“HITLER!” I could hear my colleague hissing through the door. “Tell him about Hitler! He only had one…” I quickly pushed the door shut, and then asked Simon what he knew about the Weimar Republic.
Twenty minutes later, I was helping my new friend push his drip back to his ward. He was a brave young man and, with the right treatment, I was certain he’d recover quickly. As the nurses helped him into bed, the Sister came and thanked me for all my help. I must admit, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I must have said something right as Simon seemed to be looking a lot happier. As I prepared to leave, I shook his hand and wished him all the best, telling him to keep me updated on his progress.
“Remember what I told you about women,” I quipped with a wink. “And as for the HIV thing, just stay positive!”
As I walked out, Gwen, the Sister and the couple of nurses standing nearby shot me a horrified look … and I thought they hadn’t heard the dating advice!
“You’re unbelievable!” Gwen informed me as we got back into our police car. I thanked her, but she just gave me a strange look and shook her head.
She then dropped me off back at the station, while she continued on to the chemist to get a statement and collect the CCTV in relation to Iona Rocket’s rampage. I sauntered happily into the parade room to see Lloyd looking at a map on the computer showing the town’s crime hotspots.
“What’s occurring?”
“Inspector Soaper has set up a mini operation,” he replied, looking up from the screen. “He wants a couple of us to take a plain car out at the end of the shift. I’ve volunteered, but he still needs another body. Go next door and see him now. It should be interesting!”
It sounded like it might be fun. There had been a spate of thefts from vehicles, and the chance to catch the culprits red-handed was just too good to miss. I marched next door to where the inspector was chatting to our sergeant.
“Good evening, Inspector,” I announced as I poked my head around the door. “Good evening to you too, Sergeant.”
My offer was readily accepted by the inspector, and a few hours later Lloyd and I were scouring the streets in an unmarked CID car looking for the thieves. Eventually, at around midnight, we parked up in a back lane and were keeping obs on a couple of vehicles that seemed to be getting an undue amount of attention from the occupants of a small hatchback that had driven by several times already. So far, our operation hadn’t yielded any results but this could be our big opportunity. We sat in the dark in silence, staying low in our seats, engine off, just waiting for them to make their move. It was only a matter of time.
The display on my radio suddenly lit up indicating a private call was about to come through. I quickly covered it up with my hand so as to not give away our presence.
“John, we’ve got a job for you.” It was Nancy in Comms. She sounded apologetic before she had even passed out the details.
“We’re on an operation,” I whispered back. “And we’re off in an hour. Can’t any of the night shift do it?”
“They’re all committed. You’re the only unit available, and the sergeant has specifically asked for you.”
I looked at Lloyd. We were tantalisingly close to catching our car thieves, but ours is not to question why.
“What’s the job?”
“I’m sorry about this,” she continued, “but we need you to check on a boy who has inserted his finger in a potato.”
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Sadly, no. His father rang the NHS helpline at about seven o’clock this evening saying his four-year-old son had put his finger in some hot mash, and was crying. He was advised to bring him into accident and emergency, but he didn’t turn up. Apparently, they’ve reviewed their calls and now they want someone to go out and check if the child’s ok.”
“I’m confused,” I replied. “We’re the police.”
“Don’t make it any more awkward for me,” pleaded Nancy. “I’m just the messenger. The NHS has contacted us with the request, and now the sergeant wants you to check on him.”
“The guy’s wife will have been out when it happened,” I ventured, “and when she’s returned, he’ll have told her about the potato incident, and said that he’s rung the medical helpline. I bet she’ll have told him not to have been so silly, and that he should just have run the boy’s finger under a cold tap. That’s why he won’t have turned up!”
“Probably,” came the weary response. “But, be that as it may, can I put you down as attending?”
“Go on, then. Seeing as it’s you.”
We left our position, but not before driving to the target cars and getting out so the passing hatchback could clearly see that we were police before it sped off into the night. We then drove to our destination in one of the small villages on the outskirts of town, scarcely believing that our operation had been called off for this.
The house was in darkness as we pulled up onto the long, gravel drive. The sound of chimes echoed down the hallway when we rang the bell. We paced up and down outside in the cold air in an effort to try and keep ourselves warm. After a couple more rings a light appeared in an upstairs’ bedroom followed by the hall and then an outside light came on, illuminating us before the front door was finally opened. A startled-looking woman in a black silk nightie rubbed her sleepy eyes and pulled a thick dressing gown around her as she asked what was wrong.
Embarrassed, I stated the reason why we had arrived at her door in the early hours of the morning. Visibly relieved, she took it in good humour, telling us that she had gone out for the day and that when she had returned her husband had explained about the potato incident.
“I told him he was silly for ringing the hospital, and to just put Elliot’s finger under the cold tap!”
“I thought as much,” I replied, exchanging a knowing glance with Lloyd. The woman’s husband had now also come to the door to find out what had necessitated two police officers calling at their home at such an unearthly hour.
