by Mark Timlin
‘Trust me,’ I said.
She came over and sat on my lap. As she was wearing nothing but the tiniest pair of black lace panties it began to get steamy again and I peeled her off like banana skin.
‘Sophie,’ I said. ‘Don’t.’
‘I hate being called Sophie,’ she replied petulantly.
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll let you though. But only when we’re on our own.’
‘And I intend that we’ll be on our own a lot in future,’ I said.
‘Good.’
I left just before five thirty. I wished that I could just curl up next to her in bed and sleep for a week. Alternatively I wished for a Black Bomber or the equivalent. But I had to settle for just coffee and a long, slow farewell kiss.
Mind you, the way she kissed, it wasn’t a bad option.
24
I arrived at Brixton police station at a quarter to six and parked my car round the back in a residents’ zone. Charlie Harper was hanging about behind the counter in reception. He was wearing a donkey jacket, jeans and Doc Martens. He was talking to two tough-looking younger men whom he introduced as DCs Phillips and Cook.
They had an unmarked Cavalier parked in the garage. Cook drove, Harper rode shotgun. I got in the back with Phillips. It was a short, unremarkable drive through empty streets with the sun rising in front of us. No one said much.
We rendezvoused with a dark blue Land Rover on Kennington Road. Harper had a short natter over the R/T, and the 4WD vehicle fell into convoy behind us. We drove into the flats at six-fifteen and drew up outside the block where Cochran lived.
The four of us got out of the Vauxhall, and two huge men emerged from the Rover. One of them opened up the tailgate and handed a heavy-looking sledge hammer to his mate and took one for himself, plus an oversized jemmy that he slid into his belt.
‘Who’re they?’ I said to Harper as we watched them tool themselves up.
‘A couple of boys from the station. Rugby players. I’m not going to hang about all morning and wait for our man to open the door. If he’s not sharp, we’re in. No messing.’
Good job, I thought, as we all hit the front door of the flats.
Harper tried the lift and I said, ‘It won’t work,’ just as the doors opened.
‘You haven’t got the touch,’ he said.
I tended to agree. But that’s life. Mind you, Sophia might not have agreed, and I smiled at the thought.
The ancient machine ground into action and jolted its way up, and I hoped that we hadn’t overloaded it with the six of us and the heavy tools, but eventually we got to the tenth floor and the doors squealed open.
We all exited the lift and stood in a loose group on the landing. Harper pulled the warrant and his ID out of the inside pocket of his jacket and rang the bell, then rapped smartly on the metal of Cochran’s door. There was no answer. After half a minute he banged harder. Again no answer. He put his face up close to the smooth metal and shouted. ‘Cochran, police. Open up. We have a search warrant. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to come out or we come in.’
Once again there was no reply. Harper looked over at the two rugby players who were standing casually holding their hammers. ‘Lose that fucking door,’ he said.
The rest of us moved out of the way as the two hammer wielders smiled at each other in anticipation and moved to centre stage. I half expected them to spit on their hands but neither did. They stood one each side of the door, hefted the sledges, nodded to each other, and the one on the left gave the door a hefty smack between the two key holes that secured it. The metal boomed at the force of the blow and buckled slightly, then the one on the right whacked the metal between the hinges. More noise. More buckling. Then they really got into their stride. Alternately each one beat at the door until, with a screech of metal and a splintering of wood, it collapsed inwards. Nobody else in the flats paid any attention to the racket we were making. I expect they were used to it.
Harper was first across the threshold. He vaulted over the door and into the hall. The geezers with the hammers dropped them and followed him, closely followed by Cook and Phillips, with me bringing up the rear.
I heard a scuffle from inside, and Harper came out through one of the internal doors holding Cochran in an arm lock. ‘Tried to give me a slap,’ he said, pushing Cochran into the bear-like hug of one of the rugby players. ‘Hold the little fucker.’
Rugby player #1 did just that. The rest of us went through to the kitchen to start the search. As I passed Cochran he spat at me. The man holding him twisted his arm cruelly, and Cochran made a noise halfway between a scream and a moan. I wiped the spittle off my sleeve but otherwise ignored him. Once inside the kitchen I stood by the sink out of the way whilst the professionals got on with the job.
Harper designated each man a room to search and let them get on with it. He sat at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette.
Within thirty seconds Cook came back into the room. ‘Guv,’ he said, ‘come and have a gander at this.’
Harper got up and followed Cook out of the kitchen. I tagged on to his coat tails. Cook led us into the bedroom. It was quite a sight. Not very big, and made smaller by the amount of stuff jammed into it. The bed was a single, and unmade. The rest of the furniture consisted of a chest of drawers, a small bedside cabinet and a wardrobe. Every surface was covered with Nazi and survivalist artefacts and memorabilia, and loads more covered the walls. There must have been a thousand magazines in the room. They were piled everywhere. Dozens of different titles, but all to do with guns, knives, warfare and living rough off the land. There were model planes, cars, tanks and ships, both metal and plastic, either free-standing or hanging from the ceiling. They were all German, with WW2 markings. One wall was lined with swords, bayonets, knives and guns. The firearms looked like replicas, but the bladed weapons were real enough. Another wall was full of pictures of WW2 German soldiers, vehicles, and loads of photos of Hitler, Goebbels, Goering and Himmler. But pride of place was saved for the flag over the bed. It was huge. Six foot by four at least. Black, with a white circle in the middle, and a huge red swastika in the centre of that.
