by R J Holligan
The pair of cops strode to the door and Bozza pushed the doorbell and then knocked loudly. There was no response. He tried again. After five minutes with no results they walked back to the car. “Let's make ourselves a bit more visible,” said Bozza starting the car and nosing it forward so they could see the top floor windows and the door.
And waited. Twenty minutes later, Bozza was still writing sheaf’s in his Pocket Notebook and Quayle was fixed on the front door.
“Here we go,” said Quayle. The white door opened a crack. Quayle went to exit the car. “Hold your horses, let's do a DRA before we go in feet first,” said Bozza. The voice of experience won out. The door opened fully and was soon blotted out by the figure of a huge man. “Jesus, she wasn't lying,” said Bozza whistling through his teeth. The man walked out towards them. He looked calm and carried a plastic carrier bag which was full of packets and plastic jars
Walking to Quayle's side of the car he stood there. Quayle slid the window down. “Morning Officer, sorry I didn't come down as I was getting my meds ready, I knew you'd want to take me in,” he said meekly. “Do you want to come in?”
Quayle looked at Bozza who nodded. “Morning sir, yes we'll come in thanks,” said Quayle. Getting out of the car they followed the man mountain to the door.
“I'll go in first and my colleague will follow you,” said Bozza. The trio trooped up the stairs and through the doors to the flat that was open. Unlike many of the depressing flats they had been belonging to single divorced men, this was a palace. There was no washing up piled in the sink. No pile of take out containers. It was clean, light and tastefully furnished.
The massive man lowered himself onto a two-seater settee which reminded Quayle of Cinderella sitting on Baby Bear's chair in the fairy-tale. Bozza remained standing and nodded to Quayle who discreetly left the room and made a quick sweep of the flat. There was just one bedroom which contained a double bed, a wardrobe and some complex tanning machine. On the bed was an overnight bag which was zipped up. There was no sight of any weapons or of a fight or disturbance. Returning to the room Quayle was listening as the man mountain called John told his account of the romantic evening gone wrong.
“It was all going nice, then she started on the second bottle of wine and went psycho. Started telling me I was a loser with a small dick and that she knew people who would kill me if she wanted. She used to hang around with some people from the Plantagenets,” he said with real fear in his voice. The Plantagenets were a local Outlaw Motorcycle gang with a track record for violence. They weren't just a bunch of fat accountants pootling around on their Harleys at the weekend, they were the real deal. John stopped talking and only the sound of Bozza's pen scratching on his pad could be heard.
“If you don't believe me, I can show you the stuff she brought round to show you she was going to spend the night,”
He got off the sofa and shuffled through to the bedroom. Bozza and Quayle. Unzipping the bag he fished out some lingerie, stockings and a selection of sex toys – unused. “Well that would seem to indicate she did indeed intend to spend the night,” said Bozza.
Several hours later they were in the canteen entertaining Findley with their interesting shift. As the fag smoking harridan had said the giant in the coach house was indeed a former weightlifting champion. While he might have been physically one of the biggest bastards that anyone had ever collared, he had behaved as meek as a lamb. In the interview he had claimed he had restrained her but not hit her.
“So, we went to the hospital to see if she'd sobered up. We track her down to her friend’s house. And she says she's left her keys and 'some personal items' at Mr Big's house. Off we went, back to Custody to get his house key, Probie here had to drive the squad car while I lead in the lush's car. Then after acting as Dildo Delivery Driver she says to us she doesn’t want to press charges. Which was what we were going to tell her anyway. She hadn't got a mark on her. If he'd have hit her, we’d be trawling the canal for her head,” said Bozza. Findley laughed. “The best bit was when Quayle here asked if she wanted to check if all her property was intact. Priceless,” he said.
