by Robert White
“I don’t know…who it wath.”
Marshall was losing patience. “Never mind that. What did he want? Was it one of his kids in the photos, or what?”
Again, Clarke slowly shook his head, a movement that didn’t come easy.
“Holmths…it wath Holmths.”
“Raymond Holmes, the solicitor?”
Clarke nodded.
Marshall looked at Marie in triumph. “Do you know where he is? Did you tell him where he was?”
Clarke was grimacing in pain now. “I want… thome protection.”
Marshall squeezed the wrist some more. “Don’t fuck me around Clarke. Believe me; things can get a lot worse.”
Tears started to fall down the bearded face.
“Blackpool, The Imperial.”
Marshall stood and almost knocked a very irate looking doctor off his feet. “What the hell are you doing with my patient, officer?”
Marshall had no time to argue. He pushed the intern to one side.
“Reading him his horoscope.
twenty five
Dave was working on his appearance.
The suit Wallace had bought for him was ideal. He had purchased a black leather briefcase that would hold the Remington and tools he required. He’d visited an optician and bought a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with clear lenses. He wouldn’t need Holmes’ file for this job.
Dave stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of the tiny house and surveyed his handy-work.
He had brushed his hair into a side parting and gelled it firmly in place. Something he had never done before. It wasn’t quite long enough to be convincing, but it would do. He added the spectacles and there it was, David Stewart, solicitor;
Darkness was two hours away. Dave would wait. He didn’t want to spoil his plan now. He had already telephoned Ross for his final favour.
Marshall and Marie were back in the station. Jemson and the rest of the team had been recalled. It was time to formulate a plan of action. The mood was pensive.
Marshall was wearing the previous three days on his face. His voice though, was steady.
“OK, the only people involved in this investigation are sitting in this room. The Chief Constable is now being peeled off his office ceiling and is taking a personal interest in our efforts. Let’s get it right from now on, or all our backsides are on the line. Let’s look at what we know now.”
Marshall had the floor, he had already written notes onto a dry wipe board. Names, dates and places, all joined together with connecting lines. Photographs of crime scenes and suspects were pinned everywhere in date order. Every sliver of information, including Wallace’s findings was at his fingertips.
Marshall started at the beginning, “This whole mess, begins on 9th March 1981, with the manslaughter of Elsie May Townsend on Callon estate.
Our boy David Stewart was responsible for the arrest of her suspected killer, William Henry Bailey. I am now certain, that Detective Chief Superintendent McCauley and Detective Inspector Williams put pressure on Stewart to change his statement, in order to beef up the evidence against Bailey. Williams was guilty of altering the other documents necessary to complete the picture.
We now believe that McCauley, with the knowledge of Williams, liked to keep private files on various people. We presume these people were unaware of the existence of these files until recently.
These documents were probably kept in the safe at his home; the same safe that was emptied on the night of his murder.”
I have been in contact with officers from the Greater Manchester Force. They believe that Raymond Holmes, Bailey’s brief, is involved in pedophile activities. Whoever put Alan Clarke from Steppingstones School in the hospital knows the connection and wanted us to know too.”
Marshall produced a photograph recovered from Clarke’s office wall. He passed it around the team.
“The boy in this picture, is non other than a very young, William Henry Bailey. Most of you will recognise the other party.”
Raymond Holmes’ face stared back at the team.
“Our first presumption was that Bailey gave McCauley this information to use against Holmes and Clarke so he could obtain favours; very doubtful in my opinion.
As we now know Holmes has groomed Bailey from a young age, but it has never stopped the lad using his services as a solicitor for the last eight years or so. In fact he was Bailey’s best option; he’d defended him successfully several times before. If anyone was going to play dirty and get his client off a murder charge it was Raymond Holmes.
Let’s presume Holmes had got wind of the changes made to Stewart’s statement and the property register?
What if he had gone to McCauley and threatened to blow the whistle?
Marshall pointed his finger at the tens of incriminating pictures on the board.
“McCauley’s prints are all over these photographs, not Bailey’s and the Chief was overheard bragging about having ‘dirty pictures’ of someone, just a couple of days before he died.
If I were a betting man, I’d say John McCauley has possessed these pictures for some time;
When Holmes threatened to blow his case and his career out of the water, McCauley played his ace card.
Anne Wallace, McCauley, Williams and Bailey are all dead as a result of the contents of those files.
Raymond Holmes is currently our number one suspect.”
All the team was enthralled except Marie Baker.
Marie spoke quietly, “So who was it that plastered those pictures all over a staff room wall for us to find?”
Marshall smiled at his Sergeant. At least one of his team was on the ball. He motioned Marie to continue.
“You tell me.”
Marie rubbed the back of her neck as she spoke. She was feeling the pressure too. “OK, Let’s say Holmes wanted the files, badly enough to employ some real heavyweight muscle. He dispatches them to recover the files and take out the main players.
