The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  “One other thing, Sue,” said Vinnie as Sue busied herself photographing the body.

  “Yes?”

  “Any sign of the head?”

  Stopping to face Vinnie, she answered, “We’ve only had chance to do a preliminary search, but no. It looks like the killer took it with him.”

  “What about time of death? Any clues to that?”

  “Well rigor’s set in and the blood has all congealed. You’ll have to ask the pathologist to be exact.”

  “I know it’s probably an unfair question, I was just looking for best guess at this stage.”

  “Best guess,” Sue said, while glancing at her watch, “twelve hours plus.”

  Vinnie, instinctively glanced at his own watch. It was midday now, Tuesday. The attack on the prison escort had been at eight o’clock the night before. So he reckoned time of death to be around seven or eight that morning. He couldn’t imagine what sort of night the deceased must have had.

  Vinnie checked that Sue – as crime scene manager – had everything she needed before he left. She said that she did. She had three staff en route. Vinnie said the detective super SIO would no doubt be down to see her soon, and then he and Rob said their goodbyes.

  On the journey back into Manchester, he asked Rob why he thought the killer, or Moxley as it surely was, had taken the head with him.

  “I’ve no idea, boss. It’s like something out of a horror movie or some grisly TV drama.”

  “And that’s where it belongs, Rob. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life.”

  He directed Rob to take them to Bill Johnson’s flat. “It’s time we nailed that bastard down a little, and his home is a better place to do it than the prison. I’m sure he knows more than he’s said.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to do all the interviews with him through the prison, sir?”

  “This is now a murder investigation, we haven’t got time for all that bull; now put your foot down.”

  Vinnie checked his notes; he knew Johnson was a single man in his thirties who lived alone in a two-bedroomed flat on the outskirts of Middleton, Manchester. According to the brief he’d received over the phone from the police prison liaison officer – before arriving at the prison, earlier – Johnson was a quiet sort. Been in the service for five years, wasn’t the most popular on the wing, had a knack of rubbing the inmates up the wrong way. The PLO had explained that he didn’t go out of his way to offend or mistreat, or anything like that, he was just one that the cons seemed to naturally dislike.

  During the brief chat he’d had with him before, he hadn’t struck Vinnie as the most forceful of character. But then, he thought, the quiet ones sometimes were.

  He took the opportunity to give his wife Lesley a quick ring. He wouldn’t be going home any time soon.

  Chapter Four

  Bill Johnson arrived home about thirty minutes after he’d left the prison. He’d calmed down now, the sun was shining and his mood lifted with it. Having let himself into his ground floor flat, he instinctively called out for his cat. It was a long-haired tom of unknown breed, and usually came to greet him in a very dog-like way. No sign, he must still be out, probably sunning himself on next door’s garage roof.

  He went into the front room and noted it was well overdue for a bit of TLC. A dust and clean would be a start. He picked up a dirty mug from the floor next to his armchair and made his way into the kitchen. As he approached he felt a breeze of warm air; the cat flap must have stuck open again. But as he rounded the door jamb, he saw the real reason for the draught. The back door was wide open.

  He instinctively looked around to see if anything had been disturbed, or taken. Everything seemed in order, at a glance. As had the front room, though he hadn’t scrutinised it. He turned to go and check the bedrooms and bathroom. Then stopped. Was he being paranoid, surely he hadn’t left the door open or even unlocked, he’d check that first. As he neared he could see splintered wood sticking out from the door frame. Definitely a break-in. He pulled his mobile from his pocket before returning his attention to the rest of his flat. It was only a two-bedroomed place with a small kitchen, lounge and even smaller bathroom. If he’d disturbed the thieving swine, he’d have no doubt been made aware of it before now. After all, he’d gone into the living room first.

  He relaxed a little and checked the bathroom, half expecting God knows what to have been left behind as a parting gift, but all seemed okay. Then the spare bedroom; all looked okay there too. He decided to check the lounge again, as he hadn’t been paying particular attention when he’d first gone in there. Again, nothing appeared out of place. The plasma was still there. Perhaps he had disturbed them after all but, without realising it; maybe they were going out the back on hearing him coming through the front. He in part, was disappointed he hadn’t got inside in time to catch, or at least get a glimpse of them; but most of him was glad that he had not.

  He turned his attention to his bedroom, which was at the front. The door was closed. He stopped in his tracks; he never left the door shut. He felt his heart rate increase. Should he ring the cops first? No, the intruders might have been in there, but had obviously gone. He opened the door briskly and walked in. Nothing, and everything seemed as it should.

  He rang the police and was disappointed at the response he received. Some civilian call handler said that they would record all the details from him, but as nothing had been taken or even disturbed, they wouldn’t be sending an officer.

  “What about forensics?” Johnson asked.

  “If no one’s been in your property, there will not be any point in sending a crime scene investigator, sir.”

  “Okay,” he fumed, “but what about the back door? That’s been smashed in.”

  “Can you see any footprints or the like on your door?” the operator asked.

  Johnson couldn’t believe this, and told the operator to wait while he checked. He could see that the door had clearly been forced, but couldn’t see any marks of any kind – instrument or physical – on the door. He reluctantly told the call operator this, adding. “But, I’m no expert, you understand.”

