The Irish Connection

by Norma Hanton

  Chapter One

  Dean Thomas left his flat and followed the young rent collector, Bryan Goldsmith, as he made his penultimate call at Poplar Court, known locally for all its very, dubious occupants. He stepped into the shadow of the bin cupboard, the overpowering smell overpowered by his desire for a ‘fix’. As the collector stood making notes in a book that looked like it had been taped together with six inch nails, his concentration was so intense that he failed to notice Dean as he crept up behind him. He felt a hard object rammed into his ribcage and a voice hissed softly,

  “It’s just not your day, mate, rent’s spent and I’m skint,” Dean lyricised, “so hand it over, or else.”

  “I can’t,” squeaked the collector, his bladder now awash, his face ashen. “They’ll sack me, and me and Gloria will have nothing to live on.”

  “Give me the fuckin’ bag, asshole, or I’ll have to look after Gloria for yer. It’s not your money so why take a bullet for it?” As Dean’s sneering whisper turned his blood cold the collectors bladder gave up the fight,

  “No, please, I can’t do it. Please try and understand. Gloria and I can scarcely keep our heads above water as it is, what with the new baby and all. I would get into so much trouble They’ll sack me on the spot.” Suddenly Bryan’s face changed and he raised his arms high above his head and screamed, “So go ahead and shoot me if it saves our son from being told his father was a coward, and just another looser like you.”

  A very surprised Dean forcefully rammed the gun once more into the man’s ribs.

  “Just give me the fuckin’ money and run, super hero, or your son will be without a father, believe me, and put your bloody hands down, this ain’t a cowboy film.”

  Bryan, lowering his arms, yelled at his tormentor,

  “Go ahead then, shoot me, you drug ridden bastard, then go and look my child in the eye and tell him what drugs do for the likes of you.”

  Dean was beginning to sweat and twitch, his mouth was dry. He needed a fix, badly, he needed that money, and he needed to get out of here, pronto. People were curious about the shouting and were coming onto their balconies.

  Bryan slid silently to the floor. Not dead yet, but looking promisingly close to it. Dean whacked him again with the butt of the gun, grabbed the bag and, began kicking the inert body almost into oblivion.

  Two blocks from his unsavoury residence Dean entered the Dog and Duck and procured two small pills at the cost of ten pounds. His manic laughter unnerving the passersby as he staggered home.

  Police patrol cars ee-awed their way passed his window as Dean calmly placed the money bag in a secret apartment built into the under part of the dinning table. The mess on the table top was enough to discourage any close inspection, littered as it was with a conglomeration of mouldy food, overflowing ash trays, milk bottles that were now penicillin heaven, and empty bean cans.

  He then swallowed one of the pills and lay on the bed to watch the pretty patterns.

  “You three get around the back. Broom, you’re with me. Let’s go. OK, Sergeant, kick it in.”

  The front door of 22 Poplar Court gave way easily and lay in pieces on the grubby orange carpet.

  The sound of running feet came from above.

  “Come on down, Dean, we need to talk to you.” Detective Inspector Eddie Cotton yelled as he signalled to Sergeants, Broom and Lucas to get ready with the cuffs. But Dean Thomas was in no mood to come quietly.

  Cotton started up the stairs just as Dean appeared on the top landing.

  “Sod off, yer bastards. Get out of my house right now or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ heads off.”

  A revolver appeared in his hand and Cotton, Broom, and Lucas dived for cover. There was a loud bang and a bullet whizzed past Cotton’s ear, a little to close for comfort.

  “Put the gun down, Dean, you’re only making things worse for yourself.”

  Silence from the stairwell.

  “Come on, Dean, stop playing silly buggers. Do you want to be charged with killing a copper? You know you’ll be hunted down. End up without a friend to call by name and living in terror of going out. Is that what you really want?”

  Silence.

  Cotton stood up and, with Lucas and Broom making frantic signals telling him to stay where he was, he went to the foot of the stairs.

