by R J Holligan
After putting the central heating on full blast and laying his sodden uniform along the radiators, Quayle had a long hot bath while awaiting the delivery of a pizza he'd called out for. Picking up his burner phone he called Palfreyman.
“Evening.” said Palfreyman. “Can you make the Lamb and Flag tomorrow about 14:30. after the lunch rush?” Quayle.
“Yeah, sure, but the drinks are on you,” he said putting the phone down
The next afternoon, Quayle got on his bike and rode three bus stops down the road and got on the next bus. Getting off at the next stop he mounted his bike and hit the canal towpath. The Lamb & Flag was an old-fashioned Canalside pub which was renowned for its Guinness and massive Sunday lunches. In the summer it was crowded with narrow boaters, cyclists and walkers. Locking his bike to a wooden table Quayle walked to the rear. The door creaked open and Quayle to in the stone-flagged parlour, with the serving hatch at the back. The log fire was blazing away, and Titan, the pub's bulldog, snored on a rug in front of it. Palfreyman like every good operative was sitting at a corner table facing the door. A battered sports bag lay at his feet, half unzipped.
“Guinness?” asked Quayle.
“Aye that'd be good,” nodded Palfreyman. The barman had already got to work on them. The pouring of the Guinness was somewhat a ceremony.
“So what's the Bobby about Karlie?” asked Quayle.
“What about him?” replied Palfreyman, nodding towards Clive the landlord who'd gone back to perusing his Racing Post whilst the Guinness settled.
“Clive knows to keep his mouth shut, we turn a blind eye to his lock-ins, and he obliges us with some discreet information,” said Quayle.
Palfreyman nodded as the landlord put the pints on the copper dimpled table. “Cheers,” said Quayle clinking his glass with the other man's. Palfreyman necked the pint like the guy from the film ' Ice Cold in Alex' his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
“Better set another couple up,” said Quayle to the landlord.
“So Karlie, it's a bit of a story. Essentially, I was a young DC. I got asked if I wanted to try undercover. The Tories were in a moral panic that the long hairs and New Age Travellers were going to unravel the social fabric of Merry Olde England. The Commissioner was on their wavelength. What he really hated was the Animal Rights Mob. So he set up a unit to get after them. He saw the women in the movement as the soft underbelly. So I got a new legend and got myself along to a demonstration. It was down on Hyde Park Corner. A couple of women and blokes were camping out. I told them I was ex forces and out of work. I camped out with them for a few days. They were a good bunch; we drank cider and smoked joints. I strummed a few tunes on my acoustic I'd brought with me. Then one van load of Territorial Support Group turned up and started roughing us up and trying to chuck us in a van.”
Palfreyman necked the last of his Guinness as Arthur plonked two more on the table.
“Whisky?” asked Quayle. Palfreyman nodded. “Two triples of Glen Livet when you're ready please Arthur,” said Quayle.
Sipping the head off his second pint, Palfreyman resumed his tale. “So these TSG geezers in full riot gear started on us. Two of them started dragging Jenny, one of the women I'd got close to, into the van. She's fighting like a she-devil scratching and spitting. One of them grabs her hair and she starts screaming. I picked up my guitar and brained one of them with it and punched the other one’s lights out. Then a press photographer appears from nowhere and starts snapping away. The TSG mob decide to high tail it, drag their knocked-out mate into the van and beat it. So after it all calmed down, I was the hero of the hour. That night Jenny and I shared a sleeping bag. We'd all turned in early as there were no songs around the campfire as I'd busted my guitar.
From then, I enmeshed myself in the group, going on demos, handing out leaflets and such like. Then I hit a snag. Jenny said she was dropping out of the movement for a while to complete her studies. She was also worried by the murmurings of militantism in the group. I thought my Super would take me off the job, but he left me on it. “The trouble with greenies is they just can't stop being greenies.” he told me. And he was right, six months down the line, she was back to it. And we were on the road, literally. The force’s anti-greenie budget stretched to buying me an old bus converted into a camper. All mod cons, which was fortunate in regard to what happened next,” said Palfreyman wistfully and taking a slug of Scotch.
