DIRTY

by Robert White

  McCauley lifted a large S.O.C. photograph from his desk and solemnly handed it across the desk. It depicted Elsie May Townsend’s frail lifeless body on her living room floor. Dave drank in the image.

  The boss was silk. “All we need is a few lines changed in your arrest statement and everyone is happy. Instead of finding the gloves on the ground, you found them in the little fucker’s pocket. Get my drift? Are you with us son?” He snatched back the picture from Dave hand and his tone snapped the sentence shut. “Or are you against us?”

  An expert interviewer knows when to stop talking. McCauley was an expert and the silence tore the young man to pieces. Dave could feel the sweat on his palms and the dryness in his throat. He spoke very quietly.

  “That would be perjury sir.”

  The Chief’s black eyes burned into Dave’s. “No, not perjury. That would be justice young man. Pure and simple; this country needs justice.”

  McCauley handed the second glass of Irish to Williams who had been eyeing it greedily and poured himself another.

  “How’s your old man Dave? And your old mum? Not been too well for a while I hear. Times are tough Dave. They reckon they’ll be 3 million on the dole by this Christmas.” He took a drink and grimaced slightly.

  “You need this job David. Your folks need you to keep earning don’t they.”

  “Well, yes sir, but…”

  “No fuckin’ ifs or buts Stewart. What will happen to them if you are out on your ear lad? Do the right thing. This one small thing and all your troubles will be over lad.”

  The Detective had played the ace in his hand and with it, had defeated everything David Stewart had ever believed in. Dave felt completely helpless. The two senior officers looked directly at him. Silent; wanting;

  McCauley slowly stood and handed Dave a pre-typed statement. “Sign it lad. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Dave looked at Williams who smiled kindly and spoke just two words.

  “It’s best,” he said.

  Dave took the document, unbuttoned his tunic pocket, removed a pen and signed away his integrity.

  It was 8.30 p.m. and Steve Jones was the cell duty copper till 10pm. He’d had a long day and his stomach rumbled as he’d been without food since lunch. Steve liked his food and wasn’t happy at missing his refreshment break. He was a red faced, rather overweight man with a dandruff problem, who suited his job in the depths of the nick. At 48 he’d seen enough of life to be able to deal with most villains on their level. The regulars treated Steve more like an amiable hotelier than a copper. He knew them all, fed and watered them, arranged their visits and rang their solicitors for them.

  Steve let William Bailey out of his cell to take exercise which consisted of walking him a few steps to an underground enclosed yard. Bailey had been protesting about his long stay in the cells and the fact that he had not yet been taken to Court to answer his non payment of fines warrant.

  Steve was a nice enough guy but was in no mood for Bailey’s complaints. He’d been having a bad day himself. His wife’s homemade meat and potato pie was still sitting in the fridge in the canteen waiting for him after all.

  Steve knew that Bailey was a murder suspect and he knew his reputation. He didn’t like the kid. He told Bailey to keep quiet and be patient. Billy lost control.

  Regular cell duty officers tend to be towards the end of their career and Steve was no exception. He was far too slow to protect himself against an adversary so strong and much too quick. Billy’s first punch caught the officer above his right eye splitting his eyebrow. It sent a splatter of crimson fluid up Bailey’s forearm. The second blow broke his cheekbone. As the man fell, Billy finished the job by attempting to stamp on Steve Jones’s head. Instead he brought his considerable weight down on the back of the unconscious Policeman’s neck. The sickening sound could be heard thirty feet away at the charge desk.

  He would never walk again.

  Billy was in the process of being overpowered when McCauley entered the cellblock. He was screaming for his captors to release him.

  Billy, prostrate on the floor and handcuffed, couldn’t see where the calm voice of John McCauley was coming from.

  “Let him up gentlemen.”

  The several officers it had taken to subdue Billy hoisted him to his feet and faced him toward the senior Detective.

  An ambulance crew pushed by and started to work on the injured officer. The mood was somber.