“While I explain things to your husband, is it ok if my partner goes and sees your son?” asked my colleague. The woman nodded, and I followed her into the house. Lloyd and I would only be questioned by our superiors if we didn’t actually physically check on the child. I apologised for the disturbance as I accompanied her through the house.
“So, you’re partners?” she queried as we made our way up the stairs, “and they let you work together? That’s very open-minded of the police.”
“No, not partners like that,” I corrected her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but we’re not together, if you know what I mean.” For emphasis, I used air quotes as I uttered the word ‘together’.
“Oh, I see,” she replied as we reached the bedroom, but she appeared to be only half listening. Opening the door, she peered into the gloom, her voice dropping to a whisper as she pointed out her son. The room was pitch black except for a dim night light glowing from a plug socket. I got out my torch and shone it near the bed to illuminate the scene, careful not to wake the child with the main beam. I could see him, stretched out, sound asleep under his Gruffalo duvet. To my untrained medical eye, he appeared to be fit and well. We crept out and back to the front room where Lloyd and the husband were still chatting. We apologised once again for disturbing them before starting to make our way back to our vehicle.
“So, are you on all night?” asked the wife, snuggling up to her husband for warmth.
“Nope,” replied Lloyd, smiling. “Shift is just about over. We’re both off to bed now.”
As the woman smirked and gave me a knowing wink, I quickly got into the passenger seat.
“What was all that about?” asked my colleague starting the engine.
“Don’t ask!” I hissed. “Just drive!”
Chapter 6
The Ginger Bread Man
“I have a particular set of skills; skills that I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. I will look for you,
I will find you, and I will kill you.” I even put on my best Liam Neeson accent as I misquoted his line from the film Taken. Unfortunately, my sister didn’t seem to appreciate me adding this hint of realism to the proceedings and, as a result, I’ve been banned from ever again playing hide-and-seek with my ten-year-old niece.
The point I’m making is that not all threats to kill are meant to be taken seriously. However, whenever someone reports such a threat to the police and, believe me, with the advent of Facebook and social media they do report them on an ever-increasing basis, we have to investigate each and every incident.
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon and I was currently sitting on a sofa in a house on the Red Estate, with my pocket notebook open and resting on my knee, listening to one such report. Helen, the female sitting opposite me, was in her early forties, slightly orange in hue and was sporting a revealingly short dress. As yet, I wasn’t sure if she was planning a night on the town, or had just returned from one.
She explained that she had separated from her husband, Tom, last November and that he had moved out of the family home and into rented accommodation whilst they talked things through. At first, relations between them had been fairly amicable but, a few months later, he had found out that she had been seeing someone else or, as he had apparently described him, ‘a fucking toy boy’.
The woman’s young boyfriend, Ryan, the aforementioned toy boy, was sitting next to her on the sofa, ignoring everything that was being said. He looked to be about nineteen; baseball cap on back to front, baggy tracksuit and bright white trainers.
It soon became apparent that Ryan wasn’t just her friend with benefits – he was her friend on benefits, too. With his pasty skin and hatred of manual labour, he would have been a big hit in Georgian society. Apparently, according to Helen, when they met it was love at first sight. Despite the fact she wasn’t even divorced yet, he had already proposed and Helen proudly showed me her engagement ring. Personally, I can’t understand why they aren’t called a ‘Kneel Diamond’.
Her fiancé hadn’t looked up from the moment I’d arrived, and continued to be completely engrossed in rubbing his finger back and forth across his lap. I had assumed it was his phone nestled in his crotch, although I suppose a hamster could have been getting the stroking of its life. I thought it best not to dwell on what the third option might be…
“And that’s when he said that he would kill me.” Helen’s words derailed my unpleasant train of thought; thankfully, there were no survivors. I scribbled the statement down in my notebook and glanced back up at her.
She appeared quite shocked as she uttered those chilling words, although I wasn’t sure if this was due to genuine consternation or because she appeared to have shaved off her actual eyebrows and pencilled in a new set slightly too high on her forehead.
“And how serious do you take this threat?” I asked. The sixty-four thousand dollar question.
There was a short pause whilst she looked down at her boyfriend’s crotch, either to see what game he was playing or to check on the well-being of the small mammal. “I dunno,” she replied, not even bothering to look up. “But when he says he’ll do summat, he always does it! He’s said he’d kill me before.”
“So he doesn’t always do it, then?” I didn’t want to appear pedantic, but it was quite an important point. “I mean, you’re still alive now.”
“Yeah, but he meant it this time.” She looked up and we had eye contact again. She then began to describe how unhappy her relationship with her husband had been; how he hadn’t supported her when she had needed him most and that meant that he had now forfeited his chance to have her back.
“I told him,” she informed me, “if you can’t handle me at my Lindsay Lohan, you don’t deserve me at my Beyoncé.” She explained that her husband hadn’t been there for her when she had been feeling down. Clearly, Ryan was here now to feel her up.
I asked Comms to check the police systems for information on her husband, but he wasn’t recorded as having any previous offences. I told Helen as much – not to contradict her assertion, but rather in a bid to allay her fears; instead, it had the opposite effect as Helen and her new partner now seemed at pains to tell me what a nasty piece of work her husband, Thomas Gwain, really was.
