It doesn’t matter now, though. I already have my final move for this trip planned and I can’t risk staying too much longer. I turn and head back towards the front door to find the guy that I had spotted on the way in. As I fight my way through the crowd, Daz spots me and calls out, “Sean, mate, we’re over here.”
When I shout back that I won’t be long, he shrugs his shoulders and resumes sucking the face off Sarah. My target is standing to the right-hand side of the entrance and I wait until he has finished talking with a young black guy until I approach him. If he is nervous or suspicious, he certainly doesn’t show it and the presence of the bouncers just a few feet away doesn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“What do you want, pal?”
“Weed or Ecstasy,” I reply. “Do you have any?”
He lets out a small laugh and says, “Well, what is it you want — weed or Ecstasy? Make your mind up, mate.”
“Weed, but not here. I want four ounces — can you manage that?”
My request for four ounces of weed takes him by surprise and he looks nervous, but greed gets the better of him and he tells me to meet him in the gents in ten minutes.
“It’s 800 quid for four ounces. You had better have the money and you better not be fucking me around, pal.”
As he disappears outside, I check my watch. It is just before five o-clock and for the last part of my plan, I need the help of my old mate Daz. Back at the bar, he has already started on my drink and the girls are on their second double Southern Comfort.
“Sorry, mate, I wasn’t sure if you were coming back and your drink was getting warm. John, get my fucking mate another pint of Bud.”
Karen seems particularly pleased that I am back, but I push her to one side before she can touch my ass again.
“Darren, I need you to do something for me.”
When I explain what it is, he smiles and picks up his drink. “This is part of the job you’re planning, yeh?”
“It is, mate,” I reply. “He is over in one of the booths in the back. Wait until I give you the nod, though.”
At just before ten past five, Darren gets into position next to Douglas’ booth and I indicate for him to make his move. He’s not going to win an Oscar for his acting, but as he stumbles into the booth, he plays the part of a drunk exactly as I asked him to.
The contents of his pint glass land perfectly on Clive’s shirt and trousers and as I head to the bathroom, I can hear Clive’s voice above the sound of the music as he angrily pushes Daz away and calls him a clumsy cunt.
When I get to the bathroom, the drug dealer looks me up and down with suspicion, but he waits for a young guy to finish taking a piss at the urinals before he says anything.
“Well then, have you got the money? Let’s fucking get on with it.”
“How about you let me see what I’m buying first? Eight-hundred quid is a lot of money — I want to make sure I’m not getting garbage.”
He looks like I have insulted his professional integrity as a reputable drug dealer and mutters “for fuck’s sake” under his breath. Then he reaches into the front of his jeans, lifts out a clear Ziploc bag full of weed, and holds it up for my inspection.
“Right, now show me the color of your fucking money!”
The timing is absolutely perfect and as Douglas storms into the washroom to dry himself, I pull the warrant card out of my back pocket and slam the dealer against the back wall with my other hand.
“Undercover police! You’re fucking nicked, mate.”
I push the warrant card in the dealer’s face just long enough for Douglas to see it, but not so long that he can see the name on it or get any other details, then I turn my head and tell him to stay back.
“Just hold on there, please, sir, nothing to worry about. Just police business.”
The dealer is swearing and protesting that I have set him up, but it is Clive Douglas that I am interested in and, as expected, he keeps moving forward and offers his assistance.
“Actually, I’m also in the job – Detective Sergeant Douglas from Luton Station. You sure you don’t need any help?”
“Thanks, but it’s all under control. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Douglas is itching to get involved, but when I turn back to the junkie and start patting him down, he moves towards the towel dispenser to dry himself and I continue with the last part of the act. I know full well that Clive is watching us in the mirror and no doubt, he is smiling to himself when I stuff the bag of weed and the dealer’s roll of cash into my jacket pocket.
“It’s your lucky day, fuckhead. I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. Consider it a Christmas present from the drugs squad. Now fuck off before I change my mind!”