  The Chief slowly paced toward the crew and looked down at Constable Jones. He’d seen enough assaults and injuries to know this was a bad one. He shook his head. Steve Jones may have been past his best but he had been commended for bravery once. He’d rescued a child from the swollen waters of the river Ribble, almost drowning himself in the process. He’d never been a star of the show, but he was a good bloke and didn’t deserve to be lying in his own piss on a cell floor.

  McCauley could feel the flush of his anger as he turned back toward Billy.

  He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at the unfolding tragedy.

  “You responsible for that?”

  Billy sneered at the Chief revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “What? The fat twat on the floor? Yeah, I did that an’ I’ll knock you out too if they take these cuffs off.”

  McCauley nodded slowly.

  “Ok.”

  The restraining officers looked at each other in disbelief.

  The boss was deadpan.

  “Go on lads. Take them off the boy.”

  They did as they were ordered and the split second it was done, McCauley drew back his right arm and with thunderous force slapped Billy across the face. Billy had never been hit so hard in his life. His head spun and small bright explosions lit his vision.

  The Chief’s face was so close to Billy’s now that he could smell the whiskey. He had never heard a voice so intimidating. McCauley injected fear with every syllable. With the perfect delivery of a Shakespearean actor he began a speech he had rehearsed a thousand times.

  “William Henry Bailey, I am arresting you for the murder of Elsie May Townsend.”

  The detective stepped back and his voice became almost nonchalant, as if he had suddenly tired of his task. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”

  Billy’s jaw dropped open. The physical blow from McCauley was one thing. This was another. Billy’s autopilot kicked in. Another shot of adrenaline burst into his body.

  “This is fuckin’ bollocks, you’re makin’ it up, I’ve done fuck all, I want a brief, I want a phone call.”

  Tears started to well in Billy’s eyes. “Get me a solicitor…now!”

  McCauley actually smiled at Billy. It was a genuine smile. There was never anything faked when he was winning. He had the confidence and power to achieve anything by any means. He turned to the desk Sergeant. “Get this piece of shit his solicitor. I’ll be doing the interview personally.”

  McCauley met Bailey’s eyes. There was no contest in the stare. Billy was scared. The Chief wasn’t.

  “Won’t that be cosy sonny?” he said.

  The art of interviewing any suspect lies first in the planning. To be able to walk in unprepared is a gift. The Chief believed in preparation.

  He recalled his first major interview as a detective. His Sergeant had been too pissed to do it himself and he was the only duty Jack left standing after a Divisional Rugby Dinner.

  Who would have thought? 3am Monday morning and the uniforms had only brought in a kiddy fiddler.

  You had to be sensitive to a child molester, even if your guts were churning at the thought of sitting in the same room as the pervert. It was the only way to get a confession from that type of criminal. McCauley knew it, spent seven hours with the creep, and got the cough.

  It was the start of his CID career.

  He found the technique difficult. His natural stance was far more brutal.

  Now all those years on, he sat in his offic
e with his interview team; Clive Williams, Detective Sergeant Anne Wallace and Detective Constable Rod Casey.

  All had their own expertise. Williams was so mild mannered he could befriend a rattlesnake. People mistook his shabby appearance and soft sing-song Cork accent for weakness. They were very wrong. He was the man who would determine when the suspect was ready to talk. When it was time to go for the kill, he would wield the verbal axe.

  Anne Wallace was the only University Graduate that Mackay had ever appointed to his team. Since her arrival at Preston division she had stamped her authority on the local CID. With her razor sharp brain came stunning beauty. Almost six feet tall, brunette, with sapphire blue eyes, she was as pretty a picture any man could draw. Her staggering figure was admired from a distance by most of the coppers in the nick, and viewed enviously by most of the female admin staff. Many of her male counterparts had tried to get close to Anne Wallace, but soon discovered her ice cold exterior was matched by an evil derogatory wit.

