by M W Foolster
"Deffo, Jazz. That’s what I reckon an all. It’s like, they get horny and even a friend is fair game."
"But what now, Susie?"
"Not sure. But no woman should have to tolerate that sort of disgusting behaviour and something needs to be done about him. I know that much."
"Too right, Sis. But what though?"
"Well, now I know there is a pervert in the house, Jazz, I will start locking my door at night, that's for sure. And, well, I might even have to start thinking about moving."
"Moving? That doesn’t seem right, why should you have to give up your home because of some perv. Look Sus, are you sure you want to speak to Jay about it? Might be better coming from me."
"No, better he hears if from me. I will speak to him before the party tonight."
Jazz sounding anxious as she asks.
"What do you think he will say?"
"Well, he won't be best pleased Jazz, that's for sure, but he needs to be told."
"Yer, I know that Sus. Can't let the dirty bastard get away with it."
"No, he bloody won't get away with it, I can promise you that much."
"Good, because somebody has got to speak to him, and soon. Best be careful though Susie, the sick fucker is a sex maniac. Not safe being around him anymore."
"Yer… Yer, I know that now, but the sleazy hairy fucker is gonna get a serious wakeup call, can promise you that."
Jason is mortified, and suddenly feeling weak at the knees as he struggles to come to terms with what he'd just heard. How could they think so little of him? Had he really given Jazz that impression? That he’s a sex maniac? And to be described him as a dirty pervert. Had his ears deceived him? Surely Susie hadn’t really just referred to him as a sleazy, hairy fucker. Now wishes that he hadn’t listened in. Feeling sick to the stomach and thoroughly confused, he slowly makes his way back to the office.
16 Detectives in the Library
Slouched over his desk, his head in his hands, Jason jumps at the sound of the ringing phone.
“Hello.”
“It's Robbie. Sorry to bother you Jay, but there are a couple of detectives up here asking to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“Yep. Said it’s important.”
“Ok thanks. Can you tell them to give me five minutes? In fact, make it ten, need a pee first.”
“Will do. You want me to bring them down?”
"Yes, if you don't mind. Show them into the conference room, not like it's booked."
"Is it ever? No problem, leave it with me. You go have your ciggie."
Jason can't help but laugh, is he really that predictable?
"Thanks, Robbie."
Fifteen minutes later, he wanders into the conference room, not that the name justifies the room. Eight tatty PC chairs that had been sent across from Knarlswood library, surrounding a large and badly scratched wooden table that was originally earmarked for disposal following the refurbishment of the council offices, but then Scrawl had deemed it good enough for Borrington library. The table had arrived along with several beaten filing cabinets, four shelving units, which had at least come in useful, and the plum carpet tiles now covering the floor. Is supposedly available to hire but there has never been any interest, not likely to be unless the room is redecorated. The damp patches, flickering fluorescents and peeling paint are hardly conducive for a business meeting.
"Mr Sinclair?"
Jason looks at the shaven headed, fierce eyed male offering his hand. Why does he look vaguely familiar? And as for the enormous moustache, is convinced that he's seen it before. He shakes the clammy and meaty hand being offered, as he replies.
"Yep, that's me? How can I help you?"
He discreetly wipes his hand on the PC chair as he takes a seat. Having looked down at the warrant card thrust beneath his nose, Jason is starting to feel a little uneasy, just hopes that he is managing to disguise the fact. Smiles across at the pair of them.
"Detective Inspector Jordan, and this is my colleague, DS Fuller."
Jason's attention drawn to the buck teeth protruding from DS Fuller's thin face, the sickly looking male appears to make an effort to smile at him, but looks anything but friendly. Thinks he recognises him too, but from where?
"Will this take long? Only I've a lunch appointment."
DI Jordan grunts as he forces himself down between the plastic arms of the PC chair.
"Will take as long as it takes, Mr Sinclair."
Jason, now growing nervous under the intensity of the DI's gaze, nods.
"Yes of course. So what can I do for you?"
