DIRTY

by Robert White

  Clarke would lead him to Holmes and Holmes would lead him to the muscle.

  Steppingstone Home for Boys has quite a pleasant ring to it thought Dave. How can a school hold such terrible secrets for so long? How can men like Holmes and Clarke sleep at night?

  Dave drove the Volvo like a pensioner with a pacemaker. He was careful to obey all the traffic regulations. The last thing that he wanted now was a pull.

  The care facility was situated in substantial grounds. Typical of most Lancashire County Council establishments, the 18-bedded unit housed boys from 11 to 18 years old. Most, if not all the residents would have had long histories of domestic difficulties. Some would already have suffered sexual and physical abuse by their own kin.

  To the boys in care, Steppingstone should have been just that, a steppingstone to adulthood, a safe place to call home; at least for a while.

  Large grassed areas with mature trees shielded the red brick built building. The morning sun had yet to make an appearance. The half-light allowed Dave to negotiate the walk from the Volvo to the rear of Steppingstones with ease.

  He had changed into black coveralls, boots and the balaclava. He carried a black canvas holdall, which contained the tools he required, and more menacingly the Remington shotgun. He looked the part, now for the real job.

  Once in position, Dave tried the rear doors. They were firmly secured by a mortise lock. He had neither the time, nor the inclination to defeat it.

  There was no need. A downstairs transom window had been conveniently left open; probably an easy exit for some of the boy’s late night escapades. With the minimum of trouble, Dave found himself in a kitchen.

  Large stainless steel work surfaces had been scrubbed clean, either by staff, or the boys. The room smelled and looked like a school canteen.

  He was completely focused and moved with unusual grace, making no sound. The Remington was racked open, safety on, nestled in his gloved hands. From the kitchen, he needed to cross a small hallway. He flashed his head outside the frame. Clear. Two further heart-pounding paces and he found the place he wanted.

  The staff office was a small oblong room with a cluttered desk and two chairs. Children’s drawings adorned the walls. To the casual observer, it was no different than any other school staff room. Dave felt sick with rage.

  Steppingstone’s dark secret was about to be blown wide open.

  After maneuvering one of the chairs into the position he wanted, Dave took the other for himself. The moment he sat he felt suddenly calm. It was if he possessed no nerves at all. He placed Alan Clarke’s file on his knee. McCauley had thought of everything and a picture of Dave’s prey was stapled to the front.

  Dave’s right hand dangled at the side of the chair, the shotgun, rested absently on the cord carpet.

  Dave could hear his own breath. It had started to form condensation on the inside of his balaclava and felt wet against his mouth. He heard movement for outside the room and for a brief moment his serenity left him. Dave started to worry.

  What if Clarke wasn’t on duty?

  What if one of the boys was to come into the office first? Dave knew that the staff had bedrooms in the school. What if there was more than one member on this morning?

  The noise became definite footsteps. Adult footsteps;

  Clarke stumbled sleepily into the office holding his newspaper and coffee. He was right on schedule and he was alone.

  His hair was a little longer than his photograph and there were more streaks of grey, but there was no mistaking him.

  He was overweight, very tall, maybe 6’ 5”. A full beard had turned salt and pepper and his lined face was further creased from his recent sleep.

  Clarke was so enthralled in his tabloid he didn’t notice the intruder until far too late.

  Dave slipped the garrote over Clark’s head with frightening speed.

  The weapon was made from heavy-duty fishing line. A section of wooden doweling secured to each end gave the firmest grip.

  Clarke didn’t even have time to take a breath.

  He clawed frantically at the ligature on his throat, but the line had sunk too deep into his flesh.

  Dave had to use considerable strength to hold onto the man. He had started a mental count. Twelve seconds should be enough to render a man unconscious. Any longer, you may kill him. That would be a mistake at this stage. Dave needed to speak to Clarke. He needed answers.

  Clarke was now in his final throws. His bladder gave way and the smell of morning urine filled Dave’s nostrils.

