Sergeant Sid Chaplin always did enjoy the Sunday evening back-shift. It would be nice and quiet through the late afternoon, and by the time it got busy, just before midnight, it would time for the shift change. He’d been a bit surprised at those two lads being brought in for affray, but they’d been as good as gold so far. He hardly knew they were even there, in fact. So he’d given them his paper, half each, and they’d both accepted the wrapped sandwich that they’d been given without any complaints. Normally cons kicked off about allergies and intolerances and what-not, but those two had both said thanks, and settled down to eat. He couldn’t work out what they’d fallen out about, they both seemed such decent lads, but Sid wasn’t being paid to think, so he wasn’t going to.
He’d had an email from the technical support team to say that the CCTV was down again, and Sid was pleased to read that. Because his chair was comfy, and no-one would be down to visit his little empire for an hour or two at least. The Duty Inspector was out on an RTA, because the traffic sergeant was off with his back again, and the chance of the Super showing up was slim. And the civilian on reception knew to ring him if she rocked up, anyway.
So Sid walked down past the cells, chatted to the first of his guests about football, and to the second about the weather, and then strolled back to his cubby hole. His wife’s roast dinners were the best in Carlisle, no question about it, but that fourth Yorkshire pud would take a bit of digesting yet, so he made himself as comfortable as he could. Ten minutes later he was snoring, so loudly that the two lads in the cells come hear him. But they were considerate, and just spoke to each other in whispers.
DS Jamie Dixon couldn’t quite believe his luck either. He’d seen no-one when he’d slipped in through the back entrance to the station, using a dozy DC from HQ’s swipe card, and finding old Sid asleep at the wheel like that was a huge bonus. He tiptoed past the custody desk, picking up the keys from the counter as he passed, then stopped. Maybe he should wake Sid up, after all. Because what if the CCTV was working again? Wouldn’t it look bloody suspicious if he just waltzed past Sid to the cells? No, it wouldn’t, he decided. If he was asked later on he’d just say that he didn’t want to wake the old bloke up, that’s all.
And anyway, the CCTV wouldn’t be working. Of course it wouldn’t. He didn’t trust Dai Young, but Jarvis had made it pretty bloody clear that they both had as much to lose as each other, because if he went down for this mad scheme then Young was going with him, no question. But Dai had told him not to be such a big girl’s blouse, and that the CCTV would be down until Monday morning, guaranteed.
‘I’ll come with you, if you like’, Young had said, smiling. ‘That’s how fucking sure I am.’
But still Dixon didn’t move. He just stood there, listening. Something didn’t feel right. It was too quiet. According to the custody board there were two other prisoners in the cells, as well as Thompson, and although it was a year or two since Dixon had been a regular visitor he knew that one prisoner usually equalled constant singing, swearing, or both, while two or three invariably added up to the chaos of creation. But it was totally silent down here. As quiet as the grave.
But he had no choice, and he knew it. Like many cops Dixon had always been a gambler, which was what had got him into this position in the first place, and Thompson’s lawyer was due in less than twenty minutes time. So if he was going to roll the dice now was the time, especially while they were so obviously loaded in his favour. And he was really going to do it: he’d known that from the second that Young had told him the nature of his task. He’d even known exactly how he’d do it. It had just come to him, the perfect plan.
The old evidence store at HQ in Penrith had exhibits going back years, and it was unsupervised. Most of the time it wasn’t even locked. Even coppers, the least trusting people in the world, still trusted other bobbies. And the item he was looking for hadn’t been hard to find, an unused shiv that had been recovered from a con’s cell several years before. Home-made, certainly, but deadly even so. Dixon had given it a quick clean in the lab after Sandy Smith had finally gone home on Saturday evening, and then bagged it. It would be covered in Thompson’s blood in a few hours, and it wouldn’t take a genius to see that it was the suicide weapon. The gaping throat and the bloodied blade at Thompson’s side would tell their own story.
So Dixon put on the forensic gloves, and reminded himself that as soon as he’d done the job and put the knife in Thompson’s dead right hand he needed to peel them off, throw them down the lavatory in the cell and flush it twice. More often if he could. Then he’d need to cradle the body, as if trying to help, and get plenty of blood on his hands, clothes and face. And he wondered, just for a moment, what it would feel like.
He felt for the blade in his pocket, carefully, and when he’d checked it was there he moved quietly past Thompson’s cell, number 3, and gently lifted the flap to 4. A man was lying on the bed, his head thrown back and one arm trailing in the floor. Pissed up and out of it, Dixon thought. So he didn’t bother to check the next one, since it would be the same story. This couldn’t have worked out any better, unless he opened Thompson’s door and found that the lad had already topped himself. That would be just perfect.
Dixon moved slowly back to Thompson’s cell, and put his ear against the door. Nothing. Maybe the lad had eaten whatever old Sid had so obviously enjoyed, and was out for the count as well. He took a deep breath, and visualised how he’d he’d do it once again. Get the boy relaxed, off guard, then in behind him, left arm round the neck, lift the head like a careless barber, and one fast cut, left to right. Would he hesitate? No, he would not. It wouldn’t even be murder, not really. Dai Young had told him that the lad had killed the Taylor woman himself, and boasted about it after, so he deserved to die.