"Yah could begin by confirming yur home address for me."
"Sure. Flat 2, 69 Glupton Road."
DS Fuller smirks as he scrawls away in his notebook. He knows where this is going, and can't help but admire the DI's technique.
"And yah have lived there for how long?"
"A good few months now."
"Excellent. And are yah adverse tae hoose cleaning, Mr Sinclair?"
"Sorry, I don't understand?"
"Having visited the property this morning, both myself and DS Fuller concluded that yah had been the victim o’ a burglary. We wis even on the verge o’ requesting that forensics pay a visit tae the property in search o’ the burglar’s fingerprints. And, but for Miss French, we would o' done sae. Yur flat, Mr Sinclair, is a disgrace, in fact it would be nae exaggeration tae describe it as being a complete shithole. Would yah nae agree, DS Fuller?"
A somewhat sheepish DS thinks about the state of his own tiny studio flat in Knarlswood. If anything, it’s even more of a mess.
"Yes, Gov, most definitely."
"I… hmm, well, I haven't had much time recently. Not easy juggling work with, well, everything else and I..."
The DI looks down his nose at an already flustered Jason.
"Really? It's all aboot time management in my opinion. Prioritising, Mr Sinclair. A messy home leads tae a messy and jumbled mind. Now in my opinion, and considering the hours that I work, I find that tae be a very poor excuse. And previous tae that?"
DS Fuller grins on witnessing the now totally humiliated suspect fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair.
"Sorry?"
"For what, Mr Sinclair? Living in a pig sty?
"No… I mean..."
"Your previous address, Mr Sinclair?"
"What has that got…"
"Jist answer the question, Mr Sinclair."
The DI starts to drum his fingers impatiently on the table.
"12 Leaves Close, Shotham, Middlesex."
"Excellent, Mr Sinclair, now we're getting somewhere. And therefore, would I be correct in thinking that yah are the same Mr Jason Sinclair who received several cautions in regard tae incidents involving a... Remind me, DS Fuller, whit wis the woman's name?"
"Elsie Warner, Sir."
"Well, Mr Sinclair?"
"But it really wasn't like that."
A now distraught Jason runs his hand through his hair. God, would this nightmare ever end? And if Cathy didn't believe him at the time, why would anybody else? He thinks back to that wet and dreary evening in February.
Exhausted and hungry, still struggling to come to terms with the long commute home, he'd made the slow trek into central London, only to find his platform heaving with frustrated commuters. Several cancellations later and having just gone 8pm, he'd finally managed to battle his way on to a train. Through several carriages reeking of damp clothing as he'd worked his way along the train, listening to the commuters’ whinging about the service. It didn't help that the train operator had blamed the delays on the weather, the wrong sort of rain, apparently. But for once, he had been fortunate enough to find a seat. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he'd decided to phone Cathy. Despite a few moans and groans, and albeit somewhat reluctantly, she'd eventually agreed to meet him in the car at Shotham station. Now at least feeling warm and cosy, he had sat and watched the rain teaming it down outside, his eyes growing heavier by the minute.
The sound of a crisps packet being rustled had woken him. The brief panic before realising that he hadn't missed his stop, had got lucky though, because the train was just pulling into Shotham station. A quick dash along the platform, torrential rain beating into his face and making visibility difficult. With no time to dawdle, he'd ran straight past the ticket office and out into the small car park. Had seen the car immediately, engine running and headlamps shining directly at him. He'd darted across to it, pulled open the door and leapt into the passenger seat. His eyes stinging from the rain, and barely able to see, he'd slipped his hand under Cathy's skirt. And ran his hand slowly up her bare leg, towards her thigh. Remembered saying something to her about having a painful hard-on. That he'd been fantasising on the train about her wearing the sexy underwear he bought her for Christmas, beneath the silk negligee she’d worn last night. That all he wanted to do was tear her clothes off with his teeth and ravish her. Sod dinner that could wait, he wanted to grab a bottle of wine out of the fridge and charge up to bed. That he fully intended making the most of the romantic evening he had planned for them. And then came the bloody whistle. Deafened, and shocked, he'd rubbed at his eyes frantically, and there she was. Elsie Warner. Whistle in mouth, looking completely petrified and blowing on it for all her life was worth. He'd virtually fallen out of the car, not even had time to close the door before she'd screeched off, still blowing on that damned whistle. And then he'd seen their car, swerving sharply to avoid a speeding Elsie Warner, before pulling into the car park. Cathy, late as usual. Drenched to the skin and still feeling horrified, he'd attempted to explain to a shrieking Cathy just what had happened. After all, was it his fault that Elsie Warner just happened to have the exact same model of car as them? But she was in no mood to listen. A thoroughly miserable evening spent shivering on the sofa, and then came a visit from PC Lounder the following day; and yet another embarrassing caution.