The dealer has a mixture of confusion and relief on his face, and then it sinks in that he is free to go and he runs out of the door, clearly worried that I might be joking or might change my mind. Douglas carries on watching me as I wash my hands, but he doesn’t say anything until I turn to leave.
“I take it that you will be booking in that cash and weed as evidence?”
He is clearly testing me, but I don’t want to play the bent copper too obviously, so I give him a half smile and tell him that of course I would be booking it in, and then I turn back towards the door hoping that he has taken the bait.
“Hang on for a second; I didn’t get your name? Detective ...?”
“Detective Smith, Sean Smith.”
He knows I am lying about my name, but the chance to get another bent copper on his team is too much of a temptation and he reaches out to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Detective Smith. You said you were on the drugs squad, is that right?”
“Did I say that? No offence, DS Douglas, but I don’t know you and if it’s okay, I need to be getting on my way.”
“Sure, no problem, Sean. Take my card, though; I think we might be able to work together for our mutual benefit on a few things. I like a man of action. Give me a call if you are at a loose end on Boxing Day. I’m having a few friends over who would be very interested to meet you. Oh, and no need for the formality —call me Clive.”
The business card and the invitation are a welcome and unexpected bonus. I had been wondering about how to execute my next move and these now make it so much easier. I give the card a cursory inspection before stuffing it in my pocket and nodding my head towards Douglas.
“Thanks, I might just do that. Merry Christmas, Clive.”
When I get back to the bar, Darren is regaling the girls with the story of his drunken act and how ‘he fucking soaked the poor old wanker’.
“I swear to God, the old fucker looked like he was about to cry — the look on his face was fucking priceless! Tell them, Sean, how did I do?”
“You did great, Daz,” I reply, and then I pull out the roll of banknotes and peel off two hundred in twenties and hand them to him. “Play your cards right and there will be plenty more where that came from. Now, get these lovely young ladies another drink. There is somewhere I need to be, but I will be in touch soon.”
I actually have no idea if I will be getting in touch with him again, but there is no harm in keeping my options open. As for him, he doesn’t give a shit one way or the other right now.
As I leave, he is already starting on his next pint and probably intends to carry on until he has burned his way through the entire two-hundred quid. Karen feigns disappointment that she is not going to be sucking me off tonight, but she quickly gets over it when Darren hands her another double.
Outside the pub, it is already dark and I am conscious that I have pushed my luck staying as long as I have. I need to find a way home quickly, before the lights come on or I am disturbed in my cell, but I need to do something else first. Behind the pub car park there is a small area of wasteland occupied by the usual inner-city crap, including a few abandoned shopping trolleys and a long-ago burnt-out car. I can’t go back with the wallet and other items, so I stuff everything
into the Ziploc bag of weed and conceal it in a space underneath the car. Then I head out onto the high street.
Luton High Street is packed with shoppers and people on the way home from work and the music and lights in the street and in the shops give the place a wonderful festive atmosphere. As I move through the crowd, I am just another anonymous face and I wonder if any of them might care enough to stop me if they knew what I was about to do.
Ahead of me, I spot a narrow and poorly lit alleyway between a butcher’s and a newsagent’s shop and I make my way to the end to be sure that I won’t be seen. Then I take Darren’s Stanley knife out of my pocket.
In the morning as he is nursing his hangover, he will probably just think that he dropped it somewhere. Maybe he will have enough of the two-hundred quid left to buy another one.
I doubt that it will occur to him for a second that his new mate Sean took it and used it to slash his own throat. However, that is exactly what will have happened and after a deep breath to ready myself, I push the point of the blade into the side of my neck and then pull it across my throat as hard as I can.