  Dean was not there.

  Slowly the three men climbed the creaking staircase, expecting attack at any minute.

  Broom and Lucas stood on either side of the bedroom door ready to leap into action. Cotton knelt down and slowly turned the Bakelite doorknob. The door swung open on well oiled hinges. The room was empty. The window stood wide open. They went inside.

  “He’s made a run for it down the fire escape. Check under the bed, Broom,” Cotton moved away from the window, “look for any signs of the missing money, or the rent books. Lucas, you do the same thing on those bookshelves.” He crossed the stained and filthy carpet, stepping over the piles of dirty clothes. “I’ll check out the wardrobe. Though, judging by this mess on the floor, there can’t be much in there”

  He was within a foot of the large mahogany cupboard when the door flew open and Dean hurled himself onto Cotton knocking him to the ground. Before he could move a muscle Dean landed an almighty kick into his groin. Cotton felt blackness closing in on him as the searing pain ripped through his writhing body.

  Broom reacted swiftly bringing the miscreant to his knees in a not too gentle fashion. He sat on Dean until Lucas put the handcuffs on him.

  “I know my rights. I’ll have yer for that, yer wanker. See if I don’t.” Dean twisted and turned in their grip. His face was distorted with rage and he spat on the prone body of his latest victim. “I’ll have him an all. Bastards the lot of yer.”

  They dragged the handcuffed man down the stairs and into the arms of the waiting policemen.

  “Treat him gently, boys, cos he knows his rights.” Lucas grinned at them, “Thinks it OK to kick the guvnor in the goolies and get away with it. Lock him up tightly, but don’t forget to read him his rights first.”

  They watched the Black Maria drive away.

  Dean Thomas would soon be paying for his vicious attack on the unarmed rent collector.

  Broom pulled the car to a halt outside Mandy’s flat.

  “Sorry the ride wasn’t as smooth as you’d have like it, guv, but I done my best. Honestly!”

  “It was fine, Sergeant, thanks.”

  “It’s been a right shitty day and no mistake.”

  “You’re not wrong there, Broom. It couldn’t have been worse if it had tried.”

  He struggled to walk upright as he went to the door of Mandy’s flat and inserted the key in the lock. Suddenly he grinned. It was a humourless effort.

  A right shitty day alright. Dean Thomas had not willingly helped the police with their enquiries. He’d been spat at, shot at, and, the final indignity, kicked in the balls.

  The doctor at the hospital had told him not to attempt intercourse for a while. As if he could! That kicking had been no mood enhancer. Things could not get any worse.

  Mandy was waiting up.

  The table was set for one of her candlelight specials.

  “OK. What’s wrong, what did I miss now?” Cotton asked gruffly.

  “Oh! I can see you’re so very tired, so let’s forget it.”

  “Look, Mandy! I’ve had a bloody terrible day, so just spit it out.”

  Tension crackled through the air between them.

  She circled the room blowing out candles and then began to clear away the unused plates from the table.

  “Mandy! For God’s sake just tell me what anniversary I’ve forgotten, shed the usual tears, and then let me get to bed.”

  She turned to
face him, tears filling her eyes.

  “Alright, Inspector Cotton, I’ll spit it out. YOU’RE GOING TO BE A FATHER.” Her loud shout ripped through his brain.

  “What? When? How?” he spluttered. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I’m pregnant - In about five months time I expect – in the usual way.”

  He stared at her totally speechless.

  She stood uncertainly. Her voice faltering she said,

  “Why are you looking at me like that? For God’s sake say something!”

  Instead of answering he hobbled to the toilet and vomited.

  Slowly rising from his crouched position he rinsed his face with water and went back to where she still stood. Her beautiful face was pale. Her eyes sought his. Her happiness evaporated.

  She slumped down on the nearest seat and waited.

  “It’s not mine.”

  She leapt to her feet screaming,

  “How dare you even contemplate that, you bastard? Just because you don’t want it suddenly you’re calling me a whore. Is that it what you‘re saying? How bloody dare you!” she shook with temper. “You can get out, right now, and don’t bloody well come back!”