  Anne’s job was to advise the team on which points to prove and in which order. She was an exceptional researcher and could mentally collate snippets of information most would neglect. If required she would take part in the Bailey interview and would offer a soft and gentle female shoulder for him to cry on.

  Rod Casey, at 44, was never going any further than Constable. Which, considering his qualifications and experience, seemed unfair. He was a monster of a man. At 6’ 4” and eighteen stone, his strength came from his natural physique not a gymnasium. He had worked the streets of the division for 25 years. Not only had he arrested William Henry Bailey before, but also his brother, his father and grandfather.

  It wouldn’t have surprised the team if they were to discover that Rod had fucked Bailey’s mother and two sisters either. Rod was the weakness man. He knew the family history. He knew their fears and the skeletons in their cupboard. McCauley had used Rod on every major interview he had conducted in the last ten years. Rod was ‘the’ bad cop interviewer.

  Anne Wallace passed around folders containing the antecedence file of William Bailey. It was complete and up to date. A further list was stapled to it. This recorded Bailey’s clothing, worn when arrested and items of property both in his possession at the time of arrest and recovered from a search of the family home on Callon estate.

  A separate file contained detailed statements from the milkman who discovered Elsie May Townsend’s body. Offerings from the Police Surgeon, the Home Office Pathologist, forensics officers, and of course P.C.239 David Stewart’s newly altered effort. They were all typed and in chronological order.

  The air in the office seemed almost blue with cigarette smoke. The Chief started with Casey. “What isn’t in here Rod?”

  Casey avoided the use of notes. He didn’t even consult the file Anne Wallace had handed to him. There was no need. Everything Rod required was in his head. His flat northern drawl was deep baritone.

  “Well boss, I went out and re-visited all the previous three burglaries on the Severn House complex. They all occurred over the last week. An antique engagement ring was stolen from one of the breaks. I’d bet next month’s wages that the ring listed as found during the search of Bailey’s bedroom, is one and the same.”

  McCauley grinned. “This little bastard is going nowhere. Get a team to take the ring to the victim and get an ID statement.”

  Rod immediately picked up the telephone and related his boss’s orders to the CID evening team.

  “OK.” McCauley closed his copy of the file and turned to Wallace. His infamous smile had returned. “Anne, where do you think we stand?”

  Anne crossed her legs and every pair of male eyes in to room were temporarily distracted.

  “From a legal standpoint,” she began, “the forensic evidence may not be accepted by the judge. This business with the abrasion on the Marigold glove is far from foolproof. There are no stated cases on anything similar, so don’t rely on it. The fibres they found on the doorframe are probably from a leather jacket. As we know there are thousands of them. We may end up with a trial, within a trial, just on the Marigold evidence alone.

  As for the other burglaries, even if we can charge him with those, the judge won’t allow the jury to hear the evidence in the murder trial. The bottom line is, if we want a murder conviction, we need a confession that he intended to kill Townsend or at least that his actions were likely to result in her death. Manslaughter...”

  McCauley interrupted her and turned to his old friend. “What’s your feeling Clive?”

  Clive had been so engrossed in Anne’s legs he had lost the plot. He scratched his head and embellished his Irish accent. “Err… yes boss. I agree with Anne now.” He drew heavily on his cigarette. “It’s all down to us I reckon.”

  Rod piped up, “I’ve interviewed Bailey five times and he has never confessed anything. He’s a hard little fucker.”

  “We’ll show him hard,” The Chief pointed a finger at Rod.

  “Boss!” Anne regained control of the room for the moment. “I see little reason to beat a confession out of this kid.” She pushed her hair from her face and secured it behind one ear. Anne felt herself reddening but did her best to conceal her discomfort at the situation. Her Southern tone was businesslike.

  “Let’s put the pressure on from a different angle.”

  McCauley gave Anne a look that would have disturbed most male officers. Anne had seen it before.

  “Go on Anne, you have our attention,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, punctuated with a loud sniff. “Make it good darlin’.”