  Dave eased the pressure and sat the barely conscious Clarke onto the chair he had prepared. Dave had to hold onto the back of the man’s shirt to prevent him from sliding to the floor.

  He took four plastic cable ties from his pocket and secured Clarke to the chair by his wrists and ankles.

  Total control.

  Dave surveyed the man. His head lolled forward, his breathing laboured from his ordeal, the wetness still growing in his trousers. Clarke started to come around.

  It had been a near silent operation so far. Dave had no wish to change that.

  Dave collected the Remington from its resting place and pointed it directly at Clarke’s head. The sight of the burley young man, dressed head to foot in black, face hidden by a balaclava, gloved hands gripping the sawn off shotgun, would have scared anyone.

  Clarke was terrified.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clarke.” Dave’s voce was a monotone accent-less, whisper under the balaclava.

  Clarke didn’t speak; his eyes glued to the weapon in Dave’s hands. Eventually Clark’s lips began to move. His voice still didn’t want to work. The area around his airway was still swelling.

  “D…D…Don’t kill me.” Clarke stammered.

  Dave put a gloved finger to his lips in a silent command. Clarke obeyed instantly, but his mind was starting to work. “The other staff,” he whispered, “will be here in a minute and the boys are starting to get up.”

  Dave’s voice was calm but chilling. “If we’re disturbed, I’ll kill you.”

  Clarke was starting to lose it. His hands pulled violently at his restraints, making a vain attempt at escape.

  “What? What, do you want?”

  “You Clarke,” Dave brought the closer, just an inch from his captive’s face. “I’ve come for you.”

  “Me?” Clarke was close to tears, making his voice even worse. “But, I’m just a schoolteacher. Why should anyone want to hurt me?”

  Dave’s hands were gloved, but dexterous. He took a pace to his left and picked up the brown cardboard file. He flicked the cover open with one hand and selected a photograph. He held the image up so Clarke could see it in all its disgusting glory.

  It showed Clarke, sitting on the very chair he sat on now, his trousers around his ankles, a young boy, no more than fourteen, was performing oral sex on him.

  “Your pupil Clarke?”

  Clarke was horrified. “That’s not me! I know it looks like me, but hey! It’s not, I’m a teacher, that’s all, you have this all wrong you’ve made a mistake.”

  Dave was unimpressed. “Save it, I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses.”

  Clarke continued his denial, although it was fruitless. “That isn’t me!”

  Dave struck with the strength of an ox. The butt of the Remington connected just above Clarke’s jaw-line. The blow catapulted Clarke’s head to the right. Blood poured from his damaged mouth.

  He was barely conscious again. Clarke started to sob. “Please, stop, what do you want?”

  Dave was breathing hard, the adrenaline fuelling his violence.

  He gritted his teeth and hissed, “I want Raymond Holmes.”

  Clarke was spitting blood. “He…he’s… gone away. I…I don’t know where.”

  Dave plunged the muzzle of the shotgun into the partially open mouth of Clarke.

  The force of the action snapped Clarke’s two front teeth clean off at the root. The barrel sank into the roof of Clarke’s a
lready damaged mouth. It tore into his soft pallet and finally came to rest. Clarke nearly passed out with the pain.

  Dave regained Clarke’s attention by racking the action forward, sending a cartridge into the firing position.

  Dave’s voice was positively venomous, “Last chance Clarke.”

  The petrified man’s eyes bulged, tears poured down his face and mixed with the bright red fresh blood that was rapidly turning the front of his shirt crimson.

  He nodded furiously at Dave.

  Dave slowly withdrew the gun from Clarke’s mouth. Clarke gagged and spat out his teeth together with a nasty looking lump of flesh that had been torn from the roof of his mouth by the weapon.

  Dave wiped the muzzle on Clarke’s shoulder. “I’m waiting pervert.”

  Clarke was trying to speak, but his tongue was swollen to twice its size. “Black…pool…Imp…heer…ial…Ho…thel.

  Dave felt a surge of satisfaction. So, Holmes was in Blackpool too. How very convenient. His mind turned to his old boss.