Chapter 17
The next day Bozza and Quayle had booked half the shift as 'protected time'. This meant while they were officially on duty, they weren't available to go out on 'jobs'. Both were chronically behind on updating their 'crimes'’ witnesses, victims had to be updated and a plethora of other stuff. Most of the floor was taken by civilian staff who to only 999 calls. These were things like vandalism, malicious communications, burglaries or criminal damage. The call takers 'triaged' the calls and handed forward ones where there was the possibility of identifying a suspect from CCTV or forensics. The public expected uniformed officers to attend along with a team of CSI's like on television. In reality the call takers who were themselves overworked would record a crime for the Home Office statistics, issue a crime number for insurance purposes and then consign the incident to electronic purgatory. Hence the efficient recording of crime bumped up the score against the investigators. There was no 'uninvestigated category' so the crimes went as unsolved.
Bozza and Quayle had managed to secure a couple of desktop PCs and both men were pecking away in earnest at their keyboards when the Sergeant appeared carrying a slim folder. “Quayle, you were a water gyspy weren't you?' he asked. Quayle knew a job was coming their way. “Yes, Sarge I lived on a narrowboat for a while.” The Sergeant laughed. “Well this will be right up your channel then. A suspected DV incident, a woman caller from a boat called Firefly in the Bumtown area. Get yourselves down to the cut and make some enquiries. That should see you to the end of shift,” he said with a wink. Dropping the file on the desk he turned and disappeared downstairs. “Right Popeye see you in the car in five,” said Bozza. Quayle swept up all the miscellaneous paperwork off the desk into his tray and logged off the computer.
Twenty minutes later they were parking the marked car on a muddy patch of waste ground next to a large park on the edge of Bumtown. The area of low-rise maisonettes and back- to-back Victorian terraces had gained its moniker from the Simpson's name for the less salubrious part of town. The canal ran down the back of the houses. Unlike other areas where being Canalside meant your garden would be augmented, the residents here thought it meant they had free rein to dump their rubbish in the canal or on the towpath.
“Right, the call log says ‘Bridge 20’ so let's go down five bridges either way. If we don't find anything then point to point me,” said Bozza. Point to Point was a way of making a call to another colleague without being heard on the wider radio net. Quayle to off down the towpath glad to be out of the stifling atmosphere of the office. He hated the stifling temperature and the smells of people's food they heated up and scoffed at their desks.
A light breeze wafted down the canal, carrying along on it the smell of woodsmoke. His mind drifted back to when they had moved onto their newly bought narrowboat and lit the log burner together on a freezing winter’s night and then gone straight to bed. It had been exhilarating. He couldn't remember a much better night. Things had been pretty shite since she had gone. The night with Colleen was the only highlight in a long line of disappointment.
The 'job', he realised, was just being like a dustbin man. You turned up at an incident, offered some sympathy, possibly nicked someone. If it all came good, they did some prison time. But the incident that had happened had still happened and the past couldn't be put right. And for the main part, the people they nicked weren't bragging wise guys who had been caught running a big criminal enterprise like on the cop show. Most of them were sad cases, people who'd been brought up in chaotic families or in care, then slipped into drugs. Then they started thieving to fund their habit. And onto the conveyor belt and revolving door that was the criminal justice system. Quayle was only a few months in and already he was feeling jaded.
Then he caught a fresh smell. The tangy stink of cannabis. The College of Policing said something about the smell of cannabis not being rea
sonable grounds for a stop or a search, but that bullshit can stay in the classroom thought Quayle as he dropped his pace. Clambering onto the stern of a nearby narrowboat he shimmied along the canal side gunwale till he got to the front of the boat and peered around the front. Sure, enough a teenage girl was ting away on a joint. He was going to creep back to contact Bozza and catch her in a pincer movement when another figure emerged from a back garden.
“What have I told you about smoking that shit?” said an angry female voice. “It's just a blunt for fuck's sake.” the young girl replied. There was a plop and fizz as the joint hit the water. “Bitch,” said the girl. There was a dry slapping sound. Quayle didn't see it but he heard the girl's hand connect with the other woman's face. He stood up and jumped onto the bank. “Police stay where you are,” Quayle shouted. The pair were locked together as the older woman attempted to throw the girl’s lump of polythene wrapped cannabis into the cut.
