Force Of Habit v5

by Robert Bartlett

  ‘And I have been instructed to wait for a more senior officer. You are being replaced. Maybe they left it to DCI Mason to relay to you in person. Maybe he will utilise you on the case but you will be based back at the station, you will not be in the field on this one, sir.’

  She took another look at him. There was definitely something wrong with him. Maybe he had PTSD. There was no way they would let him near something like this in his current condition, it had high profile written all over it. The place was clearly being used to package drugs and the murder was like ritualistic, sadistic, gangland or something. It wasn’t normal. And he wanted to go on a wild goose chase searching for a man who had the perfect alibi while the sicko that did this roamed free.

  ‘The message can be clearly communicated to Terry Rawlins through the media, if he doesn’t show up back here before then. We’ll get to talk to him soon enough. You’re clearly desperate to get back on the job but this isn’t the way to do it. And you really don’t look ready, sir.’

  She ended with such pity in her voice he almost laughed out loud.

  ‘I admire your optimism, Just James, but we don’t know jack and there’s nothing else we can do here. Right now he’s all we’ve got and there’s a chance he’s still close by. It’s worth looking into if only to ask him why he had it on his toes.’

  ‘But he wouldn't have realised that she was already dead before he was released.’ Now she sounded exasperated. ‘He just panicked and ran because he thought he’d be the prime suspect.’

  ‘Then let’s go put his mind at ease.’

  She looked at him like he was an obstinate five year old. She thought that maybe he had had some kind of breakdown or something.

  ‘I already have my orders, sir. And the name is Detective Constable James.’

  He was really starting to like her.

  ‘Forensics are here,’ Deacon poked her head in.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ asked North.

  FOUR

  The Pond House was a run down mid terrace, squeezed in between a cafe and a 7-11. The cafe was closed. North bought a paper and held up the Rawlins piece. The kid working the 7-11 hadn’t seen the bloke in the picture. North took a peep through the pub window. All he could see on the other side of the grimy pane were yellowing nets that would strangle any light that attempted to make its way through during daylight hours. He went in.

  The decor was aging badly, like the clientele. Bleary eyes looked out from red faces of saggy skin and dirty stubble. Deacon had said it was an old mans pub but North reckoned the clientele weren’t nearly as old as they looked. A pissheads pub is what it was. Only those jettisoned from the rest of their community washed up in places like this. The local pond life.

  Their conversation ceased when he entered and they all gazed over from their usual places. He stared back. None of them resembled the guy in the newspaper. Rawlins wasn’t amongst them.

  From what he had been told of Rawlins, North had really fancied his chances of finding him in here. He had installed Deacon round the back and had expected Rawlins to try and leg it out that way as soon as he realised North was making a beeline for him. Alcoholics like him spent all the time in the pub that the little money they had would allow. His only peers were here. He would have run straight to them to exercise his bragging rights about having just done a year inside. North had figured that the only reason Rawlins had gone home first and not straight to the pub was to get some of the folding stuff from his missus. Maybe add a slap for time served into the bargain.

  He’d been held in Stanegate and walked free from a courtroom there early that afternoon. Depending on his circumstances he would have got on a bus or train and daydreamed of his moment to come all the way back. Scum like Terry Rawlins didn’t get many opportunities to be the centre of attention. He would have found Denise Lumsden dead and in his panic the Pond House is where he would have continued on to. Chances that he had other options were slim.

  Rain dropped from North onto grimy lino that pulled at the soles of his shoes as he approached the bar.

  ‘Two pints of Workie Ticket.’

  Rawlins wasn’t in sight but he was sure that the bloke behind the jump had worn a look of anticipation when looking towards the door as North had entered. Like he was expecting somebody. Now he looked like he wanted to tell North to fuck off but he wasn’t going to mess with the unknown. Not when it looked like North. North took a look around.