“You had gotten her pregnant,” pitched in Quayle, also taking a swig from his whisky. “Do not pass go, go straight to being a detective,” mocked Palfreyman. “Yeah well these hippie chicks don't go in for the pill. And if that wasn't bad enough, we had to live in Coventry, protesting against the veal export trade,”
Suddenly the alcoholic fog that had been threatening to engulf Quayle lifted. “Sweet William that Jenny. Some of the old sweats were probies on that operation. It nearly bankrupted the force with the overtime,” said Quayle.
He recalled watching grainy local news footage of lines of uniformed officers forming a screen to protect lorries carrying calves which were being flown to France to use for veal. Animal rights protestors had picketed the small regional airport for months. Sporadic clashes had been a regular occurrence. Then tragedy had struck. A thirty-two-year-old woman had been crushed under the wheels of a lorry as it turned into the gate. She was a recent new mother with a six-month-old daughter. Quayle had seen the memorial stone marking the spot that was located near the airport perimeter fence; a lonely sentinel to a life cut short.
“Well , obviously the shit hit the fan after that. But as a grieving boyfriend I got to the heart of the movement toot sweet. There were late night meetings in lonely laybys and people started talking about striking back... with bombs,” said Palfreyman looking distant.
“Talking about its one thing, but there was no internet, so apart from lobbing a couple of petrol bombs, what would they have done?” asked Quayle.
Taking a good swig of Guinness, Palfreyman had a twinkle in his eye. “Well it was lucky that my backstory had me down as ex-army. Her Maj's Gov were happy to supply some fireworks to make things go with a bang,” he said with a smirk. Rustling in his bag he fished out a foolscap folder and slipped out a sheaf of photocopied new articles. Quayle slid them across the table. “Don't get Guinness on them you muppet, they were 25p a copy at the library,” he said.
Scanning the articles Quayle saw a swathe of lurid headlines ANIMAL RIGHTS ANARCHISTS NABBED IN TERROR RAID, ANIMAL RIGHTS WACKOS PLANNED TO BOMB UNIVERSITY RESEARCH LAB, ANIMAL RIGHTS TERROR PLOTTERS JAILED AFTER GUILTY VERDICT.
“Bloody hell and I suppose there was a star witness that turned grass and spilled the beans?” said Quayle fixing Palfreyman with his gaze.
“Oh yes I got nabbed by armed police with the rest of them. I did six months on remand in segregation, ostensibly I was on hunger strike. After the trial I was on the next plane to Belfast. A worse place to be than my old hippie bus.”
Quayle looked aghast. “Unfuckingbelievable,” he said, draining his glass.
“You think that was the old days? It’s still happening and that's why I'm here. Your ACC was my handler, and he's been reactivated....” said Palfreyman.
“Fuck a duck,” said Quayle waving his hand for another round from Arthur behind the bar.
Chapter 15
The pinging of his phone awe Quayle. Bozza had texted him using a series of poo emojis and this was mirrored on the Shift WhatsApp group. Thankfully having remembered to drink a pint of water and down some paracetamol when he got home after his wobbly cycle ride down the cycle path, Quayle's head was remarkably clear.
Putting coffee on to brew he went up to the study. The laptop was still in sleep mode and an A4 pad full of scribbles and fuzzy diagrams was alongside it. In his booze befuddled state, Quayle had taken a leaf out of all the thrillers. He had started writing an account of what had happened. He was going to write it all in longhand in a journal that he would post each day to xxx ?? the solicitor.
By the desk was a pile of Jiffy bags with the solicitor's address and postage attached. Quayle still had a franking machine from his previous life as a bookseller. Making sense of his scribble would take more effort, and coffee.