Cook opened the door of the wardrobe. In amongst the ordinary clothes were several sets of greyish-khaki fatigues and a full German-military dress uniform. Black with silver braid and red flashes on the revers. With it was an SS cap, complete with death’s head insignia.
‘Charming,’ said Harper.
Just then Phillips came into the room. ‘Better come and have a look at this, sir,’ he said.
We all trooped out of the bedroom again and into the living room. It looked perfectly normal. No Nazi connections at all. Against one wall was a bureau with a drop-down flap. Inside were half a dozen small brown cardboard boxes with staples at the corners to strengthen them. Just like the ones that were used to send wedding cake through the post. Or dog and human shit. Also inside the bureau were a pile of polythene bags, a tablet of writing paper, and a black felt tip pen.
Harper smiled.
Then Phillips opened the top drawer of the bureau. Inside, nestling on top of a folded table cloth, was a Luger pistol. Unlike the ones on the wall of the bedroom, this gun had the deadly look of reality. Next to it was another brown cardboard box. Harper eased off the lid. Inside were a dozen or so 9mm brass-jacketed bullets. Harper took out a pen, inserted it into the barrel of the Luger and lifted the gun up. He looked at it, then smelled the breech and smiled.
‘Gen?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘And it’s been used since it was last cleaned. Bring that shithead in here,’ he said to Phillips. Then to me, ‘You were dead right.’
Praise indeed.
Phillips went to the door, said something, and Rugby Player #1 came into the room holding Cochran by the arm. Harper turned and held out the Luger in his direction. ‘Yours?’
Cochran said nothing. Harper
cautioned him. The caution concerned sending obscene and threatening material through Her Majesty’s Mail, and the possession of unlicensed firearms and ammunition. ‘So do you have a licence for this?’ asked Harper after he’d finished the caution.
Cochran did not reply again, and Harper smiled.
Suddenly Phillips exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’
We all looked at him as one.
He’d pulled back an armchair in the corner of the room facing the TV and video hook-up.
Even further in the corner, and previously hidden by the bulk of the chair, was a dog. A tiny West Highland White Terrier, stuffed and mounted on a wooden pedestal.
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘It’s Prince.’
25
I went over to Phillips, and he stood back to let me get a better view of what he’d found. I knelt and looked closely. Indeed it was Prince. He looked just like the photo I’d been carrying with me, and around his neck was a red tartan collar, complete with a silver metal tag that had been engraved with his name and address, exactly as Sheila Cochran had described.
Whoever had done the taxidermy on the animal had been an expert. He had been set in a begging position, with his front paws almost touching his chin. So realistic was the pose that I almost expected him to give a bark at any second. His eyes were wide open and his tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth. But the worst thing, the really bad thing, was that when he’d been stuffed, a metal ashtray had been stuck or bolted to the top of his head. The tray was full of cigarette ends.
I stood up and turned to face Cochran. He was smiling evilly in my direction. ‘I am right?’ I said. ‘That is Prince, isn’t it?’
He confirmed with a nod. I made one step in his direction with my fist clenched before Phillips’ strong hand caught my elbow. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry. Not allowed.’
I tried to shake him off, but I might as well have tried to shake off a steel hawser. I stopped and opened my palms in a gesture of surrender. He let go.
‘You are a nasty little fucker, aren’t you?’ said Harper conversationally.
Cochran didn’t reply.
‘What did you do that for?’ I asked.
‘I never could stand that poxy dog,’ said Cochran. ‘Noisy little fucker. But it don’t bark at me no more. And it’s handy when I’m watching the tele. I can open bottles on its teeth.’
‘You took it from outside your wife’s house?’ I said.
He nodded.
‘Then you killed it?’
‘It just came apart in my hands.’
‘Then you had it stuffed.’
He nodded again. ‘You can have it if you want. Take it home to Sheila.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ I said.
He shrugged as if to say: ‘So what?’
Harper said to Rugby Player #1, ‘Get your mate, and get this garbage down to the car. Cookie, you go with them.’
The two men obeyed, and left the room with Cochran between them. I heard some conversation from the kitchen where Rugby Player #2 had been continuing the search, then footsteps outside and someone trying to replace the metal door in the frame, then silence.
Harper said to Phillips, ‘Better get some uniforms down here to make this place secure. I don’t want any of this stuff going missing.’
Phillips nodded and left the room. From outside I heard him talking on his radio.
Harper said, ‘It’s going to give me great satisfaction to see that fucker go down for a while.’
‘How long?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? A couple of years. Depends on the judge.’
‘He won’t do six months,’ I said. ‘Fancy killing that poor little dog. What am I going to tell his wife?’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘Isn’t it just?’
Phillips came back with evidence bags and put the gun and ammunition inside two of them. ‘Reinforcements on the way, sir,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Harper. ‘I’m going back to the station to have a chat with our mate. You stay here. Keep looking. You don’t know what you might find. Get a lift back in the squad car. If anything floats to the surface, let me know. The more the merrier with this slag.’
Phillips nodded.
‘You coming?’ said Harper to me.
‘Not in the same car as him,’ I replied.
‘You can go in the Land Rover.’
‘Can I have the dog?’ I asked.
Harper shook his head. ‘Not until it’s been examined. It’s stuffed, and who knows what’s inside it. Sorry.’
‘Can I have it when you’re finished with it?’
‘Depends. It’s his property.’
‘He stole it. And he did say I could have it. You heard him.’
‘We’ll see. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s not busted up too much. Mind you, I can’t think why you want it. You can’t give it back to his missus, can you?’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want him to have it.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Harper. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ And he picked up the bags containing the gun and ammunition and left the room.
We went out of the flat through the ruined door. On the landing, Harper stopped, turned to me and said, ‘Looks like we’ve got a name for the second victim.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Sandra Richards. An amateur whore. Her boyfriend reported her missing last night. She was last seen on Wednesday, plying her trade round the back of the Ritzy cinema. She’d never been nicked. That’s why her fingerprint wasn’t on file.’
‘Any leads?’ I asked.
‘Not one. Poor cow. Looks like she got more than she bargained for that night.’
‘Anything on the first one?’
‘Not a thing. Anyway, thanks for this. At least we’ve had one result.’
He called the lift and we went down in it. The two hammer wielders gave me a lift back to Brixton to get my car. I knew I wouldn’t be wanted in the station, so I told one of them to tell Harper I’d be in touch and got into the Jag and drove home. I was back by eight.
A busy morning.
26
On the way there, I picked up the latest copy of Exchange & Mart. When I’d made some tea, I took the cup to the table and found the ‘Pets’ section of the paper. I ran down the columns full of advertisements for pedigree dogs until I found a kennels that sold West Highland Whites close by. It was located in Penge and I gave them a bell straight off. A man’s voice answered after the third ring.
‘Hood’s Kennels,’ the voice said. ‘John Hood speaking.’
‘Do you have any West Highland White Terrier pups for sale?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘As a matter of fact I do.’
‘Dogs?’ I asked. ‘Males, I mean.’
‘Several.’
‘Ready to leave?’
‘Absolutely. Complete with pedigrees and vaccination certificates. Did you wish to purchase one?’
‘It’s for a friend,’ I said.
‘We don’t usually recommend buying animals for other people…’
‘It’s to replace a dog that died,’ I interrupted.
‘Ah, that’s different. Did the dog die recently?’
‘A matter of weeks ago.’
‘Good timing.’
‘I have a photo of the dog that died. Shall I bring it?’ A stupid question really, but I hadn’t quite recovered from finding Prince in Cochran’s flat. Not like that. It was disrespectful somehow. A denial of dignity.
‘By all means. When do you want to come by?’
‘This morning… now.’
‘We’re open. I’ll be here all day.’
‘I’ll be over in half an hour.’
He gave me dir
ections from the town centre, and I hung up, went out to my car and headed south.
I found the place without much trouble. It was down a muddy road by some playing fields. Mr Hood turned out to be a portly individual in a Barbour, jeans and Wellington boots. He took me into the kitchen of his house adjacent to where the dogs were kept, and insisted on making a pot of tea.
I wasn’t arguing. He passed round the Benson & Hedges, and we sat at the kitchen table.
‘You said you had a photo,’ he said. ‘Although I can’t promise a perfect match.’
I took out the picture of Prince and put it on the table in front of him. ‘Attractive dog,’ he said. ‘What happened to him? If this picture’s recent, he looks not much older than a pup himself.’
‘An accident,’ I said. ‘Tragic. His owner’s very upset.’ I didn’t bother to tell him that she didn’t even know yet. ‘So I decided to buy her another.’
‘Good move. Unless, of course, she rejects the whole idea.’
‘If she does, can I bring the dog back?’
‘Of course. We’re in the business of making both people and dogs happy. I’d rather keep my dogs than let them go to the wrong home.’
I liked Mr Hood a whole lot better after that. ‘That’s good to know,’ I said. ‘Can I see what you’ve got?’
Hood took me through to the kennels. They were small and warm. We walked past several dogs behind wire mesh screens until he found half a dozen pups cavorting around in a rather larger area.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Take your pick.’
‘Which one do you reckon?’ I asked. ‘I’m afraid you’re talking to a novice here.’
He bent down and put his hands into the woolly mess of tiny animals and pulled out one. ‘This is the chap for you,’ he said. ‘Three months old. A lovely dog. Feel that nose. Look at those eyes. Strong back, firm hindquarters, and a tail that never stops wagging.’
‘You’ve sold me,’ I said. ‘What’s the deal?’