  The place must have originally been built as a residence. They had stripped out all the internal walls to create the boozer. Two front rooms and two in back, all now one. Toilets bolted on the back where once they had been outside. They had left the stairs in situ and just boxed them in. A door with a Yale lock barred the way up. If Rawlins was up there he had to come back through the pub or go out a window. North had him - if he was there.

  North had necked the first pint while the second was still being pulled and he ordered a third. Everyone relaxed a little. They knew a fellow pisshead when they saw one. He’d looked like shit when he’d set out that evening and the rain had done nothing to improve him any. The barman checked North’s tenner against a bare bulb in the ceiling and then checked North with a worried look, in case he took offence, but North only seemed interested in his second pint and the bloke went back to his fag down the far end having dropped North’s shrapnel on the bar. The place was taking a relaxed view on the smoking ban.

  Shitholes like this weren’t exactly strong on kerb appeal and if that didn’t dissuade you the unwelcoming stares from the regulars had you feeling like you had strayed into the village tavern in a Hammer Horror, where they all have some terrible secret to hide. The only thing these deadbeats had to hide were themselves from creditors, the Child Support Agency and Benefit Fraud Investigators. Only tonight was different. There was definitely something in the air. North took the shrapnel to the tab machine, bought a pack and lit up, all of his senses tuned in to the group in the corner. He wasn’t mistaken. They were all wired. The corner buzzed.

  North’s appearance and the impression he’d given, that he was out to steady the delightful tremors before sitting in for a session, had him left alone, only the occasional glance still coming his way. He settled onto a bar stool and caught himself in the mirror. For the first time it occurred to him that none of them - the runt kid, Deacon, PC Sicknote, the old dear, DC James - had been exaggerating. He did look like a bag of shite. How come no one at the station had said anything before now? Did they all feel sorry for him?

  He returned to his second pint, trying to quell the embarrassment and anger that he felt. He had to address his temper. It hadn’t taken much to set him off these past few months. He took another drink.

  Then he saw it.

  ‘Welcome Home Terry.’

  Confirmation that he had been here. Rawlins name chalked up on the slate next to the dartboard. That was about as emotional as it got in here, a hastily scrawled message when you strolled back in after a year inside. But had he been and gone? North’s mind started racing. Maybe Rawlins had drunk too much too fast and was chucking up. A belly full of beer and vodka chasers after a year on the wagon and a visit to your dead, mutilated girlfriend could do that to a guy. He finished up his third pint. He’d been in the place less than fifteen minutes. He went to check out the bog.

  The only thing occupying it was a bad smell and he didn’t hang about to get acquainted. As he came out the bloke from behind the jump was holding the door to the flat above ajar and his head came out looking all guilty like on hearing North. North looked like he couldn’t care less, pointing towards his empty glass as he walked.

  ‘Another.’

  He was only here for the beer.

  Another was poured and he started on number four. The bloke behind the bar felt confident enough to disappear upstairs with a glass of something for the shaken and stirred. Jackpot. Rawlins had to be here. And that expectant look on the barman’s face when North came in – they were waiting for someone to come
get him. For who? Who would help Rawlins? And why was he running? It had to be linked to the drugs.

  The barman reappeared sans glass. North was now sure that someone was here, upstairs, as sure as eggs is eggs, whatever that was supposed to mean. Time to find out if it is Rawlins. On finishing the fourth he got up and addressed the corner. ‘If Terry shows tell him North was here and that we’ll arrange a proper piss-up another time. It looks like he opted for the offy and a bit of lego on his first night out,’ North grinned at them. ‘And who can blame him?’

  They looked at one another, unsure. He imagined the cogs grinding loose in their addled heads. Adrenaline had flushed his clear. He made as if to leave, hoping someone would talk.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  He turned back to them. A few were looking accusatorially at the speaker. He pressed on quick.

  ‘North. Terry and me shared a cell for a spell in Stanegate. I got out last month. I saw that he got out today and thought I’d surprise him and join the bender. I should have known better, a year away from the Missus is a long time.’

