by Roger Busby
The Betrayed
By
Roger Busby
Published by
The Betrayed
Copyright 2012 by Roger Busby
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy; recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now know or to be invented, without the permission in writing for the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
Table of Contents
The Betrayed
Other Titles
Biography
The Betrayed
“It's impossible,” Dennis Jewel said, “even if you'd got a case of JD tucked under your arm there, I'd be telling you the same thing.”
Mark Fletcher placed the bottle of Jack Daniels Old No 7 he had brought along as a sweetener on the desk between them. “Dennis,” he said, “what say you lock the door there, we pull a couple of glasses out've your bottom drawer and we sip a little of this amber nectar and see if you don't change your mind.”
“There's no way I'm going to do that,” Jewel replied, “not while we've got an operation running. You think I can conjure blokes up out of the air or something? I'm not a bloody magician, Fletch.”
Fletcher sighed. He's come to the Borough for a favour and he'd expected to have to haggle, but here was Jewel sitting on his backside just acting stubborn. “What operation trumps a murder?”
“Zatopek, you know, the lorry hi-jacking thing.”
“Zatopek?”
“Don't you start,” Jewel took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and glanced wistfully at the image of a rotting lung on the packet. The only place he could light up these days was skulking in the station yard with the last of the diehards. “Some comedian up at the dream factory came up with that stupid name, something about it's got to run the distance.”
“Christ,” Fletcher said, “Now I've heard everything.”
“Well it don't change a thing,” Jewel insisted, turning the cigarette packet over in his hand. “I'm committed a hundred percent and if they get wind up the road that I'm even thinking of loaning blokes to you on the old pals act, they're going to have my balls, it's as simple as that.”
Mark Fletcher regarded his friend for a moment as he marshalled his thoughts for a new gambit. Jewel was a heavily built man, solid with beefy shoulders which bulged under his shirt. He had a head of tight grey curls and his face wore a permanently perplexed expression. They were the same rank, detective chief inspector, only Jewel was a guv'nor on the Borough wide CID under the wing of the Metropolitan Police Major Crime Directorate with his own complement of detectives. He took his orders from New Scotland Yard. Normally the Borough would be only too happy to oblige on tricky investigations which stretched the limited resources of the Divisional CID but now that Fletcher wanted his help, here was his old oppo belly-aching about some Zatopek nonsense.
“Look Dennis, it's not like I'm asking for the earth, just a couple of decent blokes would do. You know I wouldn't come begging if I wasn't really up against it. I've got the big bin murder running away with me and the guv'nor already shouting the odds on overtime.”
“Yeah, I see your problem, Fletch,” Jewel agreed, “Sounds like you've got dead meat there all right, not many like that get cleared these days.”
“That's what I like about you, Dennis, always the optimist.”
“Well you've got to be a realist sometimes,” Jewel said. “Sounds like it's stacked against you. If I was you, Fletch, I'd think seriously about coasting and leave those eager beavers up at dream factory to take the shit when it all hits the fan.”
“Come off it,” Fletcher said, “You never took a soft option in your life and I'm the same. We're just a pair of thick skinned D's at heart who happen to think clearing crime still matters, particularly a swine like this one. That's what I pin my reputation on, not ducking and diving and playing politics. And don't try to kid me you're not the same.”
Jewel shrugged. “You don't get any medals for pissing in the wind these days.”
“I'm talking about in here,” Fletcher tapped his chest, “Call it personal satisfaction or professional pride, call it what you like. And I'm buggered if I'm going to let some lunatic who'd stick a screwdriver into a kid like that until she looked like a colander then dump her body in a recycle bin get away with it. If I start back pedalling this one I wouldn't sleep nights, and you know it.”
Jewel rolled his shoulders again. “All you'll get yourself is an ulcer, my friend. Tell you what, run it by me and maybe something'll come to mind. What've you got so far?”