“Cut it out,” shouted Quayle wading into the fighting pair. The cannabis went winging over his shoulder. Grabbing the young girl's wrist in a lock he pulled her away from the other woman. She hoed her foot under his boot and pushed him to the floor.
“Right,” said Quayle and wrestled the girl around into a ground pin. His anger went straight to her wrist which he twisted to almost breaking point.
“Stop fucking struggling or I'll snap it,” shouted Quayle. “She desisted struggling. Quayle looked up to see a pair of highly polished boots. “Everything under control PC Quayle?” asked Bozza.
“Yes, PC Bostock”, she just slapped her mother. She'd been smoking cannabis, but the evidence is now at the bottom of the canal.”
Bozza rolled his eyes. “Okay nick her, cuff her, and we'll bring her in too” said Bozza nodding to the now bemused woman.
“Aw you're gonna lo big in front of all your gangster mates going to the Police Station with your mom,” the woman said sarcastically.
Bozza stood between the two. “Alright madam, get going,” said Bozza. Cautioning the young woman that she was being arrested for assault, Quayle applied some handcuffs and gestured the teenager to get moving.
“You can't do this, if they see me at the station, they'll think I'm a grass,” she spluttered through tears. “You're Karlie Courts, aren't you?' asked Quayle. “What's it got to do with you Fed, you trying to feel me up?” she spat. Quayle would have laughed at any other time in a bog-standard response copper being considered akin to the US law enforcement agency's finest.
“Look I know your dad and he's in serious shit and so are you. Here's what we’re going to do...”
Bozza and his charge were just leaving the towpath when there was a scream, a shout, and a splash.
“What the fuck?” he said turning to lo down the towpath. Karlie was off on her toes and disappeared into the warren of alleys that backed onto the towpath. Quayle emerged from the brown water of the canal splashing and spluttering as he waded to the bank.
“You got nobbled by a teenager?” shouted Bozza laughing loudly. “Watch out Bozza,” shouted Quayle as the older woman appeared behind Bozza wielding a stick. She whacked him across the back, and he went sprawling into the canal. Twenty minutes later, they were still sitting in the marked car, swathed in foil space blankets.
“No one needs to EVER find out about this EVER, do they?” said Bozza his teeth chattering, “Suits me,” said Quayle.
CHAPTER 18
“I'm really sorry about the scratches,” said Karlie, laughing. “Yeah, try that with a bit more conviction next time,” replied Quayle. He had bought Karlie some KFC in a bag to the hotel where she was holed up. Her Dad preferred roughing it at the allotments.
“So, what did your Boss say?” Quayle picked up a few fries and toyed with them. “Nothing, as nothing was done over the radio, so we managed to sweep it under the carpet.” he replied.
“They'd rape me and pass me around you know,” Quayle munched on the fries. “Yeah I know, but you knew you were playing with fire, when you started slinging merchandise for the likes of Marber, “he replied.
“Well you might have been brought up in a nice family with 2.4 children, but I was brought up sharing a dorm with about twenty other girls. Not fucking Mallory Towers or Hogwarts I can tell you.”
Quayle nodded. “Point taken. So has anybody threatened you directly?” he asked.
“Well, Marber showed me a big knife on our first date and told me he'd cut me if I crossed him or ripped him off,” Quayle stifled a laugh. “Wow, quite the romantic. Anybody else?” She slurped on her coke and thought. “Yeah there were two guys in suits, like accountants. They came into the Fox and Dogs when I was at work. They said they was looking for him, about some work they had for them. I thought they were Cunts in Disguise at first. But they didn't lean on me or try and recruit me as a grass, so I knew they were something else. I got some pics of them on my phone. Them and their car,” she said, fishing out her phone.
“Top work, can you Bluetooth them to me,” he said.
“Sure,” she smiled.
After swapping the snaps, Quayle left and made his way to the allotment via home to get his laptop and the Co-op to replenish Palfreyman’s supplies.Ducking through the gap in the fence, he knocked softly on the shed's new rear door. “Come in, “said Palfreyman, pulling back a sack. He turned up the gas on the Coleman lamp. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he added taking a seat on a camping chair.
