by R J Holligan
“Well they'd soon see you weren't British working that hard,” laughed Quayle. “Ready for a new career in painting and decorating?” he asked. “If you can piss, you can paint,” said Palfreyman unscrewing the cap off the bottle and downing half of it. “I'll just get my brushes,” he said disappearing into the shed and emerging with the sports bag. They got into the van and drove off.
“So, what's the plan?” asked Palfreyman, lighting up a rollup.
“We'll pull up around the corner and I'll have done a quick recon to see if anyone's in. If there is, we'll go in and see if you can reconnect with your handler. We need concrete evidence of something they're planning to get anywhere,” said Quayle.
“Fair enough,” said Palfreyman. Parking in a side road both men donned their painter's whites and Quayle walked the short distance to the detached house. There was a front gate, but he walked around the side and jumped over a gate. He was in a back garden, a well-kept lawn, some washing on a line. French doors opened onto some decking. A cafetière steamed on the table and the sound of Radio 4 heralded the soundtrack of steady middle-class life in the suburbs.
Quayle retuned to the van. “Someone's in,” he said. “Yeah the car is parked just down the road. A woman just went out in some big four-wheel drive wank wagon, so I imagine the Ford is his work run-around.”
“Right I'll let you go and do your thing. I'll hover around the back,” said Quayle. Palfreyman got out of the van carrying his bag and went in through the front gate and ran up the path.
Leaving the keys in for a possible quick getaway, Quayle went back around the side, jumped over the gate and leant against a wall. Having something solid behind you gave you a sense of security he had found.
His mind drifted back to his first day on shift. It had been 'Q' so four of them in two cars had gone out to chase up a few absconders who had failed to turn up for court or breached Domestic Violence Protection Orders, which meant abusers were not allowed to go near or to reside at a prescribed address. They'd gone to an estate of fairly new houses. Quayle had been posted in an alley, while the other three to the front. “He's a cage fighter, so if he comes running, hit with your stick a few times,” was the sage advice offered by Animal John. Ten minutes later after no fleeing cage fighter had tried to pass him, he was called to aid in the search of the house. Despite the outward appearance, the house was a shithole. There were no carpets, the filthy curtains were drawn and two women who looked to be in their sixties but were actually in their thirties lounged on a sofa in front of a huge television. Drink cans and drug paraphernalia littered the floor.
Quayle had had to switch on his torch to search the dark rooms. The cage fighter wasn't there. The only thing they go back to the station was the all-pervading stink that had clung to their uniforms.
“Penny for them,” said a whisper. Quayle froze as something metallic and cold was jabbed in his back. “We're going back into the house, no silly moves, understand. The voice was educated and urbane...Prodded forward, Quayle opened a French door and walked into the kitchen diner that had been knocked through sometime in the past.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” shouted the man loudly. There was a scream and the sound of movements. The kitchen door opened. A frightened teenage girl appeared. Behind her was Palfreyman. He had a K-Bar knife at her throat. “Hello Keith, los like I've got the upper hand for once,” said Palfreyman quietly.
Chapter 19
The impasse soon ended when Palfreyman pointed out that the other man's piece of pipe was trumped by a razor-sharp K bar knife.
“I thought it was a gun,” said Quayle spinning and delivering an upper cut to the man now known as Keith, dropping him to the floor.
“Enough,” said Palfreyman, gently removing the knife and letting the trembling girl go. “Right Keith how about you let my friend search you and we have a little chat. Pulling the man to his feet. Quayle pushed him prone over the table, kicked his feet wide apart and searched him. After he'd finished he put the contents of the man's pockets on the table, Some small change, a wad of notes in a money clip, and most interestingly a police warrant card in a carrier with the name of Detective Inspector Keith Walters of Central Police.
“Wow that looks convincing,” said Quayle holding up the card and placing it alongside his own. “That's because it's genuine,” said Walters. Harrison wanted someone on the inside to watch over him and any problems that might arise, like you or the Milky Bar Kid over there he said nodding towards Quayle.
“What do you know about me?” asked Quayle, I'm just a Student Officer,” he replied.
Walters snorted. “One who narrowly missed the cut for Six and has read Gramsci,” he said referring to the Secret Intelligence Service and the Italian Marxist respectively. “Fuck a duck.” exclaimed Quayle.
Walters sat down at the table ling a little more in control than he had previously. “Is what he said true?” asked Palfreyman.
“Yeah, it is,” said Quayle, his mind whirring. Palfreyman shrugged it off and pulled out the sawn-off shotgun pointing it at Walters.
“Enough of the mind games, you start talking or you can say goodbye to your kneecaps,” he said.
“I'll sort some coffee and make sure the girl’s not calling anybody,” said Quayle.
Walking into the corridor he snatched a mobile phone off the girl. “You won't be needing that.” he said taking the battery out and pocketing it. “Do you have a landline?” he snarled. “A what?” she asked.
