by Sarah Flint
Naz winced. ‘Ow, brings a new meaning to the phrase “talking out of your arse”, though that’s what most of my dates do. Maybe I’ll have to check how they walk and sit before going out with them in future.’
Charlie pulled a face and Hunter shook his head. ‘Right! Let’s get on. Paul and Bet, carry on with your enquiries on possible revenge attacks and start looking at any CCTV that comes in. I’ve got others speaking with Ashton’s colleagues. He was shown booking off duty on CARMS at 00.30 hours and leaving around the same time to collect his car, which was parked in the Snowfields multi-storey car park round the corner. There’s no CCTV inside the car park but there is some on the main roads nearby. See if we can get any registration numbers of cars that might have been coming from that direction.’
Paul nodded. ‘I’ll give you the notes we’ve made so far on possible suspects, Charlie. One of them in particular is well worth a closer look. His name is Dennis Walters. He’s got loads of previous convictions for violence, including one under the new Harassment Act for stalking one of his victims.’
‘I’ve heard his name a few times. I’ll take a look at him straightaway.’
Hunter turned towards Naz and Sabira. ‘You two, check with St George’s and see if Tina Ashton is up to having a visit yet. I want to know about anyone that might have had a personal issue with Brian, be it exes, partners of exes, new love rivals, friends or family even. Let’s hope it’s someone with a motive. They’re so much easier to work with than a random attacker.’ He stood up, watching as Naz and Sabira gathered together their things, their faces bright. ‘Oh and don’t go getting all maternal on me at the sight of a brand new baby. We’re far too busy for you to have time off producing any of your own.’
Before either could answer, Nick burst through the door. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a bit of a late birthday bash.’ His hair was fluffy and un-gelled and his cheeks looked white and pasty. ‘My timing’s always shit.’
Hunter glared towards him. ‘Yes it is. Not great on your first proper day.’ He looked Nick up and down. He was wearing smart trousers, a pale blue shirt and navy paisley tie. ‘But at least you look better presented. Right, I need someone to go to the post-mortem, and seeing as you’re the last one in, consider yourself chosen. Ashton’s body is at St George’s mortuary. You can go with Naz and Sabira; they’re going to speak to Tina in the maternity unit.’
Nick looked crestfallen. Charlie smiled sympathetically towards him. She knew what it was like to be on the wrong side of Hunter’s wrath, though her bollockings were more bark than bite. Everyone knew he had a soft spot for Charlie; she was a hard-worker. Nick had got off to a bad start; he had better start pulling his weight.
*
It didn’t take long for Charlie to pull up Walters’ record. He was shown as a PPO, or persistent and prolific offender, as Paul had indicated. The most regular conviction in his offending history was burglary and, even now at the age of fifty-four, he was still regularly being arrested for it.
The details made grim reading. As a child, Dennis Walters had been used by his father, Arthur Walters, as an accomplice, climbing through small gaps and railings to effect an entry for him. It was like reading something from the pages of Dickens.
Dennis had first been taken into police protection at the age of eight, at the scene of a burglary at a factory; where he had been hoisted up to squeeze through the tiny window of a toilet block before letting his father in. Both Arthur and Dennis had been apprehended as they went through the petty-cash box in the office. Dennis was too young to be arrested; he was under the age of criminal responsibility and so was returned straight to his mother… but he was not too immature to remember his father’s training. He followed his instructions exactly, kept his mouth zipped and made the police do all the work. From that moment onwards, when Arthur was out of prison they worked together, but when his father was inside, the young Dennis Walters branched out on his own.
His life’s path was set. His trade was learnt. He was a career burglar. Relationships started and ended, children were fathered and abandoned, all ties lost each time he was sent inside. He knew no different and the short terms of imprisonment he was regularly given just served to reinforce his behaviour, as well as providing useful tips on how to better avoid arrest and cheat the justice system. Prison was a hazard of the job but one that provided a warm, well-fed interlude from the business of crime. As he was only caught, on average, once in every fifty burglaries, it was a risk worth taking.
