Black dog bcadf-1

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You ought to know better, then.’

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  Cooper slumped back into his chair, feeling suddenly weak in the legs. The landlord looked down at him, assessing him with a professional eye, weighing up exactly how drunk he was.

  ‘I’ll get someone to fetch you a coffee. Then you’d better go home.’

  ‘No, thanks. One more whisky, then I’ll go.’

  ‘Have sense.’

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  ‘I’ll he all right.’

  ‘You’re not driving, are you?’

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  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I suppose that’ll be all right then. But that’s it. No more.’

  Diane Fry had done things in the right order. She had phoned Ben Cooper’s home first. She’d spoken to his brother, Matt, who sounded equally worried when she told him she was trying to find Ben. Then she dialled his mobile, but got no reply. That meant a tour of two dozen pubs. It was one way of getting to know the town better.

  It was lucky that Cooper’s red Toyota was distinctive. She spotted it eventually in a pub car park behind the bus station, where the stink of diesel fumes from the green TransPeak buses mingled with the smell of new plastic and burnt oil from the factory units on the Edenside Industrial Estate.

  The Unicorn was near the corner of two streets of terraced houses, some of which had their ground floors converted into shops — motor spares, insurance, a Chinese takeaway. The corner property had been demolished at some time, and the site had become a car park for the pub. There was no lighting at the end of the street or on the brick walls of the pub, and the glare from the bus station two hundred yards away only made the darkness blacker. But Fry saw the Toyota gleam suddenly in her headlights as she turned into the street and pulled up outside the takeaway.

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  It was one of those bars where everyone turned to look at you when you walked in. At least, they did if you were a woman on your own. Even the landlord gave Fry a hard stare as she scanned the room to find Cooper at his table in the corner. His face looked bloated and his eyes were half closed as he nursed the remains of a single whisky. She could see straightaway that he was hopelessly drunk.

  ‘Ben?’

  He looked up blearily as she stood over him. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  She ignored the aggressive tone in his voice. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Ben?’

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  ‘Getting pissed. What has it got to do with you?’

  ‘Are you mad? Are you intending to make a complete idiot of yourself?’

  ‘Probably. So what?’

  There were too many people close enough to overhear. She ,^at down, leaning across the table to deliver her message eye to eye. ‘You’re a police officer. Don’t you realize, if this gets back to Division, you’ll get your arse kicked all the ay back to the beat. Bang goes the promotion, Ben.’

  ‘Oh yeah? It’s damn well gone bang already. So why should 1 bother? Anyway, it’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t be bothered talking to you. Just get lost and leave me alone, will you?’

  She tugged at his sleeve. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s get out of this place. I’ll drive you home.’

  But he reacted violently, jerking his arm away, almost knocking over his whisky. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you, bitch.’

  Now she began to feel angry. ‘I’m not going to put up with this, Ben. Are you going to come, or have I got to drag you out?’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  He was on his feet, stumbling against the table, oblivious to the stares of the other customers. The landlord was coming out

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  from behind the bar again to speak to him.

  ‘I don’t want you anywhere near me, Fry,’ he said, with as much dignity as he could manage. ‘Just stay away. All right?’

  Fry gritted her teeth and restrained herself from slapping his flushed face as he drained the last of his whisky and staggered out of the pub into the night. She knew she ought to go after him and remove his car keys — forcibly, if necessary — to prevent him from trying to drive home in his present state. But another part of her wanted to let him go and get stuffed.

  ‘Are you a friend of his?’ It was the landlord, leaning over her shoulder.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, take my advice — he shouldn’t be wandering about out there in that state.’

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  ‘I’m not his nursemaid. It might seem like it, but I’m not.’ ‘Listen, take him home, or let us call him a taxi or something. But he shouldn’t be out there on his own, I’m telling you.’ ‘OK, OK.’ She walked out of the Unicorn and stood in the lighted

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  doorway, staring out at die dark street, conscious of the eyes on her back. The streetlights ended just below the pub, and the other side of the car park was in complete darkness. An alley ran along the edge of the car park. It wound its way between two high brick walls towards the back entrance to the bus station.

  ‘Ben!’

  There was no answer. She crossed to the car park, where Cooper’s Toyota stood empty and locked.

  She glanced back down the street towards her own car, but

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  there was no sign of a figure staggering between the streetlights, no one slumped outside the darkened window of the Chinese takeaway or the insurance brokers.

  ‘Where the hell ‘

  Then she heard the noise. Taunting laughter moving in the shadows. The sound of stumbling feet, animal grunts and stifled cries. A confused thudding and thumping, echoing dully from a wall somewhere. A chill ran across her neck as she stared into the blackness of the alley. She ran to the corner of the car park, peering into the gloom. Shapes were moving in the darkness, coming together and moving apart again, convulsing and thrashing their arms and legs as if involved in a primitive dance. She could distinguish four figures. Three of them had blurred features — collars turned up over their faces, caps pulled low on their foreheads. They struck and kicked at the fourth figure, one after the other, mechanical and brutal, aiming to hurt. The fourth figure was Ben Cooper.