  “I realise that sir, but as there is no evidence of actual entry, it’s only criminal damage at this stage and, in any event, we don’t routinely send out officers or CSIs to reports of damage.”

  “Why else do you think someone kicked my back door in, if not to come inside? I obviously disturbed them,” he said, hearing his voice rising now.

  “I understand you are upset, sir, but there really isn’t anything else I can do apart from record the details and give you a crime number for your insurance.”

  Johnson realised he was getting nowhere, so passed on the details and wrote down the crime number on the back of his hand. The call-handler finished by telling him that they were in the middle of a major incident, not that he expected the response would have been different if they were not.

  Having ended the call, he went to look at the damage to his door. It had a Yale type lock and the female part of it had sheared straight off. He found it under the table. Fortunately, it would screw back in place, no problems. The screws wouldn’t bite as securely as before, but it would do until he could put a better lock on. He’d always known it wasn’t the best set-up. He’d buy a better lock tomorrow, he couldn’t be bothered today.

  He’d just finished, when a bang on the front door startled him. No doubt some idiot selling something. Burglars didn’t usually come back and, if they did, he was sure they didn’t usually knock.

  When he reached the front door, he saw the outline of two people through the frosted glass, both male. He opened the door to find that DI, Palmer, and his underling standing there.

  “This is classic, you couldn’t make it up,” Johnson said.

  “Pardon?” Palmer asked.

  “Well, I’m guessing you and your mate haven’t come here to investigate my burglary. Or should I say criminal damage.” Both men stared back at him. He was enjoying their confusion. He went on
to explain. When he’d finished, the DI, Palmer spoke first, as he rushed passed Johnson into the flat, uninvited.

  “When was all this?”

  “Just now,” he answered as he turned to see where Palmer was going. He let Palmer’s junior pass before closing the door and followed them both into the lounge. “No disrespect inspector, but why should you care?”

  “I don’t believe in fairies or coincidences,” Palmer replied.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Johnson asked.

  “I’ve just come from some waste ground not a million miles from here where I found your mate Tim,” Palmer said.

  Dropping his attitude now, Johnson stumbled his reply, “Is he OK?”

  “‘Fraid not Mr Johnson. You’d better sit down,” Palmer said.

  Johnson did as he was told and then Palmer told him the rest. The shock hit him harder than he would have thought. He knew Tim well enough, but was not particularly close to him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if he was.

  “So, you see Mr Johnson, someone paying you a visit seems a little strange now, don’t you think?”

  Johnson nodded as he tried to get his head around the ramifications. He couldn’t understand any of it. He always thought Tim got on quiet well with Moxley, and as such had been taken only as a bit of insurance while he got away. Reckoned he’d taken Tim, as he’d be better company; well as far as Moxley was concerned.

  He heard Palmer on his radio demanding a CSI attend the address. He swallowed the temptation to make a comment. Then he heard him tell the other cop – Rob – to search the flat. “I’ve told you, nothing has been taken,” he proffered.

  “Well, they weren’t here just to smash your kitchen door in, were they?” Palmer said.

  “Brilliant,” Johnson thought, the temptation for sarcasm becoming almost unbearable.

  “There’s something else we haven’t told you yet. Thought I’d give it to you in bits,” Palmer said.

  “Boss, boss, have you got a moment?” Rob shouted from the bathroom.

  “Tell you in a minute,” Palmer said.

  “Tell me what?” Johnson asked, but Palmer didn’t reply as he walked to the bathroom door, which was half shut. Johnson rose from his armchair and followed.

  Arriving at the doorway behind Palmer, he watched him push it wide open. Rob was standing by the bath. Between the tub and wash basin was Johnson’s dirty washing basket. Rob had the lid in his hand. Johnson hadn’t checked in there, perhaps the dirty swine had left a present after all.

  “In here,” Rob said, confirming Johnson’s next thought.

  He saw Palmer look first, and then recoil. He turned to Johnson, and tried to block him. He now guessed why he hadn’t found his cat.

  “No, out the way, it was my cat; I want to see,” Johnson said, as he deftly limbered under Palmer’s outstretched arm.

  He peered in. The head of Tim Knowles stared back at him.

  Chapter Five

  It’ll probably work out for the better this way, Moxley thought. He had intended to give Johnson some time first. Not that he thought he’d have found it straight away. He reckoned it would take at least a day, and certainly not before bedtime, which would be better still. He’d always known Johnson was unkempt with poor personal hygiene. He could still remember his smell. He’d spent years inhaling that dirty, lazy man’s scent. Even if today was bath night, which he doubted, he wouldn’t be going near that basket for hours yet. He’d intended to leave it until nightfall before he approached. That way, if ‘Stench’ as he would call him from now on, did call the cops over the break-in, they’d have been and gone long before he approached.

  Then that cop and his man had gone and spoilt it. He couldn’t work out why; he’d thought they’d have been kept busy up at the abattoir for several hours yet. Perhaps Stench had found the head. He hoped not, he wanted to see his face when he did. No matter, he’d have to bide his time now. He’d waited this long to enjoy his freedom, a little longer to enjoy his other plans wouldn’t matter.

