The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  The children shrugged, pulled faces and muttered a collective ‘Nothing’.

  ‘You know who these kids belong to?’ he asked Renita.

  ‘Yeah,’ she confirmed, scanning the frightened faces. ‘Most of them.’

  ‘OK,’ he nodded. ‘All right, you lot – disappear.’ The children looked at each other disbelievingly until King barked at them again, causing a small stampede of little feet. ‘I said, disappear.’

  Swinton tried to join the exodus until King’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. ‘Not you,’ he whispered menacingly before turning and shouting after the fleeing juveniles, ‘and stay away from this man,’ he warned them. ‘He shouldn’t be around children.’

  ‘Why, why, why did you say that,’ Swinton stuttered. ‘I, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Haven’t done anything wrong?’ King mimicked him. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-two,’ Swinton replied, his eyes flicking from King to Renita.

  ‘So what’s a thirty-two-year-old man doing hanging around with a bunch of kids?’ King asked calmly, leaning closer to the still sitting Swinton who just shrugged. King kicked him slightly in the foot to get his full attention. ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Take it easy, Sarge,’ Renita intervened. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ he agreed, ‘but I still want him to answer the question.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ the scared-looking Swinton replied. ‘We were just talking.’

  ‘If you want to talk to someone, why don’t you talk to someone your own age?’ King questioned.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Swinton shrugged again. ‘I don’t like listening to the things they talk about.’

  ‘What things?’ King pushed.

  ‘You know,’ he looked at the floor. ‘Ugly things.’

  ‘You ever talk to any children about these ugly things?’ King asked softly.

  ‘No,’ Swinton insisted, his face a picture of indignation and embarrassment. ‘I’m not interested in that stuff. That’s all other people talk about, but I don’t care. The children don’t talk about it.’

  ‘So what do they talk about?’ King demanded, his voice full of suspicion and distrust.

  ‘Interesting things,’ Swinton answered, sounding more upbeat, as if the memory of childish conversations had lifted his spirits. ‘You know, like school and toys and computer games.’

  ‘And you like stuff like that, do you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Swinton smiled nervously back.

  ‘School?’ King picked on one of the things Swinton had mentioned.

  ‘Sometimes, I suppose,’ he tried to backpedal somewhat, as if he sensed a trap.

  ‘And why the fuck are you talking to children about their schools?’ King turned on him.

  ‘I, I just like to hear about the things they learn,’ Swinton tried to explain.

  ‘Fucking bullshit,’ King almost shouted into his face, making Renita take a step closer.

  ‘Sarge,’ she tried to leash him.

  ‘You’re trying to find out about their friends, aren’t you?’ King accused him. ‘So you can find out who the vulnerable ones are, right? So you can, what – follow them and pick them off? Just like you did the others?’

  ‘No. No,’ Swinton denied it all, twisting uncomfortably on his makeshift seat, his face contorted in confusion and fear. ‘I, I don’t do that. I wouldn’t do that. The children are my friends.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Renita intervened, trying to calm King, even resting a hand on his forearm.

  ‘OK,’ he nodded slowly, looking down on the fearful Swinton. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’ Swinton looked to Renita for confirmation he was free to go. She motioned with her chin and he scrambled to his feet. ‘And if I ever see you hanging around children again, I’ll kick your door in and take your computer – give it to our experts and see what they can find on it. Would you like that?’

  ‘No,’ Swinton argued naïvely. ‘I need my computer – to play my games on. It’s, it’s all I have.’

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ King told him as if he was nothing. Swinton stood in front of him, straightening his spectacles and wiping his sweaty palms on the stomach of his shirt before tentatively walking away, only stopping once he was a safer distance away, turning back towards them to speak.

  ‘I know what you think of me,’ he called. ‘But I didn’t do anything wrong. You, you shouldn’t talk to me like that.’

  ‘Walk away,’ Renita warned him before King could react. ‘Just walk away.’ He looked at them with a mix of disappointment and fear before disappearing into the long, straw-like grass, the reeds closing behind him in the breeze as if he’d never been there.

  ‘Fucking paedophile,’ King accused him once he was gone. ‘We should have waited till he did something. Could have nicked him and turned his flat over. There’s probably enough shit on his computer to send him down for years.’

  ‘We couldn’t wait until he touched one of them,’ she reminded him. ‘We would have been slaughtered once people found out.’

  ‘Maybe we were a little too honest in our approach,’ King tested her.

  ‘Easy,’ she warned him. ‘You can’t gild the lily when it comes to kids. They have a nasty habit of contradicting you.’

  ‘I guess,’ he nodded.

  Renita looked for a long time in the direction Swinton had walked. ‘If you’re that sure we’ll find evidence in his flat maybe we should nick him and search it. Or we could always try and get a search warrant.’

  ‘No,’ King shook his head slowly. ‘Too risky. We’d never get a search warrant and if we do a Section 18 and find nothing we’ll look like idiots. I’m not having someone like Swinton make a fool of me. No forensics, remember? And the victims can’t identify him.’