Present Day – Thursday, 15th February 2018
I am back in the deckchair in DS Douglas’ garage and Paul Donovan has his hands around my throat. Unlike my previous trip to Douglas’ house, I am not gaffer-taped into the chair and my hands are completely free, so I can’t understand why I don’t try to fight back. He is squeezing as hard as he can and shouting at me to wake up, but this makes no sense. Paul Donovan is dead and I am awake.
“Wake up, McMillan, come on fucking wake up, you bastard!”
The harshness of the light hurts my eyes and I hold them closed until a hand slaps me hard across my cheek. Suddenly, it makes sense. I am back from my dream travel and I was in the midst of a normal dream.
“I said wake up, ya fucking murdering bastard! I have a message for you from the boss.”
Sergeant Huntley is standing over me and is holding what looks like a fresh set of clothes. When he sees that I am already dressed, he throws them onto the end of the bench and screws up his face at my outfit.
“The clothes are courtesy of Detective Constable Swain. I would have told her not to bother if I had known someone was bringing you some shit in from a charity shop. What the fuck have you got on?”
This is not Huntley’s station, so he must have pulled some strings to get access to my cell, or someone else here must be on Douglas’ payroll.
“Never mind that, Huntley, you said you had a message for me? Why don’t you get on with delivering the message and then fuck off!”
“It’s Sergeant Huntley to you, boy, and I suggest you be a little more respectful or things are going to get pretty fucking unpleasant for you.”
“Seriously, Huntley, I am currently sitting in a jail cell facing a charge of premeditated murder. I’m puzzled — just how much more unpleasant can it get?” I say sarcastically.
“Shut the fuck up and listen, McMillan! You are going to be interviewed this morning and Clive wants to make sure that you play ball. Keep your mouth shut about him and anything else you know or think you know about us and he promises to find a way to prove your innocence for killing Paul Donovan.”
“You mean he will fit up some other poor bastard?”
“What do you fucking care, McMillan? It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”
“And if I decide not to play ball?”
He smiles and moves closer to me. “I seriously hope you’re not that fucking stupid. Prison is a particularly unpleasant place for an ex-copper, but then you already know that, don’t you, Sean? I would also advise you to consider Maria Pinto and Carol Baker as well. Try to picture them without a face — acid is fucking horrible when it gets onto the skin and don’t even get me started on what might happen to Ben.”
I have heard more than enough from this asshole and I push him aside and move to the sink to wash my face.
“Tell Clive I will think about his offer — now fuck off and rustle me up a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea with one sugar, and not that Lipton’s shit either. I want a proper cup of tea.”
He leaves and ten minutes later I am still sitting on the bed weighing up my options when the door opens and, to my great surprise, a young constable comes in with a plate full of bacon sandwiches and a steaming mug of strong tea, which he places on the end of the bench. The breakfast is obviously a sweetener from Douglas or Huntley and they must be expecting me to play ball.
Whatever the reason, I am not complaining. My hangover has well and truly gone and I am bloody starving. I thank the constable and start on a bacon sandwich as he turns to leave.
“Knock on the door when you are finished,” he says. “There is a rep from the Police Federation waiting to speak to you in one of the interview rooms.”
At just after 8.30 am, I am taken into one of the interview rooms to meet with Marcus Willoughby from the Police Federation. When I enter the room, he is as puzzled by my outfit as Huntley was, but he doesn’t say anything and moves straight on with the business at hand.
“Good morning, DC McMillan, please take a seat. My name is Sergeant Marcus Willoughby and I have been appointed by the Police Federation to represent and support you during the initial phases of the inquiry into the allegations made against you. I must inform you, though, that if it is decided to charge you for any crime, it would be my advice to appoint yourself legal representation as soon as possible. Do you understand, Sean?”
Paying the Police Federation subscription is like owning a fire extinguisher or having a burglar alarm on your house — we all hope we will never need them, but it’s comforting to know they are there if anything does ever happen. In my case, I have paid my subscription religiously every month for the eight years that I have been a copper; with the benefit of hindsight, I should have held onto the money.
