by Paul Kirby
“Sleep well, Sir?”
“No!” squeaked back Dick.
“Not fancy your breakfast then, Sir?”
“No, it’s disgusting,” replied Dick, self-pity on his dopey-looking face.
“Well, you might have to start getting used to it, mate. You’re wanted for questioning upstairs now, so you’d better get washed and come with me.”
“I’m not answering anything until I’ve seen my solicitor, Cuthbert Knipe,” said Dick smugly.
“Gutters is upstairs waiting for you, Sir, so we can proceed.”
Knipe was known to police as Gutters—as in guttersnipe—due mainly to the type of defendant he represented. The Durleys were excellent examples of the quality of his clients.
Durley cleaned himself up at the basin in his cell and attempted to make himself look presentable, but he failed miserably. Jones looked on, grinning at the disheveled Durley. He was the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights.
In the interview room Durley met up with his slimy-looking brief, who looked more of a pedophile than Durley did. He had long, greasy, uncombed black hair that hung down to his shoulders and that he kept slicked back. It made people’s skin crawl. All who met him wondered when he had last had a bath. But the Durleys still thought the sun shone out of his backside. On first appearance most people wouldn’t ask him to clean their lavatory, let alone represent them in a court of law.
Durley went through the usual process of having his rights read before the two officers present started firing questions at him. Dick looked terribly confused as different names came up of young girls from about twenty-five years ago who had recently come forward to lodge their complaints. None of the names meant anything to him now as that part of his life had been erased most conveniently from his miserable little memory.
He continually looked to his brief for support, but it wasn’t forthcoming as Knipe couldn’t advise him on such matters while on camera and audiotape. It was down to Dick to answer the questions as he saw best and the only way he saw fit was to blame his son and repeat time after time that the police must have the pair mixed up, a likely mistake as at the time Dick would have been in his early forties and Bart would have been in his early teens. The worst questions were about two boys from the church football team who both claimed Dick had molested them when they were aged between ten and eleven and played on the same team as Bart. He couldn’t blame Bart for those, could he? Dick realised he was in it up to his neck. He began to wonder how long you had to go before your past would leave you alone. Obviously longer than this. And had he not gotten his picture in the West London Gazette because of Bart’s inability to sail a boat, all of this would probably not have occurred. He decided to carry on his interview with “no comment.”
Bart had to wait for his father’s interview to conclude before it was his turn. Dick had stopped answering police questions about his sexual behaviour with the under-aged, but he couldn’t help but make up stories about his son. One minute Bart was the sexual deviant they should be looking at. The next minute he was harder than Mike Tyson.
When PC Jones, the jailer on duty that day, opened Bart’s cell door, it was no iron man that stood before him, but a quivering plate of jelly. Bart looked at Jones with the usual Durley frightened face and all signs pointed to an upset stomach. “Phwoar!” Jones greeted Bart as the smell from the cell’s toilet hit him like a brick wall.
“I … I’ve had Delhi belly,” stuttered Bart.
“Jeessuss, you’re not kidding. Let me fetch the air freshener.” Once Jones had fumigated Bart’s cell, he grabbed Bart by the arm and, without wasting any more words, led him to the interview room.
“Where’s my solicitor?” Bart asked.
“Don’t worry. He’s here,” snapped Jones. Jones felt extremely uncomfortable around Bart and knew there was something about Bart he didn’t like at all. Jones knocked on the door of the room where Bart’s solicitor was waiting with the two officers.
“Got Bart Durley here, Sir,” said Jones, showing Bart into the room. “Oh, and be careful. He’s got an upset stomach,” he quipped with a little snigger.
“Thank you very much for the warning, Jones,” said Jim Drayton, the officer in charge.
