DIRTY

by Robert White

  The job at McCauley’s was done with a key. Someone knew where to look too. She had bee having an affair with the Detective.

  There was plenty of evidence of that. Even so, the documents still eluded him.

  He heard tyres on gravel and peered suspiciously from the window. The last thing that he needed now was a visitor. He looked down at the pitiful figure on the couch. Her breathing, laboured and rasping through her damaged nose and mouth, still unaware of the sexual abuse she had endured.

  The man quickly pulled her clothing to its original position. He felt a sudden twinge of guilt. It was short lived.

  All his feelings were paralysed the moment he heard the noise at the front door.

  “Anne! Anne!” McCauley made several attempts to get the key to turn in the lock. Eventually he succeeded. He was so drunk he nearly fell into the hallway.

  “Anne baby, are you home?” he slurred. He got no reply as he fumbled for the hallway light. His hand brushed the wall in vain. It was there somewhere, he knew it.

  Finally he found it and the passageway was bathed in a welcome glow. “Uuh, that’s better,” he murmured, almost to himself. He looked at the keys in his hand, raised his eyebrows in a surprised expression and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he seemed to recall why he was there in the first place.

  “Anne!” A cough. “Anne!”

  The Chief pushed open the door to the lounge and peered into the darkness. He was sure that he could see Anne lying on the couch. His voice softened and an unseen smile came to his face.

  “Anne?”

  He was struck with such venom he fell back into the hallway, hit the wall and slid to the floor. He didn’t know who or what had hit him, but he knew he was in trouble. Had he been younger, or a little less drunk he may have had a chance.

  The man came at him with appalling force. McCauley was so slow he had the time to pick his spot. The figure slammed his right foot into the Chief’s throat cutting off his air.

  McCauley knew he had to get away. The law of the street hadn’t left him. He’d been in more pub brawls than he could remember, drunk too. He brought his own fist upward with all the strength he could muster and connected with the back of the man’s knee. As the knee bent he shifted his body weight, and scrambled to his right.

  For a brief moment, he was free. It would be his only chance. The man had fallen to his hands and knees but was already getting to his feet.

  Blood was pouring from a cut over the Chief’s eye where the first punch had connected. He wiped it with his sleeve and launched himself at his attacker. This bloke was a big fucker, but he had never been frightened of anyone in his life. You wanted to play rough? John McCauley was your man.

  The man turned and there was a flash of steel. The shock stopped McCauley in his tracks. It was his final error.

  The man plunged the carving knife into the Chief’s body. It was the largest and sharpest he could find in the kitchen.

  He brought the knife downward in an arc, the whole weight of his huge upper body behind it. In his frenzy, this first lunge was wayward and sank into his victim’s chest just above the collarbone.

  McCauley felt tremendous pain, but grabbed the blade with his hand. It was an automatic but fruitless reaction.

  The man pulled the weapon backwards, cutting McCauley’s fingers to the bone and rendering his hand useless.

  The man’s second thrust was lower and more effective. The knife entered the chest cavity between the third and forth ribs puncturing his lung, deflating it instantly.

  Each time the man withdrew the weapon, blood flew from the tip, splattering the walls of the hallway. McCauley didn’t even have enough breath to scream as the knife entered his stomach.

  The man was now in total control and he knew it. He had time to set himself. He forced the knife further into his adversary. Bending his knees, he slammed the knife upward. It entered under McCauley’s breastbone and tore into his heart.

  The Chief seemed to be suspended in a grotesque pose of surprise and agony. His lips began to mouth a single word, blood now filling his mouth with each failing heartbeat.

  The man withdrew the knife and his victim sank to the floor, first to his knees, his damaged hand flailing about, grabbing his attackers clothing and spreading his own lifeblood down the man’s overalls.

  The assailant took a step backward and let McCauley fall on his face. The last air was escaping from his body, blood bubbles were forming at his nose and mouth. A pool of thick crimson seeped into the luxury carpet beneath him.

  The man stared at his handy work for the second time that night. He placed a paper-covered toe under the head of his victim and used it to look into the face.

  He smiled; his voice could have been the devils own.

  “You drunken old fool.”

  Now, he thought, the papers.

  As he walked back into the lounge to continue his search, Anne was moaning quietly where he had left her. She was still unconscious and unaware of the drama.

  “No point in loose ends.”

  He breezed toward the sofa, casually lifted her head with her hair and cut Anne Wallace’s throat.

  thirteen

  Dave drove steadily to Anne’s house. He was desperate to see the contents of the files and even more desperate to see the look on McCauley’s face when he stuck it to him. Anyway, the job was done now. The hard part over, he wanted to put up his feet and make love to the woman of his dreams. The more he thought about her, the lovelier she seemed.

  He’d had enough of worrying about the Chief for one night.

  As Dave pulled up at the house, he saw a large saloon car in the drive. The number was familiar. Very familiar. It was John McCauley’s.

  He looked to the house. The only light came from the bedroom. His heart sank and he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t believe it. How could she? It was just a drink, a way of getting McCauley away from the house. Was she so weak? Was he such a fool?