“Well, first off,we've got the car spotted on the street camera, old Astra. Lots of blood in the boot thats a DNA match to the vic and the back seats are missing so that could be where it happened before she was dumped. Doc reckons she was dead best part of five days before the bin men found her, so matey's got a head start.”
“How about the motor, any good?”
Fletcher pulled a face. “You'd have thought so, wouldn't you. We got the owner right away and put him through the mincer. His story is he was away on holiday and left the car in the street outside his drum, and somebody must've nicked it because the first thing he knows is he comes home and there's the law beating down his door.”
“Sounds like a good enough story to put him in the clear, how's it stand up?”
“That's the trouble,” Fletcher said, “It's cast iron and watertight. He's got about a thousand witnesses backing up his alibi and we can't shake 'em. Looks like he's telling the truth or he's got a lot of clout somewhere to rig a thing like that.”
“What's he like?”
“Tasty, CRO with form as long as your arm,” Fletcher said, “Rape, indecent assault, drug dealer by trade. Complains against the police for a pastime. Hits you with harrassment if you look sideways at him. A right charmer, was one of the brothers who used to run with the Ace of Spades crew. If his story wasn't so rock solid he'd be right there is the frame. I'd have him strung up by his thumbs, but after the riots we've got to treat 'em all with kid gloves. Came down on tablets of stone.”
“That's the way it goes,” Jewel said, “Tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime,
ha-ha, don't make me laugh. Burn down a furniture store, kick in a few shops, throw a few petrol bombs and our lords and masters are having a ginger fit. How about associates? Maybe he's got some running dogs of similar persuasion. Maybe he loaned some face his motor.”
“Well if he did,” Fletcher replied, “he's not about to be telling us. He's as cunning as a barel load of monkeys so we're not going to be able to pull any flankers with him or he'll just lawyer up and there'll be white forms coming down like a blizzard.”
“What else've you got?”
“What would you like? Fletcher asked, “we've got hours and hours of street CCTV to wade through, a few possible witnesses to boot, and background on the girl to go through, but once it hit London Tonight the brass suddenly took an interest, leaping about trying to put on a big show of dedicated police work. Every bugger so busy hustling their image, I can see this job going right out of the window.”
“Don't take it so personally,” Jewel said, “you're going to lose your objectivity.”
“Advice like that I can do without,” Fletcher said, “Now are you going to stop playing with your fags and give me some help on this or not.”
“I'd like to,” Jewel softened a little, gazing reflectively as the image of the rotting lung. “Only I can't see any way I could squeeze it without some joker upstairs noticing.
“Bottom line, Denn
is,” Fletcher said, “Just one decent D would do me, all my blokes have been yanked off on this Weeting thing and I just need someone to watch my back.”
“That phone hacking nonsense is a total balls ache all right,” Jewel turned the pack over in his hands as the craving for a nicotine hit increased. He'd tried the patches, gum and even hypnosis, but the addiction of a lifetime was stubborn. “One D, eh?”
“At a pinch, yes.”
“Tell you what, Fletch,” Jewel said, “I've got a transferee come in from Kent who hasn't been assigned yet, bloody good detective by all accounts.” A hint of a smile touched his lips, “I could maybe loan you Helen Ritchie.”
Fletcher felt the blow in the pit of his stomach coupled with a sudden lightness behind the eyes. “Oh Christ, Dennis, that's below the belt.”
“Best I can do,” Jewel was grinning openly now, “take it or leave it. Do you want her or not?”
Fletcher groaned. “I've got no choice, have I?”
“Nope.”
Fletcher reached across the desk and retrieved the bottle of whiskey. “For a low trick like that, you don't deserve my hospitality.”
“That's all right,” Jewel said, amused at his friend's discomfort, “I switched to gin anyway, smoother on the old tubes.”
Fletcher stared at the bottle; felt like he needed a shot. “How is Helen anyway,” he said, “I haven't seen her in years, not since she left the Met.”
“How'd you mean?”