Over the years, drugs had addled his brain and he had branched out into other crimes, the crack cocaine fuelling his growing violence and rendering him impotent to control a temper that was prone to erupt on being faced with the merest provocation. Victims would be identified, followed and attacked when cash was required. Anyone daring to fight back would be battered to within an inch of their life and anyone daring to take to the stand in court would be stalked and terrorised until they dropped the case. Dennis Walters had a habit of finding out the details of where his victims lived. He also appeared, more recently, to have used Justin Latchmere’s crooked law firm.
As Charlie read through his antecedents, she wondered whether those two details were connected. Justin Latchmere had been a renowned barrister before falling from grace after an ill-fated affair with a murder victim. During the investigation his professional and personal lives had unravelled, becoming a suspect for the murder himself, through his own lies and deceit. Although the case against him was eventually discontinued, he blamed the police for the loss of his reputation and now fed his hatred for them by working as a duty solicitor and doing everything in his power to make their lives difficult. Could Dennis Walters now have the means, through Latchmere, to secure the details of witnesses, in particular, police officers? Did his drug-addled brain now crave revenge on those he deemed responsible for leaving him to fend for himself and for repeatedly putting him behind bars? It wouldn’t be too hard, even without the services of Justin Latchmere. Officers had to tell open court their names and the stations they worked from. How hard would it be to follow one at the end of their shift? Police men and women were used to being engaged in pursuits, but put the boot on the other foot; how many would ever imagine they could be tailed?
She scrolled down to Walters’ last few arrests. Brian Ashton was shown as the arresting officer in two of them and witnessing officer in a third. He would know Walters’ previous convictions and probably stopped and searched him on sight. He was known to be a proactive police officer; hadn’t Sabira said as much?
Charlie found one of Brian Ashton’s witness statements and scanned through it. She was right. He had recognised Walters acting suspiciously, involved in some sort of transaction in the street. He had watched before stepping in and searching him, establishing that the iPad Walters was attempting to sell had been stolen in a recent burglary, matching the circumstances of the other two arrests. Walters denied committing any of the burglaries, instead saying he had found the items in the street, and the Crown Prosecution Service believed him, or at least weren’t willing to try to prove otherwise in two of the three cases. Walters was charged only with handling stolen goods, not burglary, in one case, and released with no further action in the other two, leaving PC Ashton open to the unfounded accusation that he was deliberately targeting and harassing Walters.
Charlie had to smile. How could a police officer be harassing someone if they found them in possession of stolen goods on all three of the occasions they were stopped? PC Ashton had been doing his job; and doing it well. Criminals needed to know they would be disrupted or arrested if they committed crime.
Hunter sauntered across and peered over her shoulder. She switched to the latest custody image of Dennis Walters, date of birth 03/09/1962, arrested on suspicion of burglary by PC Brian Ashton. His face stared out at them, with the eyes of an ageing drug addict, dark-rimmed, devoid of hope, slightly paranoid. His skin was pockmarked, with its brown pigmentation patchy in places, covered in p
art by a bushy, unkempt beard attached to a full head of thick wiry hair, forming an unbroken frame around his face. All the hair on his head was speckled grey, with the exception of the wisps of beard around his mouth which were stained a deep yellowy-brown with nicotine.
‘I’ve seen him before on various briefings. Is he worth a visit do you think?’ Hunter squinted at the screen as Charlie switched back to the last intelligence report, on which the circumstances of Walters’ last court case were detailed. The intelligence report had a border which flashed on and off with the words ‘Officer Safety’ highlighted in bright red. They read the details in silence, focussing on the last two sentences which stated, ‘Dennis Walters has made threats to kill or seriously injure PC Brian Ashton or any police officer who has dealings with him in public or who he feels is harassing him. It is believed that with Walters’ violent history and mental instability this threat should be taken seriously when considering any engagement with him.’