  Twenty minutes later he heard the approach before he saw it, all blues and twos, giving it large. So, they had found the head. Though, he didn’t understand all the fanfare, after all the head wasn’t going anywhere. Typical of the cops to always give it the ‘big I am’. Why, couldn’t they just turn up?

  The two detectives both looked young, and he’d figured out that the youngest looking was in charge. He didn’t know their names, but he’d find out. Maybe, he’d add the boss-man to his list, for making such a show. He’d have to see how things went. But for now, it was time to go before they started searching the area around the flat. He gave the long-haired cat a last stroke before letting it go and then slipped back through the hedge.

  *

  Johnson jumped back; literally, and involuntarily, crashing into Palmer, who grabbed and held him.

  “Come on Bill, let’s get you out of here,” he said with warmth in his voice.

  Bill was ahead of him on that one, as he broke free and rushed into the lounge and collapsed into his armchair. Stunned.

  He started to slap the side of his head in a vain attempt to rid the vile image from his mind. Then he felt nauseous. He couldn’t go back in the bathroom; he doubted he’d ever go back in there. He ran outside the front and was sick on the small lawn. After a minute, he stood up and tried to clear his head. Rob approached and asked the daft question that all cops seem to ask. When he told him he was far from okay, he just asked for the house keys.

  “Why,” Johnson asked.

  “This is now a crime scene and we need to secure it. You can grab an overnight bag if you wish, but then we’ll have to sort you out with somewhere else to stay,” Rob answered.

  Johnson was relieved to hear this. He wasn’t sure he could ever go back to his flat. He handed over the keys before he gingerly re-entered and rushed past the bathroom without looking, grabbed a few clothes and stuffed them into a plastic carrier bag. He could manage fine without toiletries. It was a relief to get back outside with Rob. They were joined by Palmer who turned to lock the front door. He handed the keys to a uniform cop who had just turned up, who then took up a sentry position.

  “So what happens now?” Johnson asked as he started to regain himself.

  “I’ll speak to the crime scene manager, who has just arrived, and tell her what we need from the house.”

  “Why the hell do you think that monster left Tim’s head there?” Johnson asked.

  “A good question; my guess is to terrorise you for some reason. How was your relationship with Moxley?”

  “Not too good if I’m honest; but then it wasn’t too good with a few of them on that floor. It’s one of the hardest wings I’ve ever worked on.”

  “What do you mean?” Rob asked.

  Johnson went on to tell them that he wasn’t the toughest prison officer and some of the cons could sense this and gave him a hard time.

  “I’m guessing Moxley was one of those?”

  “The worst.”

  “How did you cope?”

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” Johnson said, and paused.

  “Come on man,” Palmer demanded, “we are well past that stage.”

  “Childish, I know, but I’d get my own back in little ways,” he hesitated. Neither Palmer nor Rob spoke. After a short pause he carried on, “Maybe I’d spit in their food, sometimes, and other stuff.”

  “Marvellous, bloody marvellous. We have a deranged lunatic on the run, probably hell-bent on revenge, for God only knows what, and you’ve been winding him up for God only knows how long.”

  Johnson didn’t reply. He felt embarrassed, and shuddered as he recalled some of the other stuff.

  “What about the other prison officers?” Rob asked.

  “Moxley got on with most if not all, except me. I think Tim was closest to him, though they did have their own moments.”

  “Go on,” Palmer said.

  “Well, it sounds daft, now. But Moxley had th
is weird habit of sticking his tongue out when he was reading, or concentrating on something. You know, almost like a kid does.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Tim told him about it. Told him to keep his tongue inside his mouth. Said he didn’t want to see what he’d eaten for his breakfast or dinner or whatever.”

  “And Moxley fell out with him over that?”

  “Mad I know; it took weeks before they were back on speaking terms.”

  “So, being moved from Strangeways against his will after been assessed as criminally insane will have no doubt have put him on top of the world,” Palmer said.

  Johnson just nodded. He suddenly remembered his cat, Denis, as in Denis-the-Menace, “I’ll need to find my cat before we go.”

  “Is there anywhere he can go? We might struggle in a hotel,” Rob said.

  “Is that where you plan to put me?”

  “For now, yes,” Palmer answered.

  Johnson told them that the old dear next door would happily take him in, which she often did when he was on nights, but added that he needed to find him first before they left.

  Palmer agreed, saying he’d probably get back in through the cat flap given half the chance. Said he’d get someone to tape it up once the door had been examined.

  “Is this your cat?” Rob said.

  Johnson turned to see Denis trotting down the path to greet him, but as he got nearer, he could see what looked like a small plastic bag hanging from under his collar. The two cops must have noticed it too as they blocked Denis’s path to him and Palmer bent down.

  “What’s that,” Johnson asked.

  “Jesus Christ,” Palmer said. He stood back up, the small bag in his hand.

  Johnson watched as Rob peered in before shouting at the CSI woman to join them.

  “What is it?” Johnson asked again, not wanting to get too near.

  “It’s a bloody tongue,” Palmer said, turning to Rob, before continuing. “You’d better go and check the head.”