My hangover is gone, my belly is full and I know exactly what I need to do now for the best.
“Sorry, Marcus, but you have had a wasted trip. The only think I need you to do for me today is to contact the duty solicitor, Jean Monroe, and ask if she would be willing to represent me.”
He looks shell-shocked and rightly so. “Sean, I would really advise against this course of action so soon. If you move straight to legal representation without giving me the opportunity to fight your corner, I won’t be able to represent you if you change your mind later.”
If I was asked to guess I would say that Marcus Willoughby is in his late fifties and has taken the job of Federation Rep to pass the time while he counts down to his retirement and sergeant’s pension. His intentions are no doubt well placed, but he needs a serious reality check.
“You do understand that I am being accused of murder and that the murder weapon was found in my apartment, don’t you? No offence, Marcus, but I don’t think there is much that you can do for me. Jean Monroe is one of our duty solicitors —please call her for me.”
Two hours later, I am taken into a side room where Jean Monroe already has her legal pad and stationery neatly arranged on a small square table. Jean indicates for me to sit down opposite her in the only other chair, and then she asks my escort to leave us alone.
In front of her, there is a copy of my arrest sheet and as she reads through it, she occasionally looks up at me or makes a note in the pad. When she is finished, she pushes the pad to one side and starts.
“DC McMillan, two days ago you placed me in an extremely embarrassing and potentially compromising position during the interview of Terence Fletcher. What on earth would make you think that I would want to represent you? Right now, my paralegal is in the process of drafting a letter of complaint against you and Detective Constable Swain.”
If it were anyone else, I would not have wasted hers or my time bringing her here, but Jean Monroe is as straight as they come and I am relying on the fact that she has an unwavering moral compass to get me through this.
“I requested you, Jean, because of the very fact that you took offence to the way t
hat I conducted the interview with Terry Fletcher.”
“’What does that mean exactly, DC McMillan? Did you really expect me to react in any other way?”
“It means that you know the difference between right and wrong and that you will uphold the letter of the law until your dying breath. The way I went about the interview with Terry was appalling and I can’t apologize enough for putting you in that position, but right now I need someone I can trust to do the right thing.”
She looks indignant, but also curious to know where this is going. “And so you think that I can be trusted to do the right thing? How very gracious of you.”
“You came because you live by a principle that says everyone deserves fair representation, regardless of whether you think they are innocent or guilty. So yes, I do think that you are that person.”
I don’t imagine she is taken in for a minute by my obvious attempt at flattery, but everything I have said is true and after a few seconds of silence to consider my request, she nods and agrees to represent me.
“Be under no illusions, DC McMillan, my representation comes with conditions. I expect you to tell me the truth at all times and to listen to my advice. I won’t tolerate any kind of games or withholding of information — is that understood?”
“Completely understood, thank you, Jean.”
“Good, then let’s proceed, we don’t have long. Oh, and I would prefer Ms. Monroe, if you don’t mind, DC McMillan.”
Over the next two hours, I take her through the entire chain of events of the last week, including my run-ins with DS Douglas and the other crooked cops, the attacks on Carol Baker and Maria Pinto’s homes and finally the murder of Paul Donovan. It’s an incredible story and when Jean finally finishes writing and puts down her pen, I am wondering if she might be regretting her decision to represent me.
“So just to be clear again for my own understanding, let me summarize, DC McMillan. You said that you were at Maria Pinto’s house waiting for Detective Superintendent Douglas and Paul Donovan to arrive, but you can’t explain how you knew they would be there. You then witnessed DS Douglas murder Paul Donovan in cold blood, assisted by two highly respected and long-serving sergeants. You also said that you made a voice recording but believe that the voice recorder has been taken by DS Douglas or one of his accomplices before you were arrested at home where the possible murder weapon was found in one of your kitchen drawers. Frankly, you need a miracle worker, not a solicitor. Have I missed anything, DC McMillan?”
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