  Coincidence?

  He quickly dismissed his thoughts. There would be time for conspiracy theories later.

  Then, he looked at the photograph lying on the floor next to Clarke. Small splatters of blood had fallen onto it.

  He remembered Jimmy, his story of the young boy, screaming for mercy at the hands of Clarke and Holmes.

  Dave sat. He knew he shouldn’t. He’d got what he came for but something drew him to the file on the floor. He knew he didn’t want to see. He knew he had to.

  Dave slowly emptied the file of its contents. It revealed several more photographs of Clarke in compromising positions with children.

  Other pictures were of even younger children. Clarke, or one of his circle, had scribbled names or information on the back of each.

  There were letters from other men around the world; Amsterdam, Thailand and the U.S.A.

  Pedophilia was big business.

  Then he saw the last picture. A boy, no older than seven, sat naked on the end of a grubby bed. He looked Thai or maybe Korean. His left leg was manacled to the frame. His beautiful brown eyes stared straight into the lens. He was crying.

  Dave turned the picture over in his fingers. On the back was written in biro, “Remember Bangkok Al?” The initial ‘S’ followed.

  Dave’s revulsion grew.

  He leapt from the chair and plunged the Remington into Clarke’s groin. Dave took a deep breath and flicked off the safety with his thumb. Clarke groaned in pain.

  His eyes pleaded with Dave. “Pl…eath…don…t.”

  Dave shook, his mind swimming between revenge and justice, unable to distinguish between the two.

  His index finger curled around the trigger of the gun for the first time. Just a little pressure and the weapon would simultaneously send nine lumps of lead into the crotch of the pervert.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t, you piece of shit?”

  Clarke sobbed. It was a pathetic high-pitched sound.

  Dave looked at the excuse for a man. He withdrew the weapon, collected all the documents from the file and methodically pinned them on the wall of the office for all to see.

  Dave lifted the receiver on the office telephone, dialed 999 and rested it on the desktop.

  The operator would try to get a response, fail, trace the call and contact the Police.

  By the time the local police officer was drawing up outside Steppingstones, Dave Stewart was on his way back to Blackpool.

  Alan Clarke, however, was stuck firmly to his chair. The evidence of his sordid past, pasted to the walls of his office.

  twenty four

  Marshall and his team were having a working breakfast in Preston nick canteen.

  It was a busy morning. The uniform section patrols, traffic and dog handlers all filled one long row of tables; section CID and plain clothes, another.

  Various civilians were having their tea and toast wherever they could fit.

  Marie was deep in thought as she toyed with her cereal and low fat milk. She had yet to reveal her secret.

  Marshall, in truth, shouldn’t have even been in the room. An officer’s mess was situated in the next room, where Inspector ranks and above ate their meals. He was in no mood to discuss anything with his fellow officers this morning.

  Marshall had slept fitfully. The strain of the last few days was starting to tell on his face.

  The team was discussing jobs for the day. The priority was to locate Holmes. They would start with searches of his home and office.

  Warrants for both premises were already signed by a very tired Magistrate. Jemson had visited her around 7 am. He wasn’t popular.

  Marie was in turmoil.

  Bob Belmont, a seasoned dog handler, approached the table chewing a slice of toast. He sported a full set and crumbs had settled in the ginger mass. A large man in every way, his voice resonated within his copious chest.

  He nodded at Marshall, surprised at his presence.

  “Superintendent!”

  Marshall acknowledged the constable. He knew him from the force rugby team. Bob no longer played but took full advantage of the post match libation.

  “Morning Bob.”

  Belmont pushed the remainder of his toast into his mouth and wiped his beard with his hand. The station had spoken of little else than the murders. Marshall hoped that Bob wasn’t expecting some juicy morsel of information. He was in no mood for gossip.

  Bob swallowed his toast. “You hear about the job at Steppingstones school today boss?”

  The team had not. Bob had the floor and enjoyed the feeling. He took hold of his tunic lapels and started the monologue.