Bart entered the room, looking like he was about to burst into tears as the two officers eyed him up and down. This wasn’t the hard man his dad had described in his contradictory statement, but Bart did look like the sex pest Dick would try to put the blame on. Durley sat next to his brief and with his sweaty palms shook his hand and greeted him with the usual “Hello, Mr. Knipe.” Knipe asked if they could have a few moments alone and Drayton agreed as he fancied a cup of tea anyway.
As Drayton and his sidekick, Bob Harris, left the room, they both had their eyes firmly fixed on this smarmy-looking Durley. These two officers were trained Pedophile Online Investigation Team officers or POLIT for short. They both certainly knew a wrong’un when they saw one and they saw two in this pair. As they entered the officers’ mess, Harris put the kettle on then turned to Drayton. “Well, Jim, first impressions?”
“Well, Bob, my experience says that just on looks alone that slimy little creep next door is as guilty as sin—as is his old man. Anyway, three million lemmings can’t be wrong, can they?” said Drayton.
“My sentiments exactly, Sir. Let’s see what codswallop he comes out with. If he’s anything like his father, it should be very interesting. I can’t wait, but we’ll have to try and not laugh. This is a very serious matter.”
“Right. We’ll have this tea then and take our seats for a couple of hours’ entertainment,” said Drayton with a grin.
Cuthbert Knipe looked at Bart and said in a very serious tone, “It doesn’t look good, Bart, and you should think very carefully before answering any questions. A lot of women have made statements against you and your father.”
“What? What women and from where? Who are these women and when were these things supposed to have happened?” asked Bart frantically.
“Well, they were young girls at the time of the alleged incidents, all of whom attended a convent you and your father were supposed to have cleaned windows for some years ago. And to make matters worse for your father, a couple of men have also put in a complaint from when they played on the church football team your dad helped run,” said Knipe.
“Shut up! That was twenty-odd years ago and they were all willing participants!”
“Yes, that may be, but they were all under age, some of them very much so. All this would probably never have come to light had it not been for the publicity you received over that boating accident. It seems a few skeletons have been rattled,” said Knipe glumly.
Bart put his head in his hands and said in a tearful voice, “I don’t sodding believe it. This is a nightmare. What am I going to tell my wife? She’ll go bloody ballistic,” sobbed Bart.
“I think your wife is the least of your problems at the moment, Bart,” said Knipe, putting his hand on Bart’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.
Once they had finished laughing, Drayton and Harris went back to the interview room to start questioning Bart. They weren’t about to take the panic attacks as an excuse. They knew from experience Bart would melt like an ice cream. They couldn’t wait to hear the crap he was about to come out with. He didn’t let them down. Once the questioning started, so did Bart’s bullshit. He quivered like a guilty man. They knew he was banged to rights, but they still had to go through due process regardless.
As the questions started, Bart began to panic, but that didn’t stop the lies queuing up to get out of his mouth. Bart was gripping his seat and sweat poured from his brow. He became more and more uncomfortable with the interrogation tactics of the two officers in front of him. Several girls’ names were mentioned that Bart honestly couldn’t recall. One or two silly answers Bart gave prompted the odd cough and a few nudges from his brief, wh
o wasn’t at all impressed with Bart or his father in the face of adversity. Neither one held himself up at all. Bart even resorted to blaming his dad for the events of all those years ago. “Like father, like son” was the expression and these two were its living proof. This was exactly what Drayton and Harris expected from the pair of them. It certainly made it easier to bring charges, especially when they mentioned a certain girl Bart had had a serious crush on back in the day, Madaline Bedfont. The officers held her as an ace up their sleeves, so to speak. When this name was mentioned, Bart’s expressions and mannerisms gave the game away completely. Bart couldn’t contain himself on this one; his body language said it all.