At first, Holmes presumes, like us, Bailey has dropped him in it so his man shuts him up. He then lies in wait for McCauley and Wallace. Anne arrives at the house. He ties her up and starts to beat her to obtain information about the files. The Chief arrives unexpectedly. He kills him and returns to the job in hand.
Before she’s killed, she tells him of the safe in McCauley’s house.
He tries there, but someone has beaten him to it.”
Slick was getting restless. “Awe come on, this is getting ridiculous.”
Marie gave her senior a sharp look, but carried on.
“The killer then dumps the incriminating clothing and weapons at Stewart’s house to put us off the scent. Our own poor investigation didn’t help.
Still empty handed Holmes can only think of one other player close enough to McCauley, who might know who stole the files that night, Clive Williams.
So now we have four people dead and Holmes still doesn’t have the pictures.
The person who does, had the know how to do a pro job on McCauley’s house and secrete them until today. He wants Holmes because he believes he is responsible for the murder of Anne Wallace, yet has enough moral fibre to box off this other pervert Clarke. He’s fit, fearless yet careful. This man is now on a one man revenge mission and I reckon he’s the man with the biggest gripe in the world right now.”
Marie pointed to the name in the centre of the board.
“Police Constable David Stewart.”
Marshall, Marie, and Jemson were kiting up.
They weren’t alone. Twelve other Specialist Firearms Officers were in the same room. This was the arrest team for Holmes.
Of course, Holmes wasn’t considered a threat, but Dave Stewart was. Marshall had convinced the Assistant Chief Constable that the chances of running into Stewart were high. Marshall was as certain as Marie that it was Stewart who had paid Clarke a visit that morning.
The Firearms Team dressed in dark blue coveralls, Kevlar bulletproof vests and NATO style helmets. Each was i
ssued with a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and twelve rounds of semi jacketed, semi wad-cutter ammunition. Six loaded into the weapon, six in a speed-loader. Four of
Marie was loading her revolver.
She, Marshall and Jemson, all wore civilian clothes with covert body armour. All of them though, wore blue baseball caps with a chequered band and chequered wristbands, indicating that they were armed. All officers on the operation needed to know instantly if a plain-clothes colleague had the capability of defending themselves.
The kiting up period was the worst for Marie.
Once she got on the plot she was fine, but right now, she could quite happily throw.
A final check on the kit and radios and it was time to move.
The drive from Blackpool Central police station to the Imperial Hotel was a short one. Intelligence from the hotel via covert officers told that Holmes was in room 907 and he was alone.
Descriptions of Dave Stewart had been issued to all patrols in the Blackpool area. He was now circulated as wanted for a serious assault on Alan Clarke and firearms offences; although the whole team knew that they would have one hell of a job proving it. Dave’s description was of no help to the officers on the ground either. He was relaxing, unnoticed in the foyer of the Imperial hotel, sipping coffee.
Dave had no idea of the plans of Marshall and his team. He was simply observing the routine of the hotel before making his move.
The Firearms Team, were climbing the rear fire escape. All kit tucked neatly away; to the casual observer, it would have seemed impossible for so many people, carrying so much equipment, to climb a metal fire escape and make virtually no noise, but a slow, quiet approach and swift, accurate entry was what they trained so hard for.
Once the team were in their containment positions, an armed officer, dressed as a bellboy would simply knock on the door and await an answer.
The door open, Marshall, Marie and Jemson would make the arrest. The team would clear the rest of the suite in case the unwelcome Dave Stewart had somehow managed to beat them to it.
“The best-laid plans,” thought Dave. He had been sitting in the lobby now for over an hour. He had delivered a note for Holmes and had hoped that the receptionist would place it in the pigeonhole allocated to Holmes’ room, giving away his location.
So far, Dave’s note remained firmly on the receptionist’s desk.
What he couldn’t know, of course, was that the whole of the hotel staff were under strict instructions not to contact Holmes during the operation.
As Dave relaxed, the team had completed its silent trek and was in position. All radio transmissions were on a separate channel to the rest of the officers on duty in the division. Each team member wore covert earpieces to ensure silent transmissions.
Marie listened as each officer confirmed his position by coded call sign. Her heart was starting to race. The body armour she wore under her blouse was sticking to her skin. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. Her hands though, were dry.
From her position she could see the officer dressed in the hotel uniform approach the door. Just ahead of her, she saw Marshall push his jacket to one side. A weight deliberately placed in the jacket pocket aided the movement. He rested his hand on the grip of his revolver.
The atmosphere could be cut with a knife.
She felt for her own weapon and clicked off the fastening on the holster.
The fake bellboy knocked.
No answer.
He turned to Marshall for silent advice. Marshall motioned him to knock again. The man obeyed.
As the closest to the door, the ‘bellboy’ was the first to hear the activity. He gave a quick ‘thumbs up’ to the rest of the team.
On seeing the signal, all the team members made ready.
The door handle turned, and the ‘bellboy’ made his exit.
Marshall, Marie and Jemson moved as one to the opening door. Marie was the first to see that it was the youth with long blonde hair she had seen in ‘Lucy’s’, and not Holmes himself at the door. So much for the intelligence that Holmes was alone.