He started to slip the key into the lock quietly, then turned it. The cells were used most nights, what with booze being so cheap and anger so endemic, and the lock turned smoothly and silently.
‘Hello, Micky’, he said, ‘I’m DS Dixon. I’m here to interview you about your knowledge of corrupt police officers.’
The lad was sitting on his bed, and he looked terrified. He was actually shaking with fear. Dixon knew that he’d have to be quick, and decisive.
‘Come on, son, on your feet. Your lawyer’s here. Let’s not make him wait, eh?’
‘Where’s the other cop? The old bloke, the gaoler, or whatever you call him.’
‘Old Sid? I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s fast asleep at his desk. It’s a disciplinary by rights, is that, but it seemed a bit cruel to wake him up, and you’ll be back down here before you know it. I’ve literally just got a couple of things to ask you. After all, you’re a major league criminal now, Micky. They’ll all look up to you on the inside, I expect.’
‘No, they won’t. We both know that.’
‘Maybe you’re right, son. So just convert to Islam or something. Get yourself a bit of protection inside. Maybe I can help? Get you sent somewhere cushy, eh? Come on, mate, let’s get you out of here, shall we?’
Thompson got up, and took a step or two forward, his slim frame tense, his eyes darting. It was almost as if he knew exactly what was coming thought Dixon, advancing quickly towards Micky, then moving to his right, and getting in behind him fast. He had the lad round the neck in a moment, and felt as if he could pull the kid’s head right off, or at least break his neck. But hangings were hard to fake, Dixon knew, and the cut throat would be so much better. Nice and messy too. His hand would come from the right direction, and he’d have no forensic problems. No spatter, no nothing. Because he’d be soaked in the lad’s blood, from trying to help, of course. Simple, but foolproof.
He reached into his pocket with his free hand, the lad making a surprisingly loud croaking sound, and the blade sliced through his glove and deep into his index finger.
‘Shit’ he said, pulling his hand back and feeling for the home-made hilt. He found it, and was just gripping it right when the man
came through the door. Could it really be the bloke from the cell next door? How the fuck had he got out, and why wasn’t he pissed any more?
Dixon’s knife hand was right out now, red with his own blood, and the short blade flashed in the strip lighting. Did the bloke actually smile as Dixon waved it at him?
‘Get back or I kill the…’
The man was coming at him, and he had a split-second to decide. Slash the kid’s throat, or try to fight the man off. He chose to kill Thompson, not that it mattered, because it was as if he and the boy had been hit by a car. He staggered back, trying to get his knife hand up to the kid’s windpipe, but his calves hit the bed, and he went over backwards. He felt the back of his head hit the wall, just the first flash of pain and blinding light, and then there was darkness.
When Dixon came round his DI was there, standing over him, and the lad was gone. The cell door was open, and Dixon could feel that his hands were cuffed. Dixon pretended to pass out again, and hoped it would buy him some thinking time. It didn’t.
‘Don’t bother, Jamie. I saw the whole thing, mate. We’ve recovered the weapon, you’ve still got the gloves on, I disarmed you, so…’
Dixon opened his eyes.
‘It wasn’t you. It was a bloke from the cells. I fucking saw him.’
‘No, mate, that’s concussion talking, is that. I was hiding down here. Had a tip-off, see, and when you had matey boy brought back here, well, I knew what was going to go off, like.’
‘So where’s the heavy mob?’
‘They’ll be here in a minute. I just cleared the room while you came round.’
Dixon’s head hurt like hell, and the floor wouldn’t stay level. He needed time to think, but he knew he didn’t have any. It was now or never.
‘There’s another mole in the job. Turned off the CCTV for me, in fact. I’ll give you the name if you let me…’
‘I know who it is. Don’t you worry about that. No deals, mate. You’re fucked, and that’s the long and the short of it.’
‘Then I’ll take her down with me. You too, Keith. This isn’t straight, isn’t this. It’s Mary Clark, the mole.’
‘Really? Well, Mary Clark hasn’t been with the force long, Jamie, and it’s a shame that she’s putting in her papers. Oh, aye, she’s leaving. But she needs to leave to help out her brother, because he’s got some problems.’
‘I should fucking say he has.’
‘Oh no, mate, you’re getting it all wrong. They’re mental health problems, nothing to do with gambling, getting mixed up with gangsters, anything like that. It’s just in your head, is all that. We’ve looked at her very carefully, and she completely clean. Him too, come to that.’
‘That fucking bitch. She’s sold me out. She’s fucking dead.’
‘No, she’s not. Mary Clark will enjoy a long and happy retirement. Who knows, she might even go back to her old line of work, washing spuds, or whatever it was. You see the thing is this, Jamie. One bad apple we can swallow, but two is just one too many for this Chief, or any other. So you can say what you fucking like, mate, but you’re the one who got nabbed holding a knife to a con’s throat.’
‘And you’re the fucking hero.’
‘Kind of you to say so, mate. But aye, I suppose I am. Now that you come to mention it, like.’