“An old phone you know, like, with wires?” She nodded. “Upstairs in the spare room, Dad uses it an office. Quayle pounded up the stairs and saw the door to the room was open. It was a well laid out home office with a desktop computer, printer and a filing cabinet. On the desk was a cordless handset console. Quayle snatched up the handset removed the batteries and unplugged the phone from the wall. Then he went and put the kettle on.
“Scotch Mist? What the hell's that?” asked Palfreyman. “It's the caper we want you on. Harrison is organising it from Central.” said Walters matter of factly. “It's to discredit the Scottish Nationalists. You and a couple of the old team are going to set off a few bombs and create a state of turmoil. When the Scottish Parliament can't cope the government's going to send in the the troops like Northern Ireland and bring in direct rule from Westminster.”
“Bloody hell, I thought we were going after the climate change nutters,” said Palfreyman.
“Well they are on the list down the road a bit. The government want that dyke bitch at New Scotland Yard to be humiliated and shown as incompetent first. We're already doing our bit funding the freaks,” said Walters with a smirk.
“Coffee,” interrupted Quayle bringing in a cafetière and some mugs on a tray. “Get in here, bitch, and sit down on the floor,” shouted Palfreyman.
Quayle poured and they all to a mug, Palfreyman kept one hand on the gun. “And what if we don't play ball?” he asked. “Karlie gets outed as an informer and Marber gives her to his goons to play with. After which she goes to Holloway for five to seven where she'll get the hot water treatment from the sisters for being a grass I imagine,” said Walters matter of factly.
Palfreyman grimaced. “Why’s it so important to have me,” he asked. “Cos you know one end of a fuse from another. That kind of expertise is thin on the ground these days. It needs to look professional, like a proper insurgency, not Amateur Hour.”
Quayle fixed Walters with a stare. “Where do I come into this equation?” he asked. “You were singled out a lone wolf, you missed Six by a cigarette paper, And Geoff on your intake who works for us... said you were definite recruit material for black bag jobs,” replied Walters. Quayle said nothing. “There's a burner phone for you each in the filing cabinet. You've got forty-eight hours to decide,” he said firmly taking a slurp of coffee. “And what if I don't play ball,” said Quayle. A devilish glint appeared in Walter’s eyes. “Well, our original leverage on you went and died. But since you've taken up with that li
ttle harlot from Custody it appears, we now have something on you again. Accidents will happen...,” he smiled.
“I'll go and get the phones,” said Quayle looking defeated.
The taproom at The Lock-Keepers Arms was mercifully empty when they entered and ordered their pints. “I thought you were just a basic plod, Walters seems to make you out as some sort of proto Jason Bourne, you owe me an explanation if we’re going to get our arses out of this mire,” Palfreyman said, taking a swig of his pint.
“It was just one of those things. I applied for the SIS on a whim one day after I had done my medical for the cops. I was thinking it might be for me, get me off Pudding Island for a while and see the world. But instead of getting a 'Dear John,' I got invited to an assessment day. It was all cloak and dagger at some nondescript office block. I got an official letter a few weeks later and that was that,” said Quayle.
“Well, you must have crossed someone's radar. What's this about Gramsci and this Geoff guy? “asked Palfreyman.
“It's your round,” retorted Quayle, “and see if they've got some food.”
The other man muttered something and went to the bar. Quayle toyed with the burner phone in his pocket. Dealing with this crap on his own was bad enough. Now they'd dragged Colleen into it. An innocent party, he felt vulnerable and alone. But he also seethed with a rage. A rage that he'd not felt since that fight in the graveyard. He made a quiet promise to himself that if anything happened to Colleen then he would take his revenge on Walters in the most savage way possible.
“Egg and cress or Cheese Salad,” said Palfreyman plonking a tray on the table. “Your choice, I'm not hungry,” growled Quayle.
“An army marches on its stomach, we need you at the top of your game if we're going to get out of this in one piece. Don't take it personally, they always find some leverage. It's just how they operate to keep you acquiescent. Now tell me more about Gramsci and Geoff. Are they related?” asked Palfreyman biting into the egg and cress roll.
Quayle laughed. “Gramsci was some Marxist writer in the Twenties, He fell afoul of Mussolini and his fascist chums and got locked up. It came up in a diversity training day. One of the panels commented that he was pleased to see an intelligent copper for once. Most of my intake thought Gramsci played centre forward for Inter Milan,” said Quayle with a laugh.
“Cultural Hegemony,” said Palfreyman.
“Spot on,” said Quayle. “That lot in your class all working class or lower middle class but not smart enough with the books, they join up because they think they're a cut above the chavs and the junkies. But what scares them is that the chavs and the junkies are living within their own rules. It makes them resentful They think because they've got a new build rabbit hutch and a new plate car, they're better off. They're doing the Establishment's dirty work for them,” said Palfreyman washing down his sandwich. “The Chavs and the Chav Not's, egg and cress really bring out the sociologist in you,” laughed Quayle.