  He stopped the car engine and stared at the imposing home. He had fallen in love too soon with a woman he knew nothing of. Starting the motor again, Dave turned the Mini around and drove to his home.

  This time the drive was not so careful. Dave screeched into his drive. His anger had overtaken his feelings of hurt. He took his briefcase from the car, which contained the tools and documents. What would happen now? Anne could sell him out without a second thought. She was way out of his league. What had he been thinking of?

  The only thing he could do now was to cover his back until he knew more. He couldn’t bring himself to even look at the files now. Dave walked in the darkness to a shed at the bottom of the small garden. Standing among the clutter of shovels, rakes and hoses, he removed a floorboard and pushed the case inside the gap. Once the board was back in place, he pulled a sack of garden fertilizer over the spot, secured the door and slowly walked the path to his house.

  He lay on his bed, the radio playing quietly in the corner of the room, his head, so full of differing emotions. Pictures of the previous days flashed before him. Anne had told him she was in love with him. That must have been a lie. She was so scared of McCauley. It didn’t make any sense.

  He took a glass from the bedside cabinet and filled it with straight Scotch. Two gulps later it was empty again.

  He stared at the telephone. Should he call? God he wanted to. It could just be a mistake. He wanted it to be a mistake. He wanted everything to be right again.

  He looked at his bed, still unmade, left that way since he and Anne had risen from it. He felt sick to his stomach again. He refilled the whiskey glass and repeated the process until sleep eventually came to him.

  “Wake up sonny.”

  Dave heard the voice but couldn’t make out if it was real or not. His head felt like something was attempting to get out using a hammer and chisel.

  “Come on, get up!”

  This time, whoever was the owner of the voice, accompanied it with a firm shake of Dave’s shoulder. Yes it was r
eality. Dave felt his brain rattle inside his scull. The whiskey had done its job in aiding sleep and was now reluctant to loose its grip.

  Dave slowly opened two very red eyes.

  “I am Detective Superintendent Marshall,” said the voice somewhere to Dave’s left. “Can you hear me Stewart?”

  Dave raised himself onto one elbow and surveyed the scene in his bedroom. He hadn’t heard the doorbell. The entourage had let themselves in somehow.

  The voice came from a tall and slender man in an expensive looking overcoat.

  Dave rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. The dawning of his predicament slowly penetrated his dulled senses. Anne had really done it. She’d set him up. Dave cleared his throat and noticed that three other men in smart suits accompanied the Superintendent. He failed to recognise any of them.

  “What do you want?” he croaked.

  The Superintendent brushed his coat to one side and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. Dave noticed, they too, seemed equally expensive. The man was almost casual in his manner, but spoke with all the authority in the world.

  “We want you sonny.”

  Dave needed time. He had to think. He sat up fully displaying his muscular physique. He stretched and tried to look relaxed. He was thinking on his feet. Stall, all he could do right now was stall.

  “Before you do anything, You’d better show me some ID and tell me what this is all about.”

  “Cheeky fuck,” chirped one of the suits.

  The Superintendent shot the suit an icy glance. He slipped into his inside jacket pocket and produced a Warrant Card. He held it close to Dave’s face for a second and then resumed his pose, hand in pocket.

  “Happy?”

  Dave nodded, deflated.

  Marshall placed his hand on one of Dave’s well-defined shoulders. “David Stewart, I am arresting you for the murder of John McCauley and Anne Wallace. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so...”

  Marshall continued the caution, but Dave didn’t hear. His heart pounded. He felt it would burst from his chest. Every sinew in his body tensed. His fists clenched involuntarily. Anne! My God Anne! He lost all control and let out a terrible anguished cry.

  The men in his room, presuming the worst leapt upon him. Dave was in panic. The first hand upon him was Marshall’s. It was quickly followed by several more, all of them experts at restraint.

  Dave’s physical strength and determination was amazing. He caught hold of a wrist and twisted. A head came into view and he punched, a forearm, and he bit.

  Then pain. He started to feel pain. He was being struck with something hard. He presumed it was a truncheon.

  He saw blood. Blood on his body, on his hands, on the bed sheets; it was his. Finally, he saw nothing.

  The limp body of Dave Stewart was bundled into an awaiting Police van by his Serious Crime Squad arrest team.

  The uniformed van driver took a long look at Dave. He had that, “so this was the kid who’d killed two coppers,” look about him. He made a deep guttural sound and spat a large, green, phlegm ridden mess into Dave’s face. It ran down his damaged nose and mouth.

  The Constable slammed the door of the van and turned the key in the lock. He turned to Marshall, who was wiping blood from his coat with a handkerchief. “Do you want him taken straight to the nick boss?”

  Marshall nodded. “Yes,” he paused and pointed a knowing finger, “… and Constable…”

  “Yes boss?”

  “Let’s get him there in one piece, eh?”

  The uniformed man frowned and then nodded in agreement.

  As the van drove away, Marshall started to bark orders to the rest of the team. He wanted the Scenes of Crime Unit, a search team and an interview team to start their work.

  Paper suited men were already preparing their kit in the front garden of the house. Neighbours were peering through curtains at the early morning activity.

  Marshall took a small notepad from his pocket and wrote,

  ‘The accused, Stewart, made no reply when arrested.’

