Текст книги "The Cop Killer"

Автор книги: Harry Nankin

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Miles phone rang, it was Denton-Smyth.

“I am awfully sorry Chief but due to a sudden family bereavement my wife and I will be unable to attend the races today”.

“I am sorry to hear that Craig” said the Chief

“Well it can’t be helped Sir, in fact I was thinking of taking a few days compassionate leave, it being the wife’s mother”.

“By all means, get your Inspector to stand in for you”.

“I would rather not Sir; it is Miss Ling she has the rank but no experience”.

“Oh yes I see, who will you get at such short notice?"

“I will get Sergeant Striker to cover. I realise he is only a sergeant but he is qualified to Inspector I was putting him up for promotion on the next board anyway, I could make him acting”.

“Yes do that Miles, you can quote me, make him up to acting Inspector whilst you are away, that is, if you are certain about this Inspector Ling not coping”.

“I am sure Sir, have you heard the gossip about Inspector Scott-Ling her flashing her tattoos in unmentionable places”.

“I did hear but thought I would speak to her about it myself Miles when I next see her, no need for you to bother with it”.

“OK Chief, I am sure it is correct to put Striker unofficially in command especially it being the races”

“You know with all the trouble that can occur we need someone who can handle such situations especially if violence is involved.”

“I wouldn’t want to risk having this female officer in charge”.

“I understand Craig, imagine we, that is my wife and our friends being involved and from what you say had to rely on this Inspector Scott-Ling”.

The call ended, Striker was pleased to be told he was promoted acting inspector, albeit temporarily, seems promotion was definitely on the cards.

It was a very sunny and pleasantly warm Saturday afternoon, for the first Chester Races of the season.

Doris Scott-Ling left her office and went down stairs, on arrival her friend and supposed mentor Sergeant Striker saw her and instantly said.

“Ling, I am now acting Inspector, seems you have nothing to do, take this new probationer around the city centre, roust some of those bloody buskers all that noise and begging, you have my permission to kick their arses.”

“Ok” she replied. “Come on son what is your name?”

“Chris Thomas” he replied

“Come on Chris let us take a walk. It is race day you may see some funny costumes”.

“Oh” said Striker, “be on your best behaviour, the Chief Constable is about, his wife and her lady friends have a charity stall in the main street, its race day anything could happen”.

She nodded but said nothing, turned and left.

Tarporley Ladies Circle were holding their annual charity day, selling balloons and various small-donated items in the main street.

“It should be a good day for the ladies Miles,” said Rupert Everett the Chief Executive of Cheshire Council, his wife Fiona was this year’s chairperson of the Tarporley Ladies Circle.

“Indeed, yes indeed”, replied Miles Ridwell hoping to forget his role as Chief Constable of Cheshire, at least for today.

It would be useful later when he and Everett arrived at the races as it had been the custom for years to send the Chief Constable four free admission tickets, not only that but a late free lunch in the members marquee.

All was going well, the gifts were quickly disappearing from the stall and there seemed every likelihood the minion members of the circle would manage the remainder of the day alone whilst the two leading ladies accompanied by their husbands could get off to the races.

“Hi Wack, you there, the lady in the stupid hat”.

All at the charity table looked up to see a man one in a group obviously of the minion type of race goers. The man was wearing a Santa outfit and the worse for drink.

Another man was wearing a costume of a horse, which as he walked appeared to give the impression he was riding it.

Miles whispered to Rupert, “There is always one”

The group of men strode over and began to handle all the charity goods some men throwing items up and down as if they were juggling except that all the items were hitting the ground.

“I say lady, give me that hat?”

With that, Santa took the hat, pulled off his hood and put on the hat to loud laughter.

“I say” called Everett “that hat cost me five hundred pounds, give it back immediately”.

Santa looked up, took off the hat then rammed it onto the head of poor Mrs Fiona Everett forcing it over her eyes.

He swung, around, grabbed Rupert by the front of his coat and head butted him, causing the victim to instantly sink to his knees, blood spurting from his nose.

Most of the group of yobs walked off, taking and throwing items as they left, but the Santa man and two others remained then, seeing all the many people now standing around, including many Chinese tourists who were filming the whole affair as Chinese tourists do.

“Good heavens” cried Mavis, “Miles do something”.

 He looked up and saw two police uniforms approaching.