Madaline had two older sisters and they lived in a big house with their parents. All three girls were a catch for anyone. Bart fancied himself the man to bag himself a Bedfont, but as the older two were too well educated and streetwise for Bart, he focused on the youngest sibling. A girl of thirteen and a half surely would be very flattered by the attentions of an older man, he reasoned, (even though Bart was only sixteen himself). Madaline was seemed to agree and at the time appeared happy to accept Bart’s advances. Her name was still firmly embedded in Bart’s memory and it was a great shock to him that Madaline, out of all of them, should file a complaint about him. He thought they had had something special between them and that their little illegal romance would remain a lasting secret memory. Bart couldn’t hide the shock and disappointment on his face.
“So then, Mr. Durley, you remember this girl very well, don’t you, Sir?” said Drayton knowingly.
“Err, err, well, the name does ring a bell, sort of,” stuttered Bart.
“Too right it does. You had a full on romance with this poor innocent underage girl, didn’t you? And you took away her innocence in a vile forced way, didn’t you, Mr. Durley?” said Drayton, sternly this time.
“No, Sir, I didn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing, Sir, honestly I wouldn’t. That sort of thing just isn’t in my blood, Sir. I swear. I’ll take the oath, Sir,” said Bart tamely and very unconvincingly.
“Well, you just might have to, my son, and what about young boys? Are they in your blood, sonny boy?” inquired Drayton, knowing full well there hadn’t been a complaint against Bart from any boys, unlike his father.
“Young boys? What are you talking about? Are you trying to fit me up or what?”
“Ah no, Sir. You’ve hung yourself anyway. And just for the record, sonny, fitting people up isn’t in our blood either,” said Harris, joining in the fun.
Bart had an idea but looked at his trusted brief for support as he leaned across the table to put his plan to the two officers who stared coldly back at him. “What if we could do a deal here between the four of us? No one would need to know. You know, I scratch your back, so to speak,” asked Bart in a slimy manner.
The two officers looked at each other with blank expressions. Both men raised an eyebrow and shook their heads in disgust.
“So, basically you want to grass people up to us for a bit of leniency, do you, Mr. Durley?” inquired Drayton.
“Yeah, that’s right. I give you a few names and you let me go, that sort of thing,” said Bart smugly.
“Oh really? Well, in this sort of case, we’ll have to review it because this is a very serious situation, Mr. Durley. I hope you understand these things aren’t taken lightly,” said Drayton, regarding him as a slime bag. “Who exactly do you have in mind then, Mr. Durley?”
“Well, for starters, there’s Gerry Funnel, a top drug dealer,” replied Bart.
“Whoa, whoa!” interrupted Knipe. He knew Bart would need a lot of evidence to even try to make a deal and this was anyway clearly a case where a deal couldn’t be struck at any cost.
“Oh really? And what evidence do you have to back up your accusation then, Mr. Durley?” chipped in Harris.
Bart was clutching at straws, but deep down he had begun to suspect Gerry might have been the source of all the media attention. This would possibly be a way to get even.
Chapter 20
Rita by now was fully aware of her men’s situation and she knew only too well neither man was coming home any time soon. This gave her another opportunity to entice Ifty, seeing as he had “ridden” her so well the night before. Her mind cast back to Marcus, the cabbie she’d left Dick and Bart for many years before when Bart was still a young boy. How she’d love that sort of relationship again, but Marcus had settled down again with his wife. But Ifty could be a good replacement. Rita was looking for a second go, knowing what a dog her husband was, but not knowing fully just yet what a complete dog he really was.
She was getting herself very worked up at the thought of another night of passion with Ifty. She reached for her phone, hoping Ifty hadn’t looked at the previous night as a one-off. To Rita’s delight, Ifty actually felt the same as her. They arranged once more for a meeting at the pub for a few beverages before going back to Rita’s for a repeat performance.
While Rita was tarting herself up, Bart sat in front of the two POLIT officers, reeling off names he thought would get him a quick release. Although Drayton and Harris took great delight in listening to the names he’d thrown into the pot, it wouldn’t do the no-good nonce any good.