Quayle plonked a bottle of Isle of Jura on the table. “This is to help us work a way out of this,” said Quayle unscrewing the cap and pouring two hefty slugs.
“Well, as far I can see John Harrison is holding all the cards. He's as clean as a whistle and just rolls out the Official Secrets Act if we go to the Press. “I thought you said they wanted you to get back to work on a new project?” asked Quayle.
“Yeah they gave me a burner phone, but I taped it to the bottom of a Royal Mail van to give them the run-around, it's a dead end,” said Palfreyman sipping his whisky.
“Perhaps not,” said Quayle flourishing his phone “Karlie got some snaps of a couple of guys looking for you. We trace their car and we're in business.
“Sounds better than nothing. Better get that laptop booted up,” said Palfreyman.
An hour and a half of bottle of whisky later they were onto something. Having blown up the picture Karlie had taken of the car they had gotten a Vehicle Registration Number and put it through all the systems. The car a Ford Focus was registered to the Phoenix Investigations. More searches had revealed nothing. “Bugger it,” said Palfreyman lighting a rollup.
“One last idea,” said Quayle typing 'Phoenix Investigations’ into the Companies House website. “Bingo” he said. “One Director, James Walters, there's an address. Let's pay them a visit tomorrow,” said Quayle. Writing the address on a piece of paper he tore the page off the pad and handed it to Palfreyman. “I'll do a bit of work at home on the area and lo for the best ingress and egress points too. I've got a mate who's a decorator. He's got a broken wrist and isn't using his van at the moment. It'll make a great surveillance vehicle,” said Quayle. “You're really into this aren't you?” said Palfreyman with a wry smile behind a plume of cigarette smoke. “It's the first time I've felt alive for quite a while,” said Quayle.
“This isn't James Bond stuff you know. We could get killed or locked up for a long time. You could lose your job at the very least,” said Palfreyman.
“The job is shit. I couldn't give a monkeys about it. We're just uniformed social workers, dustbin men working with the refuse of a society, people who've been let down and chewed up and spat out,” said Quayle bitterly. Both men sat in silence for a while.
“So why did you join 'the job,' then?” asked Palfreyman.
“To make her proud of me, I supposed,” he said quietly. Reaching into his pocket he flipped out a wallet and slid out a battered photo. The image was of a couple seated in a photo booth. One of them was a younger Quayle with more hair and more weight. The other w
as a pretty brunette with short hair. “You both lo happy,” said Palfreyman. “We were,” said Quayle. “She had Motor Neurone disease. Got diagnosed and was okay for years. Then they said there was a new ground-breaking treatment. They nuke your immune system then rebuild it. She went for it. It all went well. Till she caught the fucking flu. It was like something out of fucking Dicken's time. People understand cancer or car crashes. But this was just something else. The day after the funeral I started training.
“Hard Lines,” said Palfreyman “What was her name?” he asked. “Cara,” Palfreyman poured them two more large measures of Scotch. “To Cara, he said and clinked glasses with Quayle. Both men drained their glasses and sat in silence.
Rising early next morning Quayle walked to the newsagent and bought a newspaper and two bottles of Lucozade. Swigging one as he walked to his friend's house, he to a few double backs to shake off any pursuers. The van was parked in a street of neat terraced houses... The keys were under the driving seat. Firing up the engine he left the quiet street in a puff of black diesel smoke.
Palfreyman was sitting on an upturned wooden box admiring his handiwork when Quayle walked down the path to the allotment. A good half of the plot has been neatly dug over and wheelbarrow full of weeds was on the path. A robin stood sentinel on the handle of a spade as he made forays from it to snatch worms exposed in the freshly turned earth. “Someone's been busy,” said Quayle passing the perspiring man a bottle of Lucozade. “Sweating out the booze, some of the old boys have already been down for a nosey. I told them I'm Pavel from Poland I do work for Mr Quayle as he is terribly busy but my English not good,” he laughed.