At first he was relieved, was it Sergeant Striker?”.

But then, he sighed, it was Dopey Doris, “oh” he thought, “I shouldn’t say that”.

In any event, it was too late Inspector Scot-Ling and the newly arrived probationer the name of whom he no longer recalled both arrived.

“Hell” thought Ridwell, “I distinctly recall Chief Superintendent Denton-Smyth assured me he was going to get her to patrol with an experienced man.

 What could she do with a probationer?”

“What the hell was he going to do?”

Especially if those standing around recognised him.

“Oh blast all those Chinese potential filmmakers, it would all be on you tube by the evening, Christ he thought “why me”?

“I say, you three, calm down,” said Inspector Doris

“Calm down my arse hole, you an Inspector you are a fucking Dink,”

“Come here you bitch”, Mr Santa was on a roll.

He grabbed forward but as he did so, she grabbed his arm, simultaneously hitting his elbow so that it bent with a crack.

 She struck him under the chin with her knee, he was unconscious immediately.

His two associates looked on, the one, a man with bright ginger hair displaying a badge, pulled a knife.

There was a gasp from the Tarporley members, many were thinking, “This was not my idea, it is down to Mavis and Fiona”.

  The host of onlookers stood in silence whilst the Chinese tourists continued to film.

Ginger top walked towards the officers drawn knife in hand, the probationer, not knowing why he had joined in spite of his mother’s advice.

Ginger suddenly lunged forward but then looked up and then down as the lady Inspector kicked the weapon from his hand.

 The knife shot up into the air, then descended, landing sticking into the tabletop, its handle still quivering, the table now containing hardly any goods.

Ginger was not able to stare in amazement long for a foot struck him in the stomach causing him to crumble to his knees.

The third man thought he would have better luck and so charged with brute force towards the Inspector who was still standing, calm and smiling, as he came forward she spoke,

 “Never meet force head on rather side step, using the force against itself”.

With that as the thug came with arms reaching out to grab her she put out her leg tripped him up, simultaneously she bent down so that he landed on her back she flipped him over and as she rose, she struck him a rabbit punch across the throat.

All three men now lay prostrate on the ground.

She stood over all three men lying on the floor, no trouble to anyone.

She her herself was a little unkempt for her tunic had ripped open; she removed it causing her to exhibit her uniform shirt, with its rolled up sleeves.

The whole incident took only seconds, when done, all at the charity table looked on in amazement.

Their amazement continued as they looked up and across the wide street to hear a loud cheer from the crowd whilst simultaneously they saw about 150 Chinese tourists no longer filming but all bowing in unison.

Dopey Doris looked, seeing the reaction of the Chinese guests she acknowledged them by returning their bow.

Those non-Chinese people looked on in amazement; the remaining race goers drunk and sober looked, but then quickly went on their way, the first race was due.

Ridwell had heard rumours that this new lady Inspector had tattoos; he had also heard they were very rude items on both her breasts and buttocks.

He now had his doubts at the accuracy of the rumours, for the ones he could see on the inside of her arms were that of a dragon and must mean something, though he knew not what.

He could hear murmurs from the now dispersing crowd some asking the Chinese visitors why they were bowing and receiving the response, “Shaolin, she Shaolin, very honourable person”.

“What’s going on here?” Was the sudden interruption as Sergeant Striker arrived together with four constables.

He was about to bellow but saw the Chief-Constable and changed his tone.

Inspector Doris updated him as to what had transpired and stated that the arrests were down to the new probationer Chris Thomas.

She approached the chief, “Excuse me sir”, she whispered “best not to mention anything to anyone about my involvement here, better to leave it and give the credit to the probationer, Chris Thomas”.

“Why yes, yes Inspector naturally, I am off duty after all, better to keep me out of it also”.

“Did you hear all that Constable Thomas, mums the word as to my involvement?” she said

“Yes Maam”, he replied, his posterior returning to normality from the half a crown sixpence mode.

The first time she recalled being addressed as “Maam” since she had arrived.

A siren heralded the arrival of a large police van and the three miscreants were soon loaded up and gone, so where all the ladies and their gentlemen from the Tarporley Ladies circle, not to the races either but the safety of homes.

Inspector Doris Scott-Ling left the police van went into her office and put on a clean shirt she always kept for such an occasion.