In fact, Bart had come very close to confessing to all the cars he had stolen for insurance purposes, until he realised it was other people he needed to give up, not himself. Cuthbert Knipe was quite disgusted at his client’s behaviour and no matter how he tried to advise Bart, he couldn’t stop the flow of tales coming out of Bart’s desperate big mouth. He was fast becoming an embarrassment as a client and that really was saying something for a man like Knipe.
Rita’s meeting with Ifty just happened to coincide with a meeting Gerry had arranged with the two fundraisers for the DSTC. This pleasant gathering was once again observed by the Drug Squad and as Ifty and Rita happened to be in their company, they were now on the list of people of interest.
“Evening, Rita. You here alone again?” remarked Gerry.
“Hello, Gerry. Yeah, thought I’d pop in for a couple, seeing as Dick and Bart haven’t been released yet, and I bumped into Ifty here who very kindly got me a drink,” replied Rita matter-of-factly.
“Careful, Rita, people’ll start talking soon,” said Gerry.
“What? About Dick and Bart?” asked Rita sarcastically.
“No, about you and Ifty. Anyway, why are they keeping ‘em in? What the bleedin’ hell have they done?”
“Well, love, I don’t know what they’re supposed to have done, but they did tell me both of ‘em had panic attacks yesterday and they were unable to interview them. They are going to keep ‘em in until they can interview ‘em, darling,” explained Rita.
“Panic attacks!” exclaimed Gerry. “That doesn’t sound very good, does it?”
“Ah, don’t worry, darling. They’re both drama queens, but I think you’ll find my son is worse than his father.”
Gerry started to worry a bit. Bart knew a little bit about his drug activities and if he was getting all panicked out down at the station, then he might start talking. As he took a bathroom break, in walked his two ISIS pals for a meeting and a possible reorder. Gerry’s mind would soon get back to business.
“Hello, boys. You here to see Gerry?” said Rita slightly provocatively.
“Yeah, love,” said Badini, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap.
“Alright, boys?” said Ifty, smiling.
“Yeah, you alright, Ifty? Where’s Gerry?”
“Gone to the toilet, mate,” replied Ifty.
The four of them made small talk until Gerry returned, all the time observed by persons unknown.
Over at the other side of the pub sat Dell with Terry Funnel and Richards, very quietly chatting about another trip regarding the Swedish. This time there were going to be a few changes. These changes were not going to suit everyone, b
ut they were certainly going to be more profitable, a lot more logical, and a lot less likely to allow the product to be lost at Border Control. The Swedes had requested a change of dispatch and Dell thought they were starting to get a bit complacent with the whole thing. A change was as good as a rest. Anyway, a meeting was going to have to be called with the newly recruited David Lightfoot and a new deal discussed as he might not be in agreement.
Down at the local police station, the Durleys were settling in for another night of discomfort before appearing before the local magistrate. At this point the police were going to object to bail and Knipe was pretty certain his clients couldn’t make bail anyway. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link and these two were very weak links indeed. Rita wasn’t overly bothered about their situation at this particular point in time. Tonight all she was concerned about was getting home for round two with Ifty.
Dell asked Terry to set up a meeting with David as soon as he could and told Terry he didn’t want to meet in the pub. Somewhere a little more private would be required to discuss what he had in mind and what the Swedish had asked for this time around.
Gerry had gone home, satisfied with his order of yet more crack from his new Asian pals, but on his mind and very much a worry was the situation regarding his associate Bart Durley. Gerry just couldn’t get it off his mind and he thought two nights in the police cells for a pair like this seemed like a long time. There must be something more to it than Rita was letting on.
Chapter 21
Gerry spent a very restless night and paced the room several times before finally getting up at five. He wanted to speak to Rita and fast, but it was too early to ring her. Gerry made himself a cup of tea and rolled his first cannabis joint of the day. As he was engulfed in a sickly smelling cloud of smoke, he inhaled as he sat pondering. He was becoming almost obsessed with Bart’s situation, but it was more out of self-preservation than concern for Bart and his dad.