  “Seems some bloke broke in, we don’t know how. Lay in wait for the head, tied him to a chair and beat the living shit out of him.”

  “Apparently,” Bob postured, “stuck a sawn-off in his gob too. The bloke says he looked like some sort of SAS man. All dressed in black, hood and the works; made him out to be some kind of James Bond type. The funny thing is, whoever it was, thinks he’s some kind of vigilante.”

  Bob paused for effect. He had everyone’s attention now.

  “He’d taken this file with him, all official looking like, with a picture of this bloke on the front. It seems our teacher, was a very naughty boy and our man had gone to a great deal of trouble to set him up.

  Stuck all the evidence on the wall and fucked off without leaving a trace.”

  Marshall was curious but didn’t see the relevance to his case. All that was about to change, as Detective Sergeant Pierce, the divisional Scenes of Crime officer virtually sprinted into the canteen.

  He made straight for Marshall.

  “Boss, this pedophile job.”

  Marshall was more confused. “Hang on lads, what pedophile job?”

  Bob was first, “Oh yeah, I forgot. The file was full of dirty pictures.”

  Pierce gave Bob a dark look and he went quiet. The Sergeant lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “We just lifted a set of prints from the pictures.” Pierce leaned even closer to Marshall. “They’re John McCauley’s.”

  Marshall stood. “Who’s with the teacher now?”

  Bob shrugged. “Fulwood CID were up at the Royal with him, I gather he ain’t saying too much.”

  The whole team rose as one. Breakfast was over early and they followed their boss out of the canteen.

  Bob waited for them all to leave and picked up a slice of bacon from Jemson’s plate.

  “Take it you don’t want this then?”

  Marshall and his team crammed into the lift and headed for the basement garage. The Detective Superintendent’s head was overflowing with information.

  “Slick, you take two and go to the scene, get some uniforms and do house to house. I want any sightings, vehicles or bodies.”

  Slick nodded.

  “Marie, you come with me to the hospital. I have a sneaking suspicion who is responsible for this little incursion.”


  The lift opened and the officers found respective vehicles. Marie had never seen Marshall so intense.

  “This fucker is connected to Holmes. I know it. I can feel it in my bones Marie.”

  Marshall drove like a lunatic. On several occasions they had to swerve violently to avoid traffic. Finally, much to Marie’s relief, they parked outside the hospital.

  Marshall marched down a seemingly endless maze of corridors, Marie, almost running to keep up. He barked at nurses for directions until they came upon the bed of Alan Clarke.

  A lone Detective sat by him reading a newspaper.

  Marshall flashed his warrant card at the Detective. “Leave us.”

  The Detective checked the rank on the card, took on a slightly pained expression and sloped off to the hospital canteen.

  Clarke was a mess. His throat was swollen and a dark blue ring had formed around his neck where the ligature had cut into him. The left-hand side of his face was so distorted his own mother would have had trouble recognising him. A shotgun butt was a formidable club.

  His lips would have put Mick Jagger to shame and were sliced top and bottom. He laid, eyes closed, a drip poking from his arm, his breathing laboured.

  Marshall took hold of Clarke’s wrist and noticed they too were blackened, no doubt from his attempts to free himself.

  “Clarke, I am Detective Superintendent Marshall. I want to speak to you. Can you talk?”

  Clarke opened his eyes and looked at the two Detectives by his bedside. He shook his head slowly. Clark had no intention of talking to anyone just yet.

  Marshall leaned over and whispered into Clarke’s ear. He was in a public ward and the officer had no wish for anyone else to overhear. “Listen you perverted piece of shit, if you think you feel bad now, just think what will happen when you’re on remand in general population. You’re looking at twenty fuckin’ years. I think you should help me with my enquiries.”

  Marshall gave Clarke’s damaged wrist a firm squeeze.

  “Right now.”

  Clarke slowly turned his head towards the Detective.

  His voice like sandpaper, he struggled to sound his words without his teeth. He was obviously in great pain.