The following Monday morning Woodcock was up and ready for his journey by car to the Home Office in London, his normal meeting with the Chief Inspector of Her Majesty’s Constabulary, other Inspectors and with the Home Secretary. There came a knock on the door when opened it was Sid Watkiss his driver,

“Morning Mrs Woodcock, if you might tell the boss I am here”.

“I will Sid, come in for a drink”.

“No better not just in case we get a call”, replied Sid

”OK Sid I will tell him, he will be out soon, he is making a call I think”.

“Good morning, Police Headquarters Manchester, how can I help you, please?”

“Could I please speak with the Chief Constable?”

“May I ask who is calling please?”

“Yes of course, it is Christian Woodcock, Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabulary”

“Please hold the line Sir”.

“Hello Christian, how can I help, Quinten here, not a problem with our recent Inspection I take it”.

“No indeed Quinten, if they were all like yours my life would be much easier”. I wonder if you might just help me with something”.

“Of course, if I can” replied Quinten.

“It may seem a strange request Quinten but I wonder if you have had any suspicious deaths among your officers recently?”

“I can answer that immediately, no, none at all,” replied Chief Constable Johns.

“Well that is something I was starting to wonder”.

“”Anything suspicious going on Christian or is it Home Office bullshit statistics again?”

“No, it doesn’t matter, if you haven’t had a death amongst your officers especially in the young, fit and healthy that is it”.

“No nothing suspicious here, in fact the only death we have had was a natural cause.

 A young officer from the mounted branch collapsed and died at Chorlton Lake some short while ago.”

“Nothing to suggest it was a crime, no injuries, we did think at first it was a suicide by drowning but it turned out to be natural causes some type of rare heart attack.”

“Oh I see, interesting”.

“Is there a problem Christian?”

“Anything I ought to know about”.

“No nothing at the moment, thank you for your help”.

The call ended.

Sid Watkiss a retired police traffic officer who showed no visible eye problems had been driving the various Inspectors of Constabulary for that region for five years so was not only a very experienced driver but knew the routes to most places, more importantly he knew the ropes of the job so to speak.

He guessed but did not comment that although his current boss Mr Woodcock had not said much about the deaths of these young officers seemingly fit and well albeit recorded as natural causes he was likely to raise a question or two.

Chief Constable Quinten Johns did not like problems or any suggestions of large enquiries or work.

He had no leave planned so anything likely to blow up would fall to him directly not his deputy or assistant.

He turned over his telephone contacts book, picked up the phone and dialled the number.

“Hello Chief Superintendent Mary Harris”

“Hello Mary the Chief here, may I ask if there were any further brick bats from the death of the mounted officer, sorry I don’t recall his name, it was a male officer I think?”

 “Yes Sir, Rick Masterton, no nothing. The Coroner was happy with natural causes; he signed the death certificate as natural causes.”

“The welfare officer visited the next of kin, the funeral went ahead Ok as you recall, and we picked up the bill, as it was death on duty.  No sir all straight forward is there a problem?”

“No Mary, no it’s just something the HMI mentioned but in view of what you say it is nothing, I am sorry to bother you.”

“No problem sir”, she replied

The call was ended, Quinten Johns could relax once again after all he had only had a passing brief on the case involving this Rick fellow.

The normal meeting at the Home Office went well and on completion, the normal final question put by the Home Secretary, “Gentlemen and ladies anything under any other business?”

There was silence for a moment then Woodcock spoke “There is one matter it may be of no relevance whatsoever but due to its unusual nature I thought to raise it”.

“By all means Mr Woodcock please do,” replied The Right Honourable Royston Bentley, current Crown Minister for Home Affairs, or Home Secretary for the more uneducated.

“Well Sir, ladies and gentlemen, during my recent inspections of the forces in my area it was casually brought to my attention that several uniformed police officers have been found dead whilst on duty.  There are I admit no suspicious circumstances in any case”.

“No injuries or circumstances to indicate foul play or that any crime has been committed. The cause of all the deaths after post mortem was natural causes.”

“The officers, from different forces, as far as I am aware were not connected with each other.”

“They were apparently all young and were fit and well but died of some rare heart complaint covered by the medical term sudden “Adult death syndrome”.

“The heart has a disturbed rhythm and no blood circulates so death ensues. There is no cause for this”.

“I just have a feeling there might be more to this than meets the eye. It’s just my intuition but I feel it is worth looking into even though I have no evidence”.