  ‘Ben!’

  Three faces turned towards her; the fourth slumped against the wall, oblivious to her presence, waiting for the blow that would bring him to the floor, ready for the boots to go in.

  Fry began to move forward, then paused and froze, thinking furiously. She had two choices. What she ought to do was to announce herself as a police officer, call for assistance, attempt

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  to make an arrest before Ben Cooper was too badlv injured, if she could. But to do so would make Cooper’s behaviour a matter of public record. He deserved a chance. Maybe no more than one chance. But a chance.

  She did have a second option. It was dangerous, but if she was going to do it, she had to do it now. She ran into the alleyway, feeling the energy already pouring into her limbs, drawing in the deep breaths that expanded her lungs and quickened her muscles. The three youths turned towards her, astonished at her charge.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s a woman.’

  ‘She must be another copper.’

  ‘A copper!’

  She could smell them in the darkness, see their shapes moving towards her through the shadows. Her brain began to flood with memories. It was the same old film that had run and rerun through her mind constantly, no sooner reaching its climactic end than it would start all over again. She felt hot and dirty, and suddenly hurting. A great rage came over her, swamping her resistance, and she badly needed something to hit out at.

  The youths were grinning, even as they breathed hard through their flared nostrils and gaping mouths. They weren’t taking her seriously, even though she was now within reach. One of them turned away to give a final kick at Cooper’s battered body. Fry reacted. She hit him in the kidneys with a jumping lunge punch, swept his legs from unde
r him and broke his nose with a vicious knifehand strike.

  With a startled shout, a second youth came at her from the left. But he had hesitated too long, and she diverted his swinging fist

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  with an upper forearm block. She swivelled, cracked his kneecap with a side-snap kick and knocked him out with an elbow strike to the jaw.

  Then an arm closed round her throat as she was grabbed from behind. The third youth was strong and much taller and heavier than she was. The impact of his body forced her up against the wall, trapping her arms and banging her forehead on the bricks. When she was firmly pinned, her attacker shifted his grip and

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  began to squeeze her throat. A miasma of beer fumes filled her nose and his breath pressed hot on the back of her neck. The feel of his body pushed up against hers and the smell of his sweat-soaked hands in front of her face brought back all the remembered terrors, all the black nightmares that had haunted her for over a year, die demons That gibbered and shrieked at

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  the back of her brain every time she closed her eyes or found herself in the dark.

  Now panic drove her to excess. She took a deep breath through her nose before folding suddenly forward at the waist, kicking backwards into his groin with her heel and driving her elbow hard into his solar plexus. He grunted in pain, and his grip loosened. She spun round, using a full rising block to break his grip completely. As he stumbled backwards, she aimed a spearhand strike at his exposed throat, releasing the kiai shout from her diaphragm as the technique focused on the soft target.

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  From the moment she launched the final blow, she knew that it would be fatal.

  Harry hadn’t expected them to take his clothes away. It was years since he had stripped naked in front of strangers. Standing in the tiny surgery in E Division Headquarters, he watched in bafflement as each item he removed was carefully bagged, labelled and sealed. First they took his cap, his suit jacket and his trousers. Then his beautifully polished shoes and his socks. They took his shirt and even his tie. They examined each piece of clothing meticulously, feeling into the pockets and the seams with their latex-gloved hands.

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  The surgery smelled powerfully of disinfectant, with a faint underlying taint of old vomit. Despite the warmth, the old man shivered as his white, shrunken thighs and sinewy arms were exposed to the harsh glare of the strip lighting. The hair on his legs was grey and coarse, and there were bare white patches on his calves where the skin was as smooth as a baby’s, waxy and pallid, as if it had never seen the sun.

  With each layer that was stripped away, Harry retreated a little bit more into an inner remoteness. A detached calm

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  descended over him like a series of veils that concealed his inner self, preserving and even heightening his dignity. He stared fixedly ahead, ignoring the Scenes of Crime officer and the detective who took and examined and folded his clothes. He remained completely silent, his thin lips clamped shut, uttering no protest. The detective logged every item, writing carefully on the labels as if pricing up a pile of second-hand clothes that Harrv was donating for a charity shop.

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  Finally they made him take off his vest and his underpants. They seemed particularly interested in his Y-fronts, turning them inside out and closely inspecting the folds of the front flap for stains before sealing them away with the rest of his clothes.

  When Harry was completely naked, they gave him a white waxed paper overall that felt icy cold against his bare skin and rustled as he moved. The sleeves barely covered his wrists, and the collar left his white neck and throat exposed.

  They explained to him again that he was a suspect in an allegation of rape. They asked him if he was sure that he agreed to provide samples for analysis, which would help to eliminate him from enquiries. He agreed, not following the meaning of their phrases, thinking they were talking about his clothes, which already sat in a stack of plastic bags ready for the forensic laboratory.

  But worse was to come.

  ‘Have you any ailments?’ asked Dr Inglefield, pulling on his disposable gloves.

  Harry stared at him. ‘I’ve had my check-up. I go to my own doctor, thanks all the same.’