  ‘Not long enough if you ask me,’ said another and North joined the laughter.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed North, ‘and I’m sure he’ll be feeling the same by this time tomorrow. I’ll come back then.’

  The suspicion had started to fade amongst the pissheads but the bloke behind the jump was still dead cagey looking. He wasn’t drinking.

  ‘Here, what was he –’ one of them began, but stopped suddenly. The wall of stares shifted slightly, blurred eyes squinting at the door behind North.

  Someone started snorting.

  ‘What’s that fucking smell?’

  ‘Have you shit, you dirty bastard?’

  ‘Old Jimmy’s followed through.’

  ‘No I haven’t, its that pig that just walked in.’

  And off they went again, howling. North became leaden. He didn’t turn to look. He took a sideways glance into the mirror behind the bar.

  DS Ken Scanlan.

  Scanlan was a short arse and bald as a coot. To counteract this he power dressed in expensive suits and silk ties but carried a chip on his shoulder that could be seen from the space station with the naked eye. Today it was all protected by a trench coat, collar up, with a matching fedora. A hat concealed the pate and added height. Scanlan loved hats.

  ‘Fuck me, its Humphrey Bogart,’ a voice hurled from the corner and the laughter started.

  ‘More like Inspector Clouseau.’

  ‘Inspector hasn’t so much as a Clue.’

  Scanlan removed his hat and shook the rain from it.

  ‘Fuck me, where’s me sunglasses? Look at the shine on that!’

  ‘Its morphed into Columbo!’

  ‘It must be an alien, like that Predatur or something.’

  ‘Nah, that’s not the Predatur -’

  ‘That’s Arnie!’ they all chimed, howling.

  He had heard it all countless times before but it never got any easier for him or any less funny for them. Scanlan had been head of Juvenile Crime on this patch for twelve years. They all knew him – and they all knew him as Arnie, the kindergarten cop.

  ‘Rain must be keeping them off the streets so he’s resorted to trawling bars for kiddies.’

  Arnie flushed and North could see his jaw working as he ground his teeth.

  ‘Do you want to see my ID, slaphead? Proof I’m over eighteen?’ said old Jimmy who looked about a hundred and five.

  Whatever Arnie was after he decided it wasn’t here. He turned away – but saw North in the mirror. North was screaming ‘NO!’ with his eyes. Willing him to pick up the signal and move on without acknowledging him. Arnie flushed again, embarrassed at North having witnessed the scene. All he saw when he looked at North was red.

  ‘Why am I not surprised to find you here, North?’ He looked about the place and back at North like he had a bad smell under his nose. North turned to face him. No harm done. He had already told them all his name and that he was no stranger to the law. Now if Scanlan would just fuck off out of it.

  North took a step towards him. Scanlan went back. North took another step. Scanlan scurried for the door.

  ‘Keep coming - the Chief is looking for any reason to fire you,’ he said, disappearing outside.

  North looked back down the bar.

  All eyes were on him.

  ‘I’m looking for Terry Rawlins.’

  A wall of blank faces.

  ‘Terry who?’

  ‘He was a regular here until a year ago. He got out of prison earlier today.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You’ve got ‘Welcome Home Terry’ chalked on that board.’

  ‘I’m Terry,’ a hunched up old codger pipes up.

  ‘No, I’m Terry,’ chips in old Jimmy.

  ‘I’m Terry and so is my wife,’ declares another and they all howl at their Spartacus routine, coughing and rasping, rancid breath being forced through cracked lips and yellow teeth.

  ‘I have reason to believe that Terry Rawlins is here. Upstairs.’

  ‘Because of a piece of chalk on a board?’ said the bloke behind the jump. He was trying to cover but he was looking nervous. ‘That’s been there donkeys. We’ve still got tinsel round the bar mirror, do you think its Christmas an all?’

  More howling. The barman gained support from it and stood an inch or two taller. Forced a grin.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t mind if I take a look.’

  The grin disappeared quicker than a punters benefit cheque.