It would be an understatement to state that the relationship with Cathy had become somewhat strained following that last incident with Elsie Warner. She'd barely spoken to him for weeks, in fact, it had gotten so bad that, despite them being sat in the same room, she'd resorted to sending him text messages. Anything to avoid having a conversation with him. The daytime text asking what he wanted to eat, dinner slung on the table when he got home from work, or a text on the train to inform him that it was in the oven. She'd made a point of going up to bed before him to read, light always switched off if he dared venture up the stairs, the cold shoulder when he'd almost guiltily slipped into bed next to her. In desperation, he'd turned to Tony for advice. After all, they'd all grown up together.
Tony had been a close friend of Cathy's back then, and it was him that introduced Jason to her at a music festival. Not that he's been overly attracted to her when they'd first met, had found her grunge look, moody expression and cynical attitude towards life to be anything but appealing. But when he'd next seen her at Tony's 21st, he'd been left totally captivated. With her hair washed, no longer wearing the dozen layers of scruffy clothing, or the scuffed combat boots and having rediscovered the ability to both smile and hold a conversation, she could have been a completely different person. Their relationship blossomed and eventually, it led to them living together, he'd proposed to her when she'd graduated. Tony was the best man at their wedding, and Godfather to their children, and so it stood to reason that that if anybody might be able to help, it would be him. And much to his amazement, Tony did come up with a truly inspired suggestion. And with Cathy's birthday fast approaching, the timing couldn't have been better.
She’d once said that she’d fallen for him because he’d bared his soul to her, yes, that was it, drastic measures but it might just work. He’d serenade her again, only this time it would be far more than just his soul that he’d bare. Planned meticulously, his list checked and double checked, everything was in place to spring a romantic surprise that she'd never forget. He'd arranged for a huge bouquet of white roses to be delivered to her an hour prior to the surprise, the message being to look out into the garden at 9pm. Finished work early, bottle of champagne, two glasses, two candles, a table cloth and of course, her favourite chocolates all checked off the list and carefully placed into his sports bag. Had arrived at Shotham to find that even the weather had been kind to him, clear skies, stars twinkling away and a relatively warm evening. Perfect. He'd struggled up the hill from the station, along a pitch black tree lined road, an energy saving exercise by the council had resulted in there being no street lights on at that time of night, and into the alleyway that runs along the back of the garden. Despite having found it to be far narrower than he remembered, the guitar constantly catching in the hedging either side of him, he'd battled his way along the dark path. And finally, he arrived at his own back garden, the large oak making it clearly identifiable. Through the wooden gate, eventually, he'd had to kick at it several times to get it to budge, the hinges having stiffened up. Had been somewhat surprised to find the wrought iron table and two chairs close to the tree, weren't there when he'd left for work, Cathy must have got the garden furniture for her birthday, probably her parents; fortunate really, in that he could now use the table. Table cloth spread out, two glasses and the champagne at the ready, he'd carefully lit the pair of candles, and stripped naked. Still no lights showing at the back of the house but he thought he’d seen the curtain twitching. Guitar at the ready, Jason had stepped out into the middle of the garden and put on the show of his life, blasting out the song he written especially for her.
