultant (Account Director)
[email protected]
An educated man with a taste for fine food, Sant thought, and a hypocrite to boot.
‘Nothing from the fourth man?’
Holdsworth shook her head. ‘Oliver Mosley from Hyde Park made no complaint.’
‘Where was he arrested?’
‘Outside Halo nightclub at 2.52am on Friday the 30th October.’
Sant nodded. ‘The same pattern. Four men arrested by Dryden outside vertical drinking establishments – for snogging the same girl.’
‘The same girl?’
‘More than likely. Dryden was wasting police time stalking his playgirl and trying to lock up every guy she got kinky with.’
‘So why didn’t this Mosley complain?’
‘Exactly the question I’m pondering.’
Holdsworth tapped a pen to her forehead and jumped up. ‘Owen Madeley!’
‘Who?’
‘Owen Madeley, remember: the man Dryden booked for purchasing a screwdriver.’
Sant caught on to her train of thought. ‘Owen Madeley, Oliver Mosley,’ he repeated twice, liking their resemblance.
‘And if Madeley and Mosley are one and the same, then Dryden had a very big axe to grind with the young man.’
He nodded. ‘It’s time to pay a visit to Mr Mosley, assuming he supplied a genuine address. I’ll tell your boyfriend the good news.’
‘Good news?’
‘I’m relieving Capstick of archive duties.’
She looked meaningfully at Sant. ‘You think Dryden was heavy-handed in these public order cases?’
‘If it was just one, the jury’s out. Two or three, I’d say likely. Four, it’s a certainty.’
‘You don’t think this recurring girl is Chloe Lee, do you?’
‘It’s possible.’ And then he told Holdsworth what Claire Dryden had revealed about her husband’s masochistic lovemaking in the last few weeks of his life, indicating Dryden had encountered sexual liaisons with another woman – possibly Chloe – who’d performed wonders on his sex drive. He also described the triangle of lust Mrs Andrews felt existed between her daughter Kate, boyfriend Callum, and one-time friend/lover of both… Chloe again.
Holdsworth shook her head. ‘That girl, bless her soul, sounds like a proper nymphomaniac.’
‘You may be right,’ he said, recalling the rumours uttered by the chain-smoking Miss Rhodes about Chloe’s relationship with former neighbour Susan Smith. Surely not all these rumours were unfounded.
‘You know, I’ve this funny feeling about Chloe,’ Holdsworth went on. ‘She seems to crop up so often. It’d be no shock if she’s still alive and well.’
‘You may be right about that, too, but we’re no closer to finding her.’
‘This Oliver Mosley – aka Owen Madeley – must’ve had a good reason not to complain about Dryden.’
Sant nodded. ‘Something to do with this recurring girl is my guess. Did Dryden mention her in his reports?’ Holdsworth shook her head. ‘Then there’s only one thing for it. Me and Capstick will track down this Mosley character and see if we can find out more about the mysterious minx. Meantime, here’s something hot off the press for you, albeit very old news.’
He showed her the Yorkshire Post story about the police raid on the Stanks Lane South council flats just two days after the Halloween 1984 shootings of Gray and Tanner,
no report on this operation appearing in the official files. Though the chances of anyone still living on Stanks Lane South remembering anything at all about the raid were slim, Sant felt it was worth a shot for Holdsworth and a couple of uniforms to do a door-to-door in the faint hope that someone might recall the incident.
Then he grabbed his coat, leaving his colleague to mull over complainant reports and old news stories and the shady identities peopled therein.
Hyde Park meant one thing for DI Sant. Trouble.
Students able to afford the higher rents chose suburban Headingley. The rest took the budget fare – back-to-back terraces with cobbled back yards.
Owing to Hyde Park’s high rates of property crime due in no small measure, Sant knew, to naïve students leaving doors and windows open – Chestnut Avenue in Hyde Park was once dubbed Britain’s most burgled street – the landlords spent so much time dealing with claims that anything resembling a joined-up attitude to property maintenance had fallen by the wayside.
It was the rotting front entrance of one of these tired student homes at which Sant and Capstick knocked, a confused medley of ska and drum and bass greeting their arrival. A burnt-out wheelie bin was laid out on its side, the stench of melted plastic still heavy in the air. The bleak November sunset tried to shed light on the sounds and smells, but even sunsets in this part of town were unrevealing.
A young man wearing an apron finally answered the door, clearly put out at the interruption to his culinary endeavours. They waited for him to speak, but unblinking eyes stared back at them.
‘And a good afternoon to you too,’ Sant said, putting on a plastic smile. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Carl Sant and this is my colleague Detective Constable Brad Capstick, and here are our ID cards to prove it. May we?’
The man kept shtum but beckoned them in. Clearly the concentration levels required for dishing up beans on toast precluded vocal exertions.
It was a 1970s throwback of a living room, from the white textured ceiling down to the shag pile carpet. A pair of brass candelabras stood on a narrow mantelpiece above a four-bar gas fire that had seen better days. At least the occupants had sense enough to position a carbon monoxide detector close by.
The host, who’d scurried off to check the fruits of his labour, came back from the kitchen apron-less. ‘My name’s Zach. Can I offer either of you a drink?’
‘No need, sonny.’ Sant answered for them both. ‘I take it you live here.’
‘Yes. I’ve been here since September.’
‘Start of term?’
‘That’s right. I lived in Opal 2 last year.’
‘Sounds like a space station.’