Charlie opened her drawer and pulled out her safety equipment, clicking the ratchet of her handcuffs so they were in the ready position. She switched the screen off, noting down Walters’ address as she did so.
‘I don’t think we have a choice. Do we, guv?’
Chapter 7
Dennis Walters lived in a fourth-floor flat in a block that was situated just to the rear of the Elephant and Castle shopping centre in South London. Southwark Council had started a major refurbishment of the area recently but it still had a long way to go and the whole area was therefore littered with roadworks, cranes and other heavy lifting equipment. His block was encased in scaffolding, complete with blue plastic tarpaulins which flailed and flapped in the light breeze, like the sails of a yacht. Charlie and Hunter made their way up the stairs, the exertion causing Hunter to suck the air into his lungs more noisily at each new level.
The door to his flat bore the scars of previous police raids. It was held together by a variety of oddly matched planks nailed across an area of splintered wood with a large metal padlock swinging between two metal brackets. If closed, it meant nobody was in, having locked the door in place on leaving. If open, as it now was, it hung from one bracket, allowing access to one and all.
Charlie pushed the door gently, but it remained firmly shut. Walters clearly had some way of securing it from the inside. She had to admit she was quite pleased. They were there only on a fact-finding mission, to get an idea of what made the man tick, and the thought of disturbing him on his own territory, thereby incurring his wrath, didn’t particularly appeal. She was therefore happy for him to open up on his own terms.
Hunter knocked on the door. The plan had been for just the two of them to go to the flat, so as not to antagonise Walters more than necessary, but they had no idea who or what they were likely to find, so back-up was waiting just around the corner, a small contingent of officers that could arrive within seconds if necessary. They were banking on his assertion that he didn’t want to be bothered in public; maybe if they kept things private he would stay calm. It was risky though; they were treading on dangerous ground and a few seconds would feel like hours if their plan failed. Once inside, Walters would have the upper hand and he would know this. Hunter and Charlie needed to show strength, while at the same time allowing Walters to feel in control.
There was no immediate answer to Hunter’s knock, a fact that only served to heighten Charlie’s trepidation. How much easier if they had evidence of his actual involvement in Brian Ashton’s death. Going in with force was far less dangerous than going in softly, but as yet they only had threatening words, and although the assessment was that he was capable of carrying out his threats, there was nothing whatsoever to suggest he had.
Hunter knocked again and this time Charlie heard someone approaching.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was gruff.
‘It’s the police. I’m DC Charlotte Stafford. We need to speak to you,’ Charlie answered. They were hoping that he would respond better to a female voice.
‘Well you can piss right off, DC Stafford. I don’t want to speak to you.’
‘We need to ask you a few questions, Dennis,’ she tried again.
‘Who’s we? How many are there of you?’
‘Just two of us. Me and my colleague, DI Geoffrey Hunter. We don’t want any trouble. We just want a few words.’
‘And if I say no.’
‘Then we’ll come back another time, but next time we won’t be so accommodating,’ Hunter interrupted loudly. ‘It’s your choice.’
Charlie listened as the man’s voice grew louder, gruffer still. ‘I thought as much. You pigs are all the same. Trying to sweet-talk me into opening up when I don’t have a bloody choice.’ The door rattled ominously before it was half opened and Dennis Walters stood, his body filling the gap, a length of wood gripped tightly in his hand.
‘Dennis, put that down,’ Charlie indicated the wood but made no step forward. She held her hands out as if in a request. Again, she was playing his aggression down. ‘We only want a few words. We won’t keep you long.’
It worked. The door opened fully and Dennis Walters stepped to one side, balancing the length of wood against the wall.’ You’d better come in then, but be prepared to piss off when I’ve had enough. You understand?’