  “You’re telling me that you’re four months pregnant and yet you’ve never once mentioned it. Don’t make me laugh,” he snarled. “If I remember rightly, Mandy dear, four months ago you weren’t even in the country. You were away on holiday with your ‘friends’ if you remember. It was an all girls together event - or so you told me.” He took a brown bottle of pills from his pocket and swallowed two of the painkillers the hospital had provided him with. She never even asked what he was doing. “I’ll be honest here, Mandy, I’ve been keeping check on all the times we had unprotected sex and the numbers just don’t tie up.”

  “You’ve what!” she screamed, shaking her black hair in disbelief. “You’re telling me that you’ve got a diary going on our personal sex life?” She looked at him in utter loathing. “What kind of man are you.” She grabbed bunches of her dark hair in both hands and walked up and down the immaculate living room. “I must be going crazy, because I can’t believe anyone in love could do something like that. You’re totally heartless, do you know that? I’m just glad I’ve found you out before I did something really stupid - like marry you, you bastard.”

  He looked her right in the eye and pointed to her midriff.

  “That baby is not mine. I’m bloody sure of it. And I‘m not going to be like my dad and get landed with bringing up another mans kid.”

  She studied him silently for a moment. He’d told her about his sister - now happily married and living in Scotland. His mother had an affair while his father was away in the war. He’d come home to find his wife had buggered off and left the girl with her grandmother. He’d brought Susie up, but had never let her forget her beginnings.

  She stood looking at him as if he’s grown two heads.

  “I never mentioned it before because I knew you well enough to know that you’d believe I had gotten pregnant only to trap you into marriage. You’ve dropped enough hints about ‘getting tied down’ in a relationship. So I’m not going to argue with you or try to prove to you that you are the father because I no longer want you to be. In fact, now I’ve come to know you even better, I’m damn sure that I don’t want our child to know a man like you. And he won’t, Inspector, not as long as I have breath in my body.”

  So saying, she went into the bedroom. In minutes she was back carrying an overnight bag.

  “Here, go crawl back into whatever hole you can find and stay there. You self-centred, self-opinionated, gutless wonder. Don’t you ever let me see you again. You can collect the rest of your stuff tomorrow when I’m at work. Just don’t forget to leave your key.”

  She threw the bag at him before going to the front door and holding it wide open.

  He heard it slam noisily on his exit.

  Chapter Two

  Bill Watkins ran down the cobbled lane as if his arse was on fire.

  The sound of his boots echoed off the yard walls as he slid and slithered his way down the lane. He swung around the corner into Russell Street in one long sliding motion and almost collided with the red telephone box.

  His fingers seemed to take on a life of there own as he struggled to insert one digit into the hole encircling the number nine. Suddenly doing so seemed to be impossibility.

  On the third try a voice intoned,

  ‘Police, ambulance or fire brigade?”

  “P-p-police - quick,” he stuttered. “Get the police. She’s got no face - she’s got no bloody face.” Hysterical laughter was followed by an apology. “Sorry - sorry - but truly, she’s got no face. They’re on the bed.

  Brides, on the bed. No face. Please come - please.”

  “What’s your name caller?

  Silence.

  “Caller - I need your name and the number of the telephone you are calling from.”

  Silence.

  “Caller, are you there?”

  A strangled ‘yes’.

  “Look above you at the small square giving the location of the phone box. Can you read it to me?”

  Gasping breath.

  “I need the name, sir. Can you read it out.”

  “Pentman Street East. It say‘s Pentman Street East,” Panic rising in his voice he pleaded, “ Please come - please. My God, my God. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  There was the sound of retching as a male voice informed him,

  “Ellis Street police station, Sergeant Lucas speaking.”

  Inspector Cotton looked to where his sergeant sat with his feet up on the desk reading the morning paper. The headline on the Daily Express showed a picture of the newly crowed Queen and Prince Philip waving from the balcony.