  The need to know if you have any ailments. Any skin conditions — psoriasis, eczema, herpes? Do you suffer from diabetes or haemophilia? Any sexually transmitted diseases? Hepatitis? Are you HIV-positive?’

  ‘I’m fit,’ said Harry gruffly.

  ‘Are you under medication at all? Who is your GP? And you’re sure you have no ailments? Nothing at all? It would be unusual in a man of your age …”

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Very well, then. Visual examination first.’

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  ‘What’s all this in aid of? I thought you’d just want to ask your questions.’

  ‘That comes later.’

  They made Harry sit down while the doctor examined his head. His thin hair was combed through to obtain loose hairs, which went into small plastic bags. Then a couple of hairs were plucked out, the doctor scrutinizing them against the light to make sure the roots were still attached before dropping them into another bag. The DC attached more exhibit labels for the doctor to sign. Harry waited stoically, giving them no further response, his face grave and dignified as if he was sitting in church waiting for a tedious sermon to be over. After a while, his manner began to affect the detective and the doctor, and they became nervous and silent as they went about their business.

  Dr Inglefield produced a set of swabs like large cotton buds, which he scraped over Harry’s open palms and between his fingers.

  ‘Open the suit, please.’

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘I need more hair samples.’

  Harry didn’t move.

  ‘Pubic hair. Mr Dickinson?’

  Very slowly, Harry stood up and unfastened the front of the paper suit. The doctor bent to examine his shrunken genitals. Again he produced the comb. He had to pull it through Harry’s pubic hair several times before he was satisfied. Then, with his gloved fingers, he plucked a grey hair. Harry flinched — the first involuntary movement he had made since he had entered the surgery.

  Another swab appeared. The old man stared into the distance as the doctor took hold of his penis and swabbed round the glans.

  ‘I’m going to take a sample of blood now.’

  A syringeful of blood was removed from Harry’s arm and split into two small plastic jars — one for DNA testing and one for blood-grouping comparison. The detective collected the packages together and stored them in a fridge until they were

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  able to go to the forensic lab. Now there was just one more sample left to collect. The doctor presented a small bowl.

  ‘Spit into this for me please, Mr Dickinson.’

  But that was one sample that Harry had no trouble in providing.

  Afterwards, Diane Fry couldn’t stop trembling from a mixture of rage and fear. She looked down at her hands in horror, appalled at what they had done. Where was the control? Where was the discipline? Where was the high-minded motivation? She needed reassurance, but all she had was Ben Cooper, comatose in the passenger seat of her Peugeot.

  The most difficult part of the job had been getting Ben to the car and away. He would just have to pick up his Toyota tomorrow, when he was sober and a bit more mobile.

  She had no idea where he lived, and could see no alternative to taking him home with her. The very last thing she wanted was to have anyone in her bare, soulless flat, let alone Ben Cooper. But what else could she do?

  Cooper sat with his head lolling, a trickle of blood running down the side of his head on to his neck. A large bruise was forming over one eye, and his lips were split and swollen. Fry had never seen anyone look such a mess. She prayed that he wouldn’t throw up in her car. On the way up Castle ton Road she damned him to hell and back for getting her into this situation.


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  The only consolation she had was that she managed to divert her final blow at the last moment. But the strike to the side of the third youth’s neck had been sufficient to lay him out on the floor of the alley with the other two.

  She became aware of the Suzanne Vega tape on the cassette player. It had come on automatically with the ignition, but it sounded too depressing.

  Impatiently, she flicked out the tape and replaced it with Tanita Tikaram, turning the volume up loud so that it beat against the car windows. The album was ‘Ancient Heart’, and Fry listened to Tikaram start to sing a familiar track. It had a line that always continued to run through her mind long afterwards: ‘Now Your Conscience is Clear’. She glanced at Cooper, saw his eyes

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  flickering half-open, as if the music was getting through to him. But his pupils were unfocused, and he stared straight ahead tor a moment, seeing nothing, as the noise thumped around him. Then his head drooped again.

  When they reached Grosvenor Road, Fry shook Cooper and managed to rouse him enough to negotiate the front door and the stairs partly under his own steam, though he needed her arm wound tight around his chest. She could feel his heart heating under her hand through a tear in his shirt, and the sweet smell

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  of beer on his breath made a heady blend with his distinctive male odour. It was a scent she had not smelled so closely for a long time.

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  She took him straight to the bedroom and dumped him on the bed, disentangling his rubbery limbs from around her body. Then she began to pull off his clothes — his scuffed shoes, his jacket and his torn shirt, pulling and tugging violently at his jeans until they turned inside out and came away from his feet. Then she brought a bowl of warm water and a cloth and bathed the blood from his forehead and cleaned the weeping grazes on his back and legs. She noticed that his body was taut with lean muscle, and she guessed the injuries starting to appear on his chest and sides would prove to be nothing worse than bruises in the morning. No bones broken. Then, as she worked on a cut on his thigh, Fry became aware of the growing bulge that stirred in the front