Charlie nodded, smiling inwardly as she saw Hunter’s grimace. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, but sometimes they had no choice. Diplomacy was the only option if there was no lawful power. Still it wasn’t easy. They stepped into the hallway, watching as Walters shut the door behind them and jammed the wooden bar between the wall and the door. She waited for him to move past them, before shifting it out of its position. There was no way she was going to remain in his flat without their back-up having access. She had seen Brian Ashton’s body.
Walters led the way to his lounge, easing himself down on to a single armchair. He walked with a slight limp, dragging his foot across the creases in the carpet, before stretching his leg out in front of him as he sat surveying them. They stood, rather uncomfortably, by the door, there being no other unbroken seating. The flat was dirty, mired in years of neglect, as was Dennis Walters.
‘So, what do you want to talk to me about?’ he asked.
‘You’ve made some threats against police in the past,’ Charlie started, pulling out a notepad and pen and reading out the dates.
‘Yeah, what of it? You lot don’t leave me alone. Always giving me hassle in the streets. Always on to me, stopping me, nicking me, for nothing. Like now.’
‘The last few times you had stolen property in your possession. I’d hardly call it giving you unwarranted hassle.’ Hunter clearly couldn’t resist.
Walters turned and stared at Hunter, his eyes burning. ‘I was NFA’d on two of ’em, as well you know. The officer who nicked me is just a bastard. Every time he sees me he harasses me. I don’t have to do nothin’ for him to stop me. And he ain’t polite neither. He talks to me like I’m shit.’
‘I take it you’re talking about PC Brian Ashton?’ Charlie spoke up. ‘I saw he’d been present in your last three arrests.’
‘Yeah that’s him, the bastard. One day he’ll get what’s coming to him.’
‘And what exactly does he have coming to him?’
Walters squinted towards her, his face screwing up in anger. ‘With any luck, a long, lingering death. I hope he rots in Hell.’
‘What were you doing the night before last?’ Charlie changed the subject.
‘Not much. The usual in fact. Eating, sleeping, scoring, scavenging around to get the money to buy more gear. I ain’t got no one to help me out and I ain’t got nothin’ to call my own. You lot have taken everything off me.’
‘Were you with anyone else?’
‘Here and there. No one in particular. Why d’you wanna know?’
‘PC Ashton was murdered yesterday.’
She watched Walters closely. His expression didn’t give anything away. He stared back at her. It was as if he too was w
atching her reaction. All of a sudden he started to laugh.
‘Ah, so that’s why you’re here. You want to pin his death on me. Well fire away. I’d be only too happy to have done it. In fact, someone’s done me a right good favour. I guess I’m not the only one he’s pissed off then?’ He threw his head back and continued to laugh, his face becoming at one moment full of hate; the next twisted in delight. It was hard to watch.
‘So, is there anyone who can verify your movements yesterday?’ Charlie was struggling to control her emotions. Although she’d never known Brian Ashton, the circumstances of his death and his wife’s situation were firmly imprinted in her memory. ‘Anyone who can vouch for where you were?’
Walters stopped laughing and stared towards them both before hoisting himself to his feet. He leant over and picked up a broken chair leg, which had been lying on the carpet, before taking a step towards them.
‘There ain’t no one who can vouch for where I was, so I suppose that makes me a suspect. Well I’m happy to be one. I would quite happily have killed the bastard. In fact, I would quite happily kill the fuckin’ lot of you if I had a chance.’
It was time to go. Hunter indicated for Charlie to follow him and turned to leave. It had been an interesting encounter. She snapped her notebook shut and smiled sweetly towards him. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Walters. We’ll see ourselves out.’
Dennis Walters advanced towards them further, his mouth turned up into a snarl. ‘You’d better come with a warrant next time, ’cause otherwise you ain’t gettin’ past my front door. Now piss off, both of yer, before I kick yer out. I hate all of you and your kind. The more fuckin’ coppers who die, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
After making it safely out of the flat, Charlie watched Walters as he slammed the door behind them. The whites of his eyes shone wild and intense, with a manic quality; as if the idea was taking form as he said the words.