  ‘OK, Sarge,’ Renita said. ‘Then how do we stop him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe for this once, we’ll have to bend a few rules. For the sake of the children, if nothing else. And stop calling me Sarge all the time. Driving me bloody mad.’

  ‘I thought you wanted us to,’ she reminded him.

  ‘The others maybe,’ he told her, ‘but not you. Doesn’t sound right coming from you for some reason. Just call me Jack, will you?’

  ‘OK,’ she nodded once, a little unsure, following his eyes as they continued to stare at the space where Swinton had disappeared into the long grass. ‘Let it go,’ she encouraged him. ‘Swinton will come again.’

  ‘Creepy little bastard, wasn’t he,’ King answered, his eyes still not moving.

  ‘Maybe,’ she only partly agreed. ‘But looks can sometimes be deceiving. Maybe he’s just a little simple or maybe he’d just rather hang out with the kids than the adults on the estate. At least they have some semblance of innocence. He probably couldn’t handle the adults. They’d rip him up for arse paper.’

  ‘So what you saying?’ He finally looked at her. ‘That he’s just lonely or something?’

  ‘We all need human contact,’ she reminded him. ‘Maybe talking to the kids is the only way he can get any?’

  ‘Human contact?’ King scoffed. ‘I know what kind of contact he’s after and when he gets it I’ll be there to nail the little freak to the floor. Come on,’ he told her, the bile still in the tone of his voice, the thought of Swinton like an oil slick in his mind. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  King and Renita stood with a small group of off-duty uniformed cops in the Trafalgar pub enjoying a drink at the end of another long day as they discussed the early success of the Unit while the others listened admiringly. Renita did most of the talking and teasing as King played along, increasingly distracted by the growing pain in his shoulder and back that spread and flourished in his head. He left his half-drunk pint on the bar, made his excuses and headed to the toilet where he found an empty cubicle and locked himself inside. He wasn’t due to take any buprenorphine for a few more hours, but decided to tackle the p
ain before it got out of hand – exceeding his daily dose of the drug again. His GP had told him he should be thinking about coming off the opioid, reducing his dosage slowly, but things seemed to be going the other way. He popped two from the tinfoil and plastic capsules and hid them in the palm of his hand, assuring himself he’d come off the pills as soon as work became less hectic and he had time to try an alternative.

  He left the sanctuary of the cubicle and headed back to the bar where it was apparent he’d hardly been missed as he recovered his drink and subtly transferred the drugs from his palm to his mouth, quickly washing them down with the warming, flattening beer, unaware he was being watched by intelligent, experienced eyes from the other side of the bar.

  Frank Marino drained his drink and weaved his way through the revellers until he stood next to King – appearing almost surprised to see him. ‘Jack,’ he nodded.

  ‘Frank,’ King nodded back.

  ‘I was just getting them in,’ Marino told him. ‘Can I get you one?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m in a round.’

  Marino looked at Renita and the others. ‘Of course,’ he said, while checking they were too occupied with their own conversation to hear his. ‘Same old faces, eh?’ he suddenly asked, catching King unawares.

  ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

  ‘This lot talking to Renita,’ Marino smiled. ‘I don’t come here often, but whenever I do they seem to be in here.’

  ‘Everyone has their way of winding down,’ King defended them.

  ‘Winding down or drinking to forget?’ Marino questioned. King just shrugged. ‘You don’t want to wind down too much,’ Marino explained. ‘Not if you want to go further than sergeant.’

  ‘Maybe,’ King half agreed.

  ‘Hardly ever used to see you in here at all before you got hurt,’ Marino reminded him. ‘The occasional leaving-do maybe. What was it – rugby in the winter for the borough and cricket in the summer, keeping fit and studying when you weren’t?’

  ‘Something like that,’ King answered, shifting a little uncomfortably.

  ‘But not since you returned to duty?’ Marino continued. ‘I still pop along to watch the odd game when I can. Always a bit surprised to see you not playing.’

  ‘My injuries,’ King insisted. ‘They need a little more recovery time.’

  ‘Shame,’ Marino told him. ‘It sure is a better use of time than hanging around the pub.’

  ‘Listen,’ King snapped a little, the irritation coarse in his throat. ‘Why you suddenly so worried about what I do in my own time?’

  ‘You’re very young,’ Marino advised him, sounding almost paternal. ‘I occasionally still get to hear what the senior management are saying.’

  ‘And what are they saying?’ King asked impatiently.

  ‘What they’re saying is you could go all the way,’ Marino answered. ‘Maybe even to the very top. And I agree. We could do with a few like you at the top, instead of the usual bean-counters who’ve never nicked anyone in their careers. But it won’t happen if you get too used to …’ Marino paused, looking around their surroundings to make his point more clear, ‘this.’

  King relaxed somewhat. ‘It’s just short term,’ he tried to reassure him. ‘Last chance to live like a real cop before they drag me off to Bramshill and tie me to a desk. Work hard, play hard – just for a while.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marino nodded. ‘But I’ve been doing this job a very long time and I’ve seen many a promising career disappear in the bottom of a glass. This job’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it.’ Once he was sure his comments had registered he placed his empty glass on the bar and made his excuses. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get on with your fun. Take it easy, eh.’