“This Geoff guy sounds like a plant,” said Palfreyman. ““I'll be frank, we're in a tight spot and I think it's best we play along for the foreseeable,” said Palfreyman. “But we could make the game swing a little in our favour,” replied Quayle. “How?” the other man asked.
“We take Karlie and Colleen off the board.,” Palfreyman looked interested.
“How do we do that?” he asked.
“Put them somewhere no one can find them, off the grid.”
Palfreyman nodded.
“Not much room in your shed,” he quipped. “A boat, I've got a boat,” said Quayle.
Chapter 20
It was mid-morning on a quiet Sunday. In the living room of the well-kept home Quayle was watching a family implode. A two-year old boy sat watching cartoons. Wearing his Spiderman onesie, he was thankfully blissfully unaware of the events of the early hours.
Bozza taking the lead and Quayle sat there trying to lo attentive with his Pocket Notebook open, pen poised. On the chair opposite them sat a woman in her mid-thirties. Perfectly normal looking apart from a swollen eye and the chunk of hair missing from her scalp. Standing in the doorway between the front room and the living room were her parents. Shock was still apparent on their faces. Their daughter, a nurse had married a decent man, who’d been in the Army. They had a child, and all had been good. Till inexplicably after going out to watch the football, he’d gone AWOL after the game, not answered his phone, only to turn up at four in the morning and proceed to beat his wife up for chastening him about his behaviour.
“He’s in Custody and will be till at least tomorrow,” reassured Bozza. “We’ll probably have to release him, but we’ll stipulate that he can’t come back to the house or have contact with you or the little man here,” he added. Her hand went to the gap in her hair.
“I heard the door go and I came down, and he was pissing on the carpet. I said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and he just belted me. I went for my phone and he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to the floor,” she said sounding disconnected from the event. “Then he just went into the bathroom and started crying,” she added.
“And he’s never threatened or hit you before?” asked Bozza.
“No, he never raised a finger to me, obviously we have a few shouting matches, but nothing like this,” she replied. Unbeknownst to the victim and her parents, Bozza was carrying out a DASH assessment. It is based on research about the indicators of high-risk domestic abuse and provides an indicator of any past offending. The force Bozza and Quayle worked for had been given short shrift by Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary for their tardiness in handling domestic violence badly. Having received a ticking off from the police equivalent of Ofsted, a senior officer reviewed all domestic violence cases daily and any officers falling below parity got to know about it.
The new policy of ‘Positive Action’ had also been brought in. This meant that the purported aggressor in any domestic incidents was arrested and taken into Custody and interviewed. As many domestic violence victims were women who were linked to their abuser financially and via their children, this made them unlikely to press charges or if they did later withdraw their statements under duress. This system to take that decision out of their hands.
While well-meaning, this was a blunt instrument and to away all powers of discretion. It meant that fathers of stroppy teenagers got locked up overnight for shouting at their children. In one case Quayle had done an interview with a domestic violence victim who was living with her parents having been made homeless by her abusive partner. A shouting match with her Mum after too much drink had been taken and she’d landed in the cells, despite the pleas of her mother not to arrest her.
“Not our finest fucking hour,” Nichole had said after dropping the young woman back at her parent’s home after the incident, which had resulted in ‘No Further Action’.
Different officers had different techniques for doing the DASH. Newbie, Quayle did it formally ticking off the answers. But as the questions were highly personal asking about sex and other issues, Bozza peppered a more generic conversation with the questions. There were no hard or fast rules about application, as long as it was carried out. Having concluded their conversation and got the victim to sign a statement, they left her with her parents offering tea and sympathy. A sticking plaster for a broken bone.
“Thank God, he didn’t kick off. He was a unit,” said Bozza to Quayle when they were back in the car. “I heard it go off, but I was still in the Locker Room,” said Quayle.
As usual Bozza had been in the station in full uniform and kitted up a full hour before parade. He had taken the call as all the previous shifts unit were tied up with jobs. Luckily, Martin, a Special, was in early too and they had razzed off to the immediate.
The offender had been sitting on the front step and came without a murmur and they cuffed him and to him to Custody. On Bozza’s return to the station they had gone back to the address to get a formal statement.
Quayle was pissed off bein
g left like a loser with no date on Prom Night. He was desperate to get to Custody to speak to Colleen, not trusting the phone or emails.
“I’m getting a brew and sorting this handover package for E Shift,” said Bozza. As the offender was ‘in drink’ or in plain language ratarsed, he’d be left to sleep it off in a cell until the later turn picked up the job of interviewing him.
“Evidence,” said Quayle having a brain wave.
“What?” said Bozza.
“There’s a pile of exhibits from that sexual assault that needs to go over to the Evidence store. I’ll nip round the shop and see if there’s anything else needs to go over there,” he added.