He was naked, except for a towel wrapped around his middle. His face was frozen in a look of horror.
The sight of the three officers, brandishing handguns in his direction, was just too much for the youth to assimilate. Marshall moved quickly and took hold of him by the forearm, pulled him out of the doorway and towards the hall.
A member of the team commanded, “Armed Police. Get down on the floor!”
The youth dropped to his knees, terrified.
He was immediately covered by two of the uniformed team, who barked further orders at him, “Look at me. Put your hands behind your head. Do exactly as I say and you will not be harmed.”
The path into the hotel room cleared, the three serious crime squad officers entered.
Jemson went left and low. Marie took two steps to her right and trained her weapon in an arc.
Marshall went straight ahead his revolver gripped firmly with both hands.
Holmes was standing by the large double bed. By its appearance, both he and the youth now handcuffed in the hallway had just got out of it. Holmes wore only boxer shorts. He stood rooted to the spot, his mind racing.
As Holmes was obviously unarmed, Marshall holstered his revolver and walked over to him.
“Raymond Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, I must tell you…”
Holmes lost it. He stepped back, away from Marshall and pointed his finger randomly at the three.
As he spoke, he visibly shook and tears were welling in his eyes.
“No! No! No! You have this all wrong. I haven’t killed anyone. It’s me they want to kill. Don’t you understand? That’s why I’m here.” He started to laugh hysterically.
“I sent Bailey after the pictures see. He never made it. That’s all I wanted. I can’t go to jail! You know what they will do to me there. We can make a deal.”
Marie now approached him from the right. Holmes’ eyes were wild. He didn’t even notice that armed men had completed the clearance of the suite and were now watching the show.
“Stay away from me, you…you…dyke.”
The words stopped Marie in her tracks. He had recognised her after all. Anger welled up inside the young woman, anger at Holmes and herself. She too holstered her weapon. Her voice came out, and to her surprise it was strangely level.
“You are going to jail Holmes. And you‘re going to get what you deserve.”
Holmes bit his bottom lip, tears flooding down his face now. He shook his head furiously, his face reddening by the second.
Marshall and Marie lunged at him, but for once, they were too slow. Holmes spun around on the ball of his foot and launched himself at the window behind him.
The window exploded into thousands of fragments.
Marie was the closest and dozens of shards of razor sharp glass flew in her direction. She covered her face with her hands too late.
Holmes seemed suspended in mid air.
The interior lights of the room illuminated his near naked torso. A large pointed section of glass was embedded deep in his back.
Holmes couldn’t feel it. He was falling now. He felt the cold night air on his face. He could clearly see the promenade. It had a tram sliding effortlessly, silently along it. His stomach turned over, just like it does in a dream when you step off the end of a cliff. Except this wasn’t a dream.
He didn’t even have time, to ask for God’s forgiveness.
The nine-story fall took less than five seconds. Holmes landed on his right foot. The severity of the impact destroyed the ankle joint completely, cartilage, bone and tendons separating simultaneously.
Holmes’ tibia and fibula punched a pair of neat holes in the tarmac of the car park.
His leg folded like a concertina. His femur snapped clean in two. The sound reverberated off the brickwork. The shattered bone tore a hole in his thigh and severed the femoral artery. Black blood instantly drenched the
floor.
The greater weight of his upper body bent him double. There was a sickening snap as his spine gave way and a rather nasty slapping sound as his face finally found its final resting-place.
He lay in a steaming pool, the final throws of his life draining away.
Dave was in the lobby when the commotion began. He heard a scream. Not from Holmes, who had met his end in horrified silence. But from a woman, who had innocently parked her car just feet from where his ravaged body now lay.
Suddenly the place was awash with uniformed police officers. Dave’s nerves were on edge. He quickly calmed as he realised that they knew nothing of his presence.
He moved outside to where a small crowd of onlookers had gathered. Several police officers in firearms kit were trying to preserve the scene. Dave knew of the danger, but he was unable to help himself.
He pushed his way to the front of the increasing crowd, stretched necks hoping to glimpse the shattered remains of a human being.
Fuel for future nightmares.
His heart was in his mouth. He saw the crumpled and bloody form lying on the car park. He moved closer. Standing directly in front of a police officer his stomach turned over realising his plan had been ruined.
All hope of revenge was lost.
The fact that Holmes had met with a violent and painful death meant nothing. He felt cheated.
It was over.
Suddenly he felt nothing, a massive void, he had last felt this way lying in the police cells on the day he learned of Anne’s death. The commotion going on around him meant nothing. Then he heard Marshall’s voice. He was clearing a path for himself pushing onlookers out of the way. Dave saw that his face was damaged. Blood trickled from small cuts on his forehead and cheeks.
Dave stepped back into the crowd, further and further away from the scene. Then he was walking, the sea air in his face, his guts churning over. He hailed a cab and jumped inside. The driver pointed to the commotion on the hotel car park.
“See that,” chirped the cabby, “one way of getting away with your bill eh?”