  Marshall gave his men some further instructions and then beckoned his driver.

  He sat in the front passenger seat. Marshall could never get used to riding in the back, no matter what his rank.

  Two colleagues were dead, horribly murdered.

  He’d never liked McCauley, or his methods. He didn’t know Anne Wallace, but from what he’d learned, she’d been a good copper. The boy Stewart was just a probationer. What the fuck had he been thinking of? Apparently even he was highly thought of on the Section. The whole thing was a mess. The fuckin’ press would have a field day.

  He turned to his driver. “Preston nick Barry.”

  The mood in the station was black. The murder of a Police officer in any civilized country is a major event. The murder of two officers belonging to this North England County Force doubled the number of deaths in the force history.

  The whole of the station was in a state of shock. Officers arriving for work, unaware of the night’s events were quickly informed of the murders.

  There is a common bond between all officers. It comes as a result of the knowledge that one day you may need a colleague to save your life. It was common practice for events such as these to be investigated by officers from another division or even another force and the presence of Detective Superintendent Marshall and his men was met with suspicion and anger by the local CID.

  In the confines of his second floor office, Rod Casey was blazing. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

  Clive Williams sat smoking at his desk, he didn’t answer. He was deep in thought. Attempting to piece together the events leading to the death of his closest friend and find a way of covering his own and McCauley’s backs.

  Rod was still sounding off, “I mean, we give them Stewart on a plate and they swan around the nick in their posh suits playing the ‘great I am’.”

  Williams raised his head slightly and stubbed out his latest cigarette. The normally calm and affable man spat at Casey. He was desperately trying to finish his report through a haze of scotch. Once Stewart was in interview, he could spill everything. He couldn’t allow him to discredit The Chief.

  “Shut the fuck up Rod! I don’t give a monkeys if we do the job, ‘Serious’ do it or any other fuckin’ department in this force. A good copper, the likes of who you or I will ever come across again, is dead. He also happened to be my best friend. Therefore, if you don’t mind, Constable, I would like some time to myself. Do you understand?”

  Rod flew at Clive. He took hold of the man’s already crumpled jacket and pulled Clive’s face inches from his own.

  “Now you listen to me you fat lazy fuck. I’ve watched your back for years, you and John fuckin’ McCauley’s. I’ve done your dirty work and watched you all climb the ladder except me. It suited you and him to keep me where I was but things have changed. McCauley got stupid. He leaned on the wrong boy for once. Remember what I said about Stewart in the pub the other day? You wouldn’t have it. No one would have thought that the silly bastard would have had the bottle. But he did didn’t he? If he hadn’t been so fucked up over Wallace, he would have ditched the gear and we may never have caught him. He made sure that Bailey was never going to Court didn’t he?”

  William’s eyes widened. Rod had to laugh. The man was pathetic.

  “You haven’t a clue what day it is have you? Bailey’s been found on The Callon with his head half hanging off.”

  Williams had been so distraught at the second murder scene he hadn’t even heard the radio transmissions from the first. He’d hit the bottle hard since.

  Rod sneered, “All you and McCauley had against Stewart was just a bunch of useless paper, but he was cleverer than you thought weren’t he? It could have all been swept under the carpet and forgotten. He knew the alterations in the register wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. But with Bailey gone, if you’d tried anything, he’d have taken you all with him. But no, big mach
o man McCauley had to have his tart back.

  This is what happens when you get too big for your boots. I for one am glad this happened. We could all have gone down the tube. You were both conducting investigations from the inside of a scotch bottle.”

  Williams was nodding at Rod. He had no idea what day it was. Rod gestured to the paper on Clive’s desk. “So now you write the end of the script to protect your little friend from the vultures. Keep his good name. It’s fuckin’ over for you Clive. A jealous boyfriend, some kid, has finished your whole comfortable career. I advise you to get this report just right. Tidy the loose ends good and proper or you’ll be history. ”

  Casey released Clive who dropped back into his seat like a rag doll. Rod gently took hold of the Inspector’s tie, straightened it and with a bizarre smile he concluded, “Now you drunken shit, don’t fuckin’ ever call me Constable again.”

  Williams put his head in his hands and started to weep. Casey went for lunch.

  Detective Superintendent Trevor Marshall was a high flyer. He had started his police career in the London Metropolitan force, at age 20.

  He was a Detective Sergeant by 24 and after a spell at Bramshill Police College, became the youngest ever Inspector in the force history.

  Despite his youth and academic background, Marshall was not averse to getting his hands dirty.

  He boxed, played rugby for his force and relished the opportunity of the practical street work in the Capital.

  At 27, he married a girl whose family lived in the east Lancashire town of Clitheroe. They had two children in two years and seemed blissfully happy.

  When he was offered a Chief Inspectors post with the Lancashire Force, his wife begged him to accept.

  She wanted to be nearer her ailing father and was concerned at the high crime rate in their London suburb. Marshall did accept and he and his family loved the country home they could now afford. He found the northern people hard to grasp at first, but by the time he made Superintendent, he had a firm circle of friends from various ranks and at 37 still played rugby for his division.