♪My Sweet Cathy
Can’t you see?
You’re the only the girl
In the world for me.
Know I’m a fool
Can get it wrong.
Wanna say sorry.
With flowers.
And a song ♪
Saw her silhouette appear at the back door. A little disappointed that she still hadn’t turned on the lights or acknowledged him, unless she was making him work for her forgiveness. But he was thoroughly convinced that his performance was having an impact, after all, how could she not be touched by the lyrics? He belted out the second verse.
♪My Sweet Cathy
You know it’s true
I’m head over heels
In love with you
We took our vowels.
Wear the rings.
Will sing all night
To make things right.
My Sweet Cathy
You drive me wild
The way you kiss
And ♪
...............
And then he’d suddenly found himself saturated in ice cold water. Had screamed out in shock as a steady jet of water had burst forth from a hose, a vague recollection of seeing Cathy stood by the back door, directing the water in his direction. Teeth chattering, shivering violently, and dripping wet, he’d grabbed at his clothes and stumbled through the gate. He can’t remember why, perhaps the cost of it, but he did snatch up the champagne bottle from the table as he’d made his escape. With the damp foliage whipping at his naked body, and thorns seemingly determined to pierce his feet, he was convinced that he could hear the sound of a distant whistle. Or was it just the wind? Having stumbled along the pitch black alley and finally leapt free of it, he’d collapsed on his knees, gasping for breath. And then came the dreadful realisation that he’d taken the wrong path. The alley leading to his garden, was in fact, further down. Who's bloody garden was he in then? Had wanted to curl up and die at that point. But no, there was still an opportunity to salvage something from the evening, Cathy might still be waiting at the window. He had to try. Still naked, he'd been attempting to pull on his boxers when he’d seen the flashing blue lights, and had then found himself caught in the headlamps of a fast approaching car. He had considered making a run for it, but being barefoot and naked, not as though he'd of got far. Was read his rights, and bundled into the back of a police car by a fuming PC Lounder, the only consolation being that at least nobody else h
ad been around to witness the humiliating escapade.
No Cathy arriving at the police station to bail him out on this occasion, just a thoroughly miserable night spent in the cell feeling sorry for himself. And but for Tony, he might well have been charged. Although not overly sympathetic, the duty officers had eventually seen the funny side to it all, but not until Tony had arrived at the station to verify his story. Having paid a ridiculously expensive cab fare for the journey home, he'd arrived to find his bags packed, and dumped in the drive. And still no word from Cathy. If she was home, she was refusing to answer the door to him, let alone the phone. A quick check in his wallet confirmed that he hadn’t enough cash to pay for a cab to the station, so he set off on a slow walk. And judging by the looks and sniggers he was receiving, everybody in the village had been made aware of the previous night’s frolics. And so began the trial separation.
"Aye. It never is like that, Mr Sinclair."
A clearly uncomfortable Jason can now feel himself starting to sweat.
"I don't see what this has got..."
"JIST… answer the question Mr Sinclair."
"Yes, but look, it was just a daft misunderstanding. I really didn't do anything wr..."
DI Jordan thumps his hand down hard on the table.
"Misunderstanding? Really, Mr Sinclair? And the two further episodes involving this poor woman. Were they jist a misunderstanding taee?"
"Yes, they were. It was just unfortunate that she was... Well, that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I.."
"Piffle, Mr Sinclair. How could she o' been in the wrong place? Three times accosted, once in her hoose, once in her car and then there wis a further incident in her garden."
"Yes, I know it sounds bad but seriously, it was just accidental. I really didn't intend for any of that to happen. She just wouldn't listen to my explanation."
"Accidental? How can yah sit there and blame the poor woman? And why would she want tae listen tae yur explanation? Accosted in her home, her car, and then yah appear naked in her garden, playing wi’ yur instrument. Yah terrorised the poor woman tae the extent that she was left wi' nae alternative other than tae take oot a restraining order against yah. Correct?"