  King watched him wind through the drinkers and head to the exit, Marino’s words of warning spinning around his head. He patted his trouser pocket and felt the pack of buprenorphine inside. So what if Marino had seen him take them – there was no way he could have known what they were. But why would Marino be watching him so closely? He shook the paranoia from his mind, reminding himself Marino had been looking out for him ever since he returned to light duties. Even before that – visiting him in hospital and calling at his flat. But all the same, the feeling of being watched made him uneasy.

  7

  King’s eyes flickered open as the early summer light filtered through the thin curtains – the heavy blinds having already been hoisted to the ceiling. His hangover washed over him like an unwanted residue as he tried to focus on the figure moving around the bedroom, making no attempt to be stealthy. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut before slowly opening them and allowing Sara’s form to take full shape. He tried to open his mouth, but found his lips had sealed themselves shut. He summoned what liquid he could from the back of his throat and rolled it around his mouth until there was enough to loosen the other moving parts.

  ‘Christ,’ he complained through the fog of the night before. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About quarter past six,’ Sara told him, speaking too loudly – he thought deliberately.

  ‘What the hell you doing up so early?’ he asked. ‘And why have you pulled the bloody blinds? It’s too bright in here.’

  ‘I’m up because I’m on early shift,’ she scolded him, ‘and the blinds are open because I need to see what I’m doing.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Sara,’ he grumbled, pushing himself up on one elbow, ‘d’you need to open all the blinds?’

  ‘Your injuries are all self-inflicted, Jack,’ she reminded him. ‘If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he moaned sarcastically. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘You were bloody noisy when you finally came home last night and properly pissed too,’ she ignored him. ‘Woke me up crashing around the place and now I’m knackered for work. Keep this up and you’ll flush your accelerated promotion down the toilet along with everything else,’ she warned him.

  ‘Christ,’ he complained again. ‘Not you as well.’

  ‘Not me as well what?’ she questioned.

  ‘Nothing,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh and before I forget,’ she told him, standing and straightening her clothes in the full-length mirror, ‘I bumped into Chief Superintendent Gerrard yesterday.’

  ‘And?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘He asked me to tell you he wants to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ she casually answered. ‘This morning.’ She gave him a satisfied smile and headed for the door. ‘See you later,’ she called over her shoulder and was gone.

  King slumped back onto the mattress, his eyes staring at the ceiling before he swore at the empty room. ‘Fuck.’

  King sat in the office of Chief Superintendent Gerrard at Newham Police Station – the Borough’s headquarters – trying to swallow down the tides of nausea the remains of his hangover continued to bring as he watched Gerrard flicking through report after report, slowly nodding his head and mumbling his appreciation.

  ‘Impressive. Very impressive,’ he swooned. ‘Still early days, I know, but still …’

  King forced the acid back down his throat before answering. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Keep this up and we’ll have the Grove Wood Estate cleaned up in no time,’ Gerrard beamed.

  ‘Could be a little while longer, sir,’ King tried to temper his enthusiasm. ‘There’s still plenty of work to be done.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gerrard pretended he understood, ‘but once you’ve broken the back of it you’d probably be better used elsewhere, or at least the Unit will – whereas I’m sure you’ll be keen to press on with your promotion to the next rank. You’ve already been on the Grove Wood a fair time. You don’t want to dwell in a place like that too long.’

  ‘A fair time?’ King asked, confused – convinced they’d only been on the estate a few weeks, whereas Gerrard was talking as if they’d been there for mo
nths.

  Gerrard gave a little twitch before replying – as if he too now was confused. ‘I just … I just mean you’ve been there a while now. Are you all right, Jack?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ King shook it away. ‘And I’m fine where I am – for now. I feel I’m gaining a lot of leadership experience.’

  Gerrard reacted as if he was being assessed by invisible judges. ‘Of course. Of course. No need to rush these things.’ They fell into an awkward silence before Gerrard spoke again. ‘You look a little tired though, Jack. Not working you too hard, are we?’

  The previous night’s drinking flashed through his mind. ‘No, sir. I’m fine. A few late nights processing prisoners – that’s all.’

  ‘You should hand them over to the CID more,’ Gerrard smiled. ‘That is what they’re there for, after all.’

  ‘I like to keep the jobs where I can,’ King replied. ‘Squeeze the prisoners for information.’

  ‘Well, if you like the CID stuff that much we can always make you a DS and give you a team here at Newham to head up,’ Gerrard offered. ‘It’s in my power to make it happen – given that you’re on the accelerated promotion scheme. You wouldn’t even have to go on a detective course. Such privileges aren’t open to everyone, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ King assured him, ‘but no thanks. I’m fine.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Gerrard agreed, smiling inanely. ‘Of course you are.’ Another awkward silence fell between them until Gerrard summoned the courage to move forward. ‘Listen, Jack,’ he began, ‘I don’t like having to intrude like this, but it’s very much the policy that I have to ask a few questions about yourself, because of, you know, what happened to you.’

  King felt himself dying inside. ‘Go on.’

  ‘How’s the body holding up with a return to full duties?’ Gerrard asked, trying to sound casual, as if he already knew the answer.