Picking up the journal he to it downstairs and put in on the kitchen table. Half an hour later, after some porridge and plenty of coffee, he had gotten somewhere and started rewriting. First, in summary, in the late 1980s s and early 1990s, the Metropolitan Police had established a 'slush fund' of covert cash to pursue an aggressive and illegal campaign against what they saw as 'unsociable elements' that apparently threatened the state. Emboldened by their success against the National Union of Miners, the state had decided to try and take these elements down before they got traction. Special Branch and MI5, The Security Service, had their hands full with the IRA, so the Police formed a cadre of senior officers to handle the arrangements. While Palfreyman had been one of the foot soldiers, John Harrison, then a keen Detective Inspector had run the operation in the Midlands. He had set up the operation with Palfreyman acting as agent provocateur which had led to six people being jailed for more than ten years for conspiracy to commit explosions and possession of explosives. Now he was the Deputy Chief Constable of Midlands Police, Quayle's senior officer.
Palfreyman had explained that after the trial he'd been sent to Northern Ireland to 'help out’ after Jenny's death, Carlie had been taken into care and lived in homes all her young life. She had been told her Dad was dead, killed in the first Gulf War. The photographs of her dad in Army uniform were true, the story was not.
With the arrival of the Blair New Labour Government and the new peace in Northern Ireland, Palfreyman and his unit had been disbanded. The members had been paid off with the rump of the cash from the slush fund and reminded that they had signed the Official Secrets. Some had drunk and drugged themselves to death. Most, like Palfreyman, slipped into civilian life. He had drifted from job to job, some security work, working in warehouses, jobs that offered no prospects but could be walked away from in an instant with no explanation. None of them was able to establish a successful relationship or settle down to family life. But after watching from afar for nearly two decades, Palfreyman had contacted his daughter. After a difficult first few meetings, they had established some form of successful relationship. Carlie was not doing well in life she had failed her GCSES and had been drifting on benefits as well as flirting with the edge of gang life. Into the midst of this came a coded letter to Palfreyman at his rented flat. He was being reactivated for a project that would be outlined to him. If he didn't play ball, his daughter would end up being outed as a Police informer and left to suffer the consequences.
Chapter 16
The canteen was almost empty when Quayle stepped in fully equipped and sticking his radio earpiece in. Bozza, the custodian of key to the padlock on the shift's tea cupboard was fiddling with his huge steel teapot as usual. It was a talisman of luck for him. Having carried on three successive tours of Afghanistan, Bozza swore blind it had saved his life when it had deflected a fusillade of shrapnel from a Taliban mortar that had hit their Forward Observation Post. It had been shredded with holes but Bozza had painstakingly soldered the holes shut. The teapot was a monster, taking six teabags.
“No need to brew up, were it?” said Bozza. “Findley and Jenko are at an RTC. Findley picked it up and called it into the OCC. Jenko took the marked car and got out there. “Living the dream as usual,” said Quayle pouring hot water on his instant coffee. Having checked the shift rota he knew the other seven members of the Shift were either on training courses, ill or on annual leave.
“Get the car kitted up and log us on as active and I’ll see you upstairs.... Admin time whoop whoop!,” said Bozza throwing the car keys to him. Quayle was returning from the car park when he met the Sergeant on the stairs.
“The Boss says to only deal with immediates as we’re so thin on the ground. There are already three units up from the South. I need you and Bozza to pick a guy up. Inspector Anderson wants his guys ‘n’ gals back. It's Incident 56,” Quayle nodded and legged it up to the Report Writing Room. As usual there were several uniformed officers from the previous shift there still tapping away.
Shifts were mapped in hours, but due process had to be served irrespective of this. Whether it’s was a request for a Custody Remand or a handover package, you went home when and only when it was squared away. Logging on Quayle booked the car on and then looked at the call logs for Incident 56 and hit PRINT. While it printed, he radioed Control and asked to be showed as 435 Tango as being shown dealing. And with that the North Area now had no units available. Bozza was already in the marked car with the engine running.