“Tell the copper how jealous he is,” the boy suggested, swiping his finger vigorously across his lap – that poor hamster!
“Oh yeah,” the female informed me. “He said if he can’t have me, no one can.”
“Tell him about the sex,” he added.
“Oi! Cheeky!” the woman squealed, slapping his knee. “We’re trying for a baby, Officer.”
“No, not me! Him!” Clearly, the rodent was very demanding, as he didn’t even stop the stroking for a second to look up as he served his rebuke.
“Oh yeah.” She leant towards me and her expression changed as if she wanted to convey that as this involved her ex-partner, carnal dealings now had to be spoken of in hushed undertones. “I think he must be one of them sex addicts.” She quickly looked over her shoulder and around the room, as though checking to see if anyone else was listening, before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. “He always wanted it – morning, noon and night; anytime, anyplace, anywhere. I used to have to beat him off with my bare hands!” She sat back and crossed her arms, leaving me with a particularly unpleasant image in my head.
“Look, I think I’ve got the idea now,” I informed her, symbolically closing my book. I felt we were going a little off topic, and I wasn’t overly keen on hearing the ins and outs of her punishing romantic schedule; but I had thrown out a hint that they had failed to catch.
“Tell him how rough he liked it,” the boyfriend droned.
“No, please don’t!” But it was too late. My words appeared to have fallen on deaf ears as she seemed intent on telling me every gory detail.
“Oh yes! He was very energetic in the bedroom,” she was on a roll now, leaning forward again, uncomfortably invading my personal space, “and in the kitchen and the…”
“Yes, yes, I think I’ve got the picture, thank you, Mrs Gwain.”
“Tell him about your boobs.” The boyfriend was at it again.
“Oh yes! He loved my boobs.” She thrust them at me just so there could be no confusion over what we were talking about. “I’d be left with bruises all over! Bite marks on ’em and everything!”
I felt that out of politeness I had to glance at them and nod.
“Tell him about your ring!” he prompted.
Oh dear God, no! I winced in anticipation.
“And he threw my wedding ring into the garden and I still can’t find it.”
“Thank God for that!” I muttered as I breathed a sigh of relief.
She shot me a disapproving glance, and even phone-boy looked up from his stroking.
“No. Not nice at all,” I clarified. Not nice, but not half as bad as the horrendous images that had flashed through my mind. I used their momentary silence to take back control of the conversation. “I think I’ve got the picture now. So, did he give any timescale or any more details about this threat?”
“Ask him yourself,” the boyfriend urged, holding up his phone. “This is the number he’s been calling from all day.” He dialled it and thrust the ringing mobile into my hand. I felt pressurised to act, but I decided that I might as well see if I could head the whole incident off at the pass. After a few seconds, a woman answered.
“It’s the police here. Can I speak to Mr Gwain, please?”
“There isn’t anyone by that name here.” She sounded quite well-spoken.
“Tom. Can I speak to Tom, please?” I wasn’t sure if she was just playing for time.
“There’s no one else here. There’s just me.”
I felt some urgent tugging on my arm, accompanied by feverish whispers. “She’s lying! He’s been ringing from there all day. I bet it’s him putting on a voice.”
“Look, stop this facade. I know he’s there.” I felt
I had no option but to become a little more robust with her. “This is a serious matter, but hopefully it can all be sorted if I can just speak to him.”
“But I don’t know what you’re on about, Officer.” The voice was wavering now. I had her on the ropes.
“I think you should know that you could end up in trouble if you are covering for him – or is that you, Mr Gwain, putting on a pathetic, feeble voice? Just tell me where you are and I’ll come round.”
A pregnant pause followed.
“Well, speak up. What’s it going to be?” I gave my ultimatum in an authoritative tone.
“Please don’t shout at me, Officer. I’m in the bungalow near the florists, just up from the library.” Bingo! I’d cracked it. My pretend ‘lady’ was even pretending to cry now. Crocodile tears, no doubt!
“Where’s that?” I probed.
“St Austell.” The heavy-handed tactics had clearly worked! Hang on: did I just hear ‘St Austell’?
I covered the handset and looked quizzically at the couple beside me. “She’s said she’s in St Austell.”
“Where the fuck’s that?” they chorused.
“Cornwall.”
They exchanged blank looks. An uncomfortable silence descended. Cornwall was hundreds of miles away. Eventually, the boyfriend spoke up. “That’s where my nana lives!”
I looked down at the phone. ‘Nan’ was written at the top of the screen. I shook my head in disbelief. He had rung his own grandmother and put me on the phone to her! I looked at him, anticipating some rational explanation for this debacle, but he just shrugged. I was pretty sure that somewhere a village was missing its idiot… but I wasn’t entirely sure at this precise moment whether the idiot was him or me. I just had time to grit my teeth and shoot him my death glare, before I was back on the line. I had a terrible image in my head of an old woman, with a face like a wizened apple, sobbing fearfully as she cradled the handset.
Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 9