Zach snorted alarmingly, his inhibitions softening. ‘It’s actually a massive hall of residence for first years. I’m in my second year and like the idea of living at ground level.’
Sant cut to the chase. ‘Is one of your housemates Oliver Mosley?’
‘Funny you should mention that name. Some dude called here yesterday asking after the same guy.’
The two detectives stared at each other for a split second.
‘What did you tell him – or her?’
‘It was a him.’ Zach looked at Capstick. ‘A few years younger than you.’ Then he looked at Sant. ‘Way younger than you.’
‘Thanks for the compliment,’ the inspector croaked.
‘Actually I lied to him; told him I’d never heard of Oliver Mosley.’
‘I take it you have?’
Zach hesitated before answering. ‘I know the name but I’ve never met the dude. Let me show you something.’ He wandered out of the room and came back holding an unopened letter from British Gas. ‘There’s his name in print – Mr O. Mosley. Same address – 16 Brudenell Mount. He was a tenant here before the summer vacation. Left a note asking us to forward all his post to a local takeaway joint. As if! The dude should’ve asked the post office to do that job for him.’
‘That’s useful information, Zach,’ said Sant. ‘Did you tell yesterday’s visitor what you’ve just told us?’
‘No way! He didn’t have ID, unlike you guys.’
‘Describe the man in as much detail as you can,’ said Capstick, pen quivering as he prepared to jot down the particulars.
The young man screwed up his eyes. ‘Thirtyish. Quite tall but not massively. Dark hair under the baseball cap he was wearing. Oh, and when I saw him leaving – you know, making sure he wasn’t hanging about – I noticed he walked a bit like Charlie Chaplin or Donald Duck, his feet turned out like this.’ He demonstrated the walk.
‘Excellent work, sonny,’ Sant grinned. ‘You’ve clearly acted on good advice.’
Zach smiled back. ‘I owe my mum for my stranger-danger awareness – she’s an officer back home in Cheshire. But I don’t heap too much praise on her. You know what mums are like.’
‘I do indeed,’ said Sant, thinking of his own mother and the meal she’d cooked for him several days ago. It would still be waiting in the fridge for him.
‘Is that all, guys?’
‘Just one more thing,’ he asked. ‘This takeaway business Mr Mosley used as a forwarding address?’
‘Vincent’s Pizza House,’ Zach said. ‘VPH for short.’
VPH Pizzas ‘n’ Burgers had received a recent facelift, but no amount of fresh paint and neon glare could hide the view of the kitchen at the back – which looked about as clean as the greasy assistant working the counter.
‘What will it be, sirs?’ Greaseface choked, displaying Stonehenge teeth.
His appetite rapidly diminishing, Sant shot out his ID in self-defence. ‘No food today, cowboy. I’ve just spoken to a pal of Oliver Mosley’s who tells me his mail is being delivered to this dosshouse.’
Greaseface twitched. ‘Name again?’
Sant wrote it down on a blank bill receipt.
‘Mosley – umm… he no longer comes here.’
Sant could smell a lie from a mile off, and right now he wished he was a mile off because the smoky aroma rising from the kitchen was hardly authentic Italian.
‘Listen carefully, cowboy. I’m not in the mood to be messed around. Unless you tell me what I want to hear, I will personally fix it for your boss Vincent to be visited by Trading Standards on a food-hygiene grievance – or ten.’
Greaseface got the message and hurried into the kitchen, his arms flying around in mock caricature of the frustrated chef. Two minutes later he came back with a pile of unopened post.
‘Is this what you’re looking for, sirs?’
‘What I’m looking for, cowboy, is the man whose name is on all these letters. Where is he?’
‘I no idea.’
Sant drew closer, pinching his nose to stifle the bad odour. ‘I think you have, cowboy, and when we find out you’re withholding important information about a suspected criminal, it won’t be pizzas you’ll be eating at her majesty’s expense.’
Sant moved away and Capstick followed, knowing full well the routine of breaking into long strides on the way out – macho style.
Greaseface’s screech trailed behind them. ‘Wait, wait, sirs – I ask a friend. See what he knows.’ He exited stage left once again.
While the assistant was gone a customer came in. A teenage girl so thin Sant advised her to try somewhere else. It was more likely she’d lose weight than gain it after a VPH delight.
Greaseface returned with haste. ‘I ask my friend, sirs – he give me this.’ He handed over a piece of old newspaper. Scrawled in black felt-tip pen was a Leeds phone number. No address – just a landline number. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do for now.
‘Nice doing business with you, cowboy. Oh, and one more thing. I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of it, but if he does, tell your friend not to whisper a word to anyone about our visit. And that goes for you too. Comprehend?’ The assistant nodded, flinging his arms around some more. ‘We may be back, so don’t take a world cruise any time soon.’
Capstick shook his head in bafflement as they got back
in his Punto. ‘Why use a dodgy takeaway outlet as a mailing address; why not use the post office, like that young lad Zach said?’
Sant clipped on his passenger seatbelt. ‘On the face of it, Mosley wants to make life difficult for anyone trying to trace him. Then again, he couldn’t resist leaving his number with Vincent’s pizza gang. And as we now know, the address he gave to Bridewell after Dryden arrested him was not false; merely an old address. So Mosley’s in hiding, yes, but he’s either bad at staying hidden or wants to leave a thin trail for his pursuers.’
It took Capstick no time at all to call out and locate the address corresponding to the landline number via the police directory service.