  Cotton was bored.

  “Fancy another coffee, Joe?”

  “What you mean is ‘make me another coffee, Broom‘.”

  “Got it in one. You know I was mortally injured on the last case or I’d make it myself. Doc said I needed plenty of rest. Oh! and try and find a biscuit to go with it,” Cotton smiled, “and have one yourself, Sergeant”.

  Before Broom could reply the telephone on Cotton’s desk trilled into life. Cotton grabbed at it like a man grabbing at a lifeline.

  “Detective Inspector Cotton,” he stood listening. Suddenly his long, thin fingers tighten their grip on the receiver.

  Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair he tells the caller,

  “I’m on my way, now, I’ll be with you in about forty minutes.”

  Slamming down the receiver he makes a sudden move to leave. In his haste he knocks over the files on his desk.

  His sergeant stoops to clear up the mess.

  “Dammit! Leave it, Joe, we’ll sort it later. Go and get a car ready.”

  Stepping over the scattered paperwork they hurried from the office.

  Out in the parking area Broom holds open the car door.

  “Anything interesting, sir?” he asks.

  “A workman repairing the roof on a block of flats has just called in from a phone box. He reckons he’d seen two bodies spread out on a bed. He said they were both dressed as brides - but one of them had no face”. He grabbed the dash board when the Zephyr Six swerves slightly as Broom stares at him in disbelief.

  “Steady on, man. Keep your bloody eyes on the road”.

  “Sorry, sir, but this has to be a hoax - right?”

  “That’s what I thought, but Sergeant Philips believed him. He reckons he sounded hysterical enough. The caller kept repeating the fact that she had no face, no face at all.”

  “Well, should be an interesting one, if it’s true. A double murder, fancy that. Not your usual run of the mill thing”.

  “Just drive, Sergeant, and switch that bloody noise off,” Cotton growled,

  “I swear, Joe, you just like playing cops and robbers.”

  “You’ve caught me out, sir. You’re right of course. That is all I live for, th
e job, the excitement, the love of a grateful public, and, of course, that huge pension at the end of it”.

  Cotton grinned.

  “You definitely live in never-never land, Sergeant”.

  They came to a smooth stop outside Mulberry Court, an old Victorian town house which had been converted into six up market flats. The lower ones each sported a small front garden.

  They followed the flagged pathway to a double front door, where a young constable stood shuffling his feet.

  “Everything OK, Denton?” asks Broom.

  “Yes, Sarge, forensics arrived a couple of minutes ago, with the pathologist and Superintendent Mulhern. They‘re all inside”.

  “Well don’t let anyone else in, there’s a good lad. We don’t want any damn reporters strolling in, now do we?”

  Denton shook his head.

  Each flat had two enormous windows to the front, which came down almost to floor level.

  Broom looked up and commented, “I’m surprised they got away with such low windows. One trip and you could find yourself in the great outdoors.”

  Inside, on each floor, there were two doors, one on the right and one on the left. At the end of the panelled corridor there was a lift, and a door marked fire escape. On the second landing Cotton stopped to speak to the two patrol officers that waited in silence.

  “Well, Smith, tell me all about it.”

  “When we arrived we couldn’t make any sense of what the workman was trying to say. He was shaking so much we sent for an ambulance, left him down there in the garden and went up to the apartment. There was no answer to our knock so we tried the handle. The door was unlocked. No one answered our shout so we entered.” He swallowed hard. “When we opened the bedroom door we were under the impression that the two females lying on the bed were asleep. It was only when we circled the bed and viewed the bodies from the window side that we saw what the roofer had seen.” He paled, turned green then went on in a strangled voice. “The body of the girl with her back to the door had no face left and, as far as we could make out, one of her eyes is missing,” he burped loudly and Cotton took a step back. “The only other thing we did, sir,” he spoke rapidly, “was to make sure both girls were dead before waiting for backup - outside the door.”