  ‘But I should mind.’ It was now fear that was driving him and North didn’t think it was himself that the bloke was so scared of.

  ‘I can help him, he has nothing to fear. I know he hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘That’ll be right. That’ll be why you came sneaking in here, pretending to be a friend of his. Lying to us,’ he feigned a look of disgust, like he’d suffered the worst kind of indignity. ‘Upstairs is private and you have no cause to be going up there. You abused our good hospitality so you can go and see if you can find someone daft enough to give you a warrant to look around a landlords private quarters for a man you say hasn’t done anything wrong. Then you can go look wherever you want – if you find someone daft enough.’

  ‘Bent enough, more like,’ someone chipped in.

  ‘Leave him alone, he’s only been out five minutes.’

  ‘I thought you’d never heard of him?’

  No one was laughing now. They all glared at the old codger and he turned a shade redder than the drink had already made him.

  ‘Simple Sid don’t know what he’s on about,’ said another tapping his temple.

  ‘Bit like you,’ said another, and they all laughed, all of it forced this time. One started singing Slade’s Merry Christmas and soon they were all at it with gusto. North left.

  Outside, the light in the room above went out and the curtain twitched. As subtle as a brick. North hoped that Rawlins was shitting bricks for reasons other than getting wrongly collared for murdering his girlfriend.

  He started after Arnie.

  ‘What the fuck were you doing in there?’

  ‘My job, unlike you, you...’ he looked him up and down, like he was trying to work out the apt moniker, ‘degenerate.’ He had a look of disgust. North was getting tired of that look. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ Scanlan added.

  ‘Hey!’ A car pulled up and a head hollered from it before North could retaliate. The head got out of the car and nodded at them. DCI Matt Mason.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He was looking only at North when he said it. ‘The Chief is on the warpath and looking for you. You need to be going, its your big night at City Hall. If you go awol the Chief will slice and dice your junk. Besides, it’s a chance to show us in a good light after all the grief we’ve been getting lately.’ Mason looked him up and down. ‘Man, its a good job he didn’t find you. You better get off and get sorted. Are you okay?’ he repeated.

  �
��Yeah. At least I was until Arnie showed up just as I was getting somewhere. There’s someone I want to talk to in there.’

  ‘Terry Rawlins.’

  ‘How did you -?’ Just James got out the passenger side of Mason’s car.

  ‘She was concerned,’ said Mason.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said North. ‘You should be going tonight instead of me with diplomacy like that.’

  ‘Look, there’s a flu ridden PC back there who has been out in the pissing rain for most of the afternoon and he looks a shitload better than you do. Hell, that woman’s corpse looks better than you do.’

  North smiled.

  ‘Okay, okay, I get the picture. It’s the light duties, they don’t agree with me. I’ve been going spare rattling around the station all day long for weeks on end, filing paper and typing data onto a screen.’

  ‘You sure that’s all?’

  Not him as well, thought Mason. They’ve all got me down as a basket case. They’ll be putting me in touch with the Samaritans next.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until I have Rawlins.’

  ‘Look, we have one possible sighting of him near the scene several hours after time of death and proof he didn’t – couldn’t - have killed her. He’s a witness after the event at best. He isn’t key. He can wait.’

  North shook his head. ‘The fucker in charge in there won’t let me take a look around and I hate to admit that he has a fairly valid argument that prevents me just barging in - plus I don’t want to give a lawyer or the CPS the slightest reason to chuck out my case so I’m getting a warrant,’ he pulled his phone. ‘And I’m not moving until I get it.’

  ‘You’re like a dog with a bone,’ said James. ‘Even if he was in there he could be slipping out the back right now.’

  ‘Deacon’s there.’

  He moved away and made his call. He’d get the warrant.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mason. ‘Forensics have just started at the crime scene, the autopsy won’t be until tomorrow afternoon and no one on Lumsden’s block is admitting to having seen or heard anything other than the woman next door so Rawlins is pretty much all we’ve got even though we know he wasn’t involved.’