  Again Mackay had managed to make Anne nervous. She was determined not to let it show. She had spent all her career fighting for the attention of men such as these. She was more qualified, worked harder and took more shit than any of them.

  She concentrated her gaze on Clive. “William Henry Bailey needs a way out,” she began. “If you drive him into a corner you will end up with sweet fuck all. I say we offer him a deal.”

  The Chief immediately exploded. “A fuckin’ deal! He’s a fuckin’ animal! There’s an old dear in the morgue and a damn good officer in the hospital, all inside 24 hours and you want to deal?”

  Anne was calm. “Deal now or later.”

  There was silence in the room. Nobody wanted to pre-empt the boss’s decision. McCauley held the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, his eyes closed, all others on him.

  He didn’t bother to open them to speak and did little to hide the resentment in his voice. “What do you suggest Anne?”

  Anne opened the file on her lap. She cleared the nervousness from her throat. “A murder charge definitely won’t stick. The medical evidence shows that the old dear died as a result of shock, after suffering a broken pelvis, probably from a fall. The Forensic guys suggest that she was thrown or pushed to the floor, in all probability, to enable our suspect to escape. Therefore the alternative charge of manslaughter is our best option.”

  She looked at McCauley who had opened his eyes but appeared to be only interested in her breasts. She continued undaunted, “With good representation and a guilty plea, Bailey will be looking at nine years tops. With full remission he will be out in six.”

  Rod shifted his massive frame awkwardly in his seat, his voice even deeper than before. “If it were my old mum lying in the morgue, he would be looking at a death sentence.”

  Anne continued, “We have, of course, other charges to bargain with. The injuries to the Police officer sustained in the assault in the cellblock would make a charge of Section 18 wounding with intent a likely option. The chances of a conviction are high and that will carry a further five years.”

  Anne turned a page in the file and tapped a paragraph with a bright red nail. “We also have the four separate burglary charges to put to our man. With luck, a conviction would mean another three years.”

  She looked at her colleagues. “My advice gents, is to offer to drop the Section 18 assault on PC Jones to a Section 47 ABH, a
nd go for handling the ring rather than burglary, in return for a guilty plea on the manslaughter charge.”

  McCauley slowly rose from his seat and put on his jacket. Anne watched amazed at his lack of respect for what she considered sound legal advice.

  “Anne, you’re a good copper,” he tapped his own temple, “with a good mind. If our boy had beaten the shit out of his cellmate, I would go with what you say. But this little evil bastard has put one of our own in the hospital. Steve Jones will never go fuckin’ dancing again will he? Are you going to be the one to tell his missus that although we have a watertight case against Bailey, we’re dropping the charge down to a 47! Like he’d just got a fuckin’ shiner? No. Bailey’s got to pay and it’s up to us to make him.”

  Anne rose also. She made one last attempt. “But boss…”

  The Chief lifted his hand to signal he had heard enough. “Clive, get yourself down to the cells, have a word with Bailey’s brief, I want to be ready to start the interview in half an hour. Oh, and organise some flowers for Steve’s wife. You write the card from me, OK?”

  Raymond Holmes was forty, looked thirty and had been a criminal solicitor for twelve years, full partner for four of those and was doing very nicely thank you. He loved clothes almost as much as he did himself and followed the latest styles. He had represented the Bailey family throughout his career. Mum’s prostitution and shoplifting charges, Billy’s theft and burglary cases and various other petty crimes relating to the father, brother and sisters.

  The Bailey family, were good clients. None were employed, so they always got Legal Aid. They invariably entered a plea of not guilty, no matter how severe the evidence to the contrary and best of all, one or more of the clan were in the shit every month.

  The Bailey family, or rather the taxpayer, had bought Raymond Holmes a new BMW in the last year. Yes, the Bailey family, were very good clients. This time though, Billy had got himself in a real heap of trouble. Holmes had that warm feeling he always got when it came to a really big pay day.