Quayle jumped in, the car rolled out of the gates and Bozza hit the blues and twos. It was only a ten-minute blast through the Sunday morning streets. Civilians might think cops like Sundays. Actually, copping an early Sunday shift was pretty bad. Sure, the night turn dealt with the violence and drunken debauchery but most cops like a bit of a rumble. Arrested people seen to be 'in drink' were left to sleep it off in a cell. Increasingly lippy drunks were being found with either cannabis or cocaine on them when they were searched. Essential accessories of the weekend party kit. So, a simple drunk and disorderly now became a possible possession or possession with intent to supply. But all that was for later. Now the situation was still raw as the excess of Saturday night spilled over into the first light of a Sunday morning.
They pulled into a soulless new build housing estate, which had been built on the site of a former pub. An ambulance and a marked car were already outside. Thankfully, it was too early for the usual gawkers. Not that there was any kind of community in these places. People got into their car to go to work, to go to the shops. They weren't communities they were dormitories.
“Go and see what we're dealing with,” said Bozza reaching for his commuter mug and taking a sip. Whatever the situation, he always seemed to get to the car with a coffee. Quayle fished out his pocket notebook and walked to the scene Two paramedics were putting a large woman in her fifties into the back of the ambulance. Clad only in a silk dressing gown she was fitting a losing battle to protect her modesty.
Quayle nodded to the paramedics. The woman has no visible injuries but was unsteady on her feet. “She's pissed as a rat,” said a voice off to his left. A slight female officer gave him an 'it's one of those,” smiles.
“Basically, she was around her boyfriend’s and they had a barney. She says he got violent, so she legged it here almost naked. This is her friend's house. He lives around the corner in the coach house,” she said, “Okay that's great, we'll go and pick him up,” said Quayle copying the man's details and address from the other officer's notebook. It was a common practice and avoided revealing details by speaking them and also avoided spelling errors.
“Is there only two of you? He’s a monster, he'll kill ya,” said a woman from the doorway of the house. She to a drag on a cigarette. “He's an ex weightlifting champion,” she said flicking away her cigarette butt. Quayle fished his phone and stuck the address into a map application. It was literally two hundred yards away. All these Lego developments had a set of garages which usually had a flat or two above it. They were often the abode of middle of middle-aged divorced men.
Quayle got in the car and updated Bozza. “Oh don't believe that shit,” he said. “The bigger they are the harder they fall,” he scoffed.
Driving quietly down the road, they parked about fifty metres away. There appeared to be only one door to the flat above the garages. No curtains or blinds were drawn, and no lights appeared. “What do we do now?” asked Bozza looking at Qualye to put him on the spot
“A DRA to see if we need MOE support,” he said. “What the fuck?” said Bozza. “A Dynamic Risk Assessment to see if we need Method of Entry support,” said Quayle sarcastically “So, if he doesn't come out, we bash the door in with the Big Red Key?” asked Bozza. 'In plain English, yes,” laughed Quayle.
“Right that's sounds like a plan. You have a snoop about I'll need to point Findley about the bosher,” said Bozza. Quayle nodded and made his way across the bricked courtyard. There was one UPVC door which had two doorbells next to it. Rounding the corner, he saw a door belonged to another ground floor flat. Moving to the rear he saw a strip of ground and a low wooden fence which separated the houses from the canal tow path and the canal which ran along the side of the estate. Quayle to along the quiet towpath and saw smoke rising from the chimney from a moored narrowboat. “Normality”, he thought, and for a few seconds imagined sitting by the log burner frying bacon and sausages and reading the Sunday papers. Stumbling over a discarded lager can brought him back to his senses.
He walked back to the car. “There's only one door in and one staircase, shared by two flats. The coach house backs onto the cut, so if he gets out, he could be away down there.” “What about Findley and the bosher? “asked Quayle.
“Half hour away. Let's give him a knock. If he doesn't come out, we sit and wait till Findley comes.” said Bozza. “Keep your hitting stick handy, don't be scared to lay on a few whacks, these guys can absorb shit we can't.”