Sid Chaplin was in shock, and afterwards he wondered if he’d really seen Pepper taking the Thompson lad along to one of the interview rooms. But he was pretty certain that someone, maybe one of Pepper’s DCs, had asked him to get the other two lads in the cells cautioned and away before the brass turned up. And we only too keen to oblige, seeing as he knew that he snored like a steam train in a tunnel.
Pepper had told Henry and Rex to wait outside while she talked to Micky. She’d have liked one of them to be with her, but it wasn’t worth the hassle. The other one would have felt slighted, and then she’d have been making it up to him for months afterwards. Why were boys so bloody competitive? They were just like her Ben, really. So she left them on either side of the door, like the Little and Large of the security world.
‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Micky?’ she said, quickly, as soon as they were seated.
‘He nearly killed me, that fucking copper.’
‘I know, but he didn’t. And that’s down to me, isn’t it? They’d be wheeling you out on a trolley now, and you’d just be dripping blood down the corridor, if I hadn’t helped you. And I’ll help you some more, right now, too. When you give me the name of the man who murdered Linda Taylor I’ll make sure that you’re only looking at conspiracy, not the murder. You’ll be out before you’re thirty, and you’ll have the rest of your life ahead of you. Now, Micky, the name.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. We had a deal, and I told you what happens next if you don’t keep your side. I throw you to the dogs, Micky, let the other cons know you’re a grass. And the next time you see a blade, it’ll be the last thing you ever do see.’
Pepper got up, and took a step towards the door, then turned back.
‘Last chance, Micky. Now, or never.’
‘You won’t say I’m a grass. You’re a cop. You can’t lie.’
‘Are you really that fucking stupid? If I walk through that door now, my mates take you back to custody, and I’ll have the word out before you get back on the remand wing tonight. You may not be dead tomorrow, or even next week. But you’ll not be present at your own trial, I guarantee you that.’
Pepper walked quickly to the door. She didn’t care whether the kid co-operated or not.
‘Jackie Mercer.’
Pepper turned.
‘Jackie? Don’t take the piss, son. He’s inside. Has been for years.’
‘No. It was him. I only met him a week ago, and aye, he’s been away, like.’
‘Describe him.’
‘About forty, grey hair. Not very tall. Quite skinny. Oh, aye, and a big nose, and all.’
‘That sounds like him. Wait here.’
Pepper opened the door slightly, grabbed Rex, and pulled him into the room.
‘Keep an eye on our guest, Rex. I’ll not be a minute. And if he wants anything…’
‘Don’t give it to him?’
‘Exactly.’
Henry logged on to the system in an empty office, and looked up Jackie Mercer.
‘Released early, ten days ago.’
‘I do not bloody believe it. How did that happen? If I’d known he was out I’d have put him straight in the frame for Linda. He’s a right vicious little bastard. But he should have done at least another two years for that last GBH.’
‘Just says good behaviour.’
‘Like fuck. Right, let’s get Micky back to custody, and get the hell out of here. I’ll make sure he understands that we were never here, and that he never gave us Jackie’s name.’
‘And will you help him? Get him a reduced charge, all that?’
‘What do you think? Of course I won’t. But he has helped himself, in a way. I’d use him grassing Jackie up like this in evidence if I could, but I can’t, can I? So if we nail Mercer for the killing, and we will, then Micky’s defence team is bound to get his charge reduced, even if he doesn’t co-operate. Honestly, mate, it’s the best result he’s going to get, and one hell of a lot more than the little bastard deserves.’
When they left the station Pepper called Davey from one of the burner phones. His mum and Ben were both clear and away, long since, and Hood reported that two blokes had recently turned up outside.
‘What do they look like?’
‘Wankers.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Two wankers.’
Pepper laughed.
‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll be there in ten minutes anyway.’
‘And you’ll drop your lads where I showed you before you come round? They can come in across the yards when it gets dark.’
‘You think Dai will wait that long? He’s got the attention sp
an of a fruit fly.’
‘Oh, aye. He’ll wait. And don’t worry, Pepper. Unless he can call in drone strike we’ve got nowt to worry about. It’ll not be a long engagement, when it does go off, like.’
Pepper made a point of hugging Hood when he opened the front door to her, and it took him a moment to catch on and reciprocate. She sincerely hoped that he didn’t squeeze his old mum that hard.
‘All right. Put me down, mate,’ she said, laughing.
‘You know those two jokers? In the blue car.’
‘Oh, aye. As thick as pig dribble, the pair of them. Put it this way, it’s cost us ten times what they’ve ever made from criminal enterprises to keep them banged up these last few years, and that’s a fact. I often think we should charge the cons for staying in jail. I reckon a fair few would never trouble the courts again if we did. And don’t worry, neither of them are violent. Not really, anyway.’
‘I wasn’t worried. We’ll deal with whatever comes.’
‘Whatever?’
‘Aye, whatever.’
They went inside, and Davey made them tea in the small, neat kitchen.
‘Doesn’t your mum have a microwave?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Internet?’
‘No.’
‘What did people do, before?’
The Amen Cadence Page 14