Bentley pondered and then said, “What are your feelings Chief Inspector?”

“I wouldn’t like to get egg on my face if there is something amiss, yet there is no point in making a big issue of it, if it is a nothing”.

“I will tell you what I suggest,” replied the Chief Inspector, “Woodcock here always had a good eye and ear for a mystery I suggest we permit him to get someone to look into it, sort of unofficially and report back.”

Bentley thought and then said, “Well with all the cuts we couldn’t be seen to be using too many resources if it is all for nothing”

Woodcock smiled and said “Gentlemen I suggest we ask ex Detective Superintendent Jack Richards of New Scotland Yard fame to look into it. He has recently moved north near me, I don’t think he has anything on so he may well be pleased to return to duty although in an unofficial capacity to look into this”.

“I recall Richards and many of the very unusual and complicated cases he has solved over the years, yes indeed there was the case of the ten headless women”.

 There was a nodding of heads, “I seem to recall they call him Jack the Hat” replied Chief Inspector of Constabulary, Wilfred Jepson.

“I tell you what Woodcock?” He continued, “You fix this up get Richards back and on these cases.  If there is nothing in it, there will be no rocking of the boats and won’t wreck any force budgets, you could cover it Woodcock under miscellaneous”.

“I will make a further suggestion; why not get him to report back to the annual conference of Inspectors of Constabulary and Chief Constables later in the year”.

  “This will be a very nice change to the usual after dinner speeches we all get bored with”.

“What if he finds nothing?” asked Bentley.

“In that case it will be a little more wine tasting time,” said Jepson”

This caused a round of laughter.

“There is one thing?” replied Woodcock,” if there is anything in it Jack the Hat is the man to get to the bottom of it”.

“That is it then” announced Bentley “until the annual conference then, I bid you good day, and he rose and left the room”.

“Well done there Woodcock”, replied Jepson, “Very well done”.

“Contact Jack and be sure to give him all resources, make sure the Chiefs of the various forces understand it is approved by The Home Secretary as well as our department”.

They shook hands and parted.

Two days later Jack Richards was sitting in his study, he had started his book-completing page 100 but was now struggling, not through lack of knowledge or ideas but painstakingly typing.

The phone rang; he answered it, “Hello Jack Richards speaking can I help?”

“Hello Jack, it is Woodcock here, I need a word”

“Thanks for fixing up the membership at the golf club” said Richards

“Really, sorry not me I have been too busy. I need you on another matter.”

“How can I help?” asked Jack

“It’s too complicated to speak on the phone. Is it is Ok to come down we could discuss it sometime?”

“Very well I look forward to seeing you as and when”.

“Ok Jack, I will ring you from home and pop down and we can speak, bye”.

The call was ended.

PART SIX

 

JACK THE HAT RECALLED

 

He was proceeding nicely with his book, to quote a phrase from his long so long ago days of walking the beat in East London, at the regulation pace.

How he now wished all those years ago when just after joining the police when he had been brought face to face with a new instrument, which was to prove the main tool in his new life in the police.

A Remington typewriter, they were tall, heavy and black in colour. One also required black or blue carbon papers, as everything was required either in duplicate or occasionally triplicate.

A copious supply of scrap paper torn into small pieces used to go between the sheets to be typed amending the many mistakes. Finally and worse, three mistakes and the Sergeants insisted the whole page had to be retyped.

It went without saying of course most of this work was done in each officers own time after or before their normal tour of duty.

During the many recent hours he had spent, sitting, recalling, contemplating and almost as many typing, if only those years ago he had been able to learn the skill of touch-typing how much simpler life would be now.

There had of course been no time to learn how to touch type so it had been the first finger of each hand from those days until now.

Writing a book of his own was proving interesting, recalling incidents, embellishing others but always having at hand the fantasy.  Occasionally he became despondent thinking of his first comments to Anne as to the difficulties of publishing a book.

It now came home to him even more, in the behind the scenes private world and solace of his office, study call it what you may. The reality had now struck home.

He had found himself actually talking to himself, “No one or practically no one will ever read what I am writing”.

 He was consoled by the words his father had said when he was a small boy.

It was each Saturday afternoon at 5pm; the radio announcer had read the weekly soccer results. Father had checked these against the selected same numbers of what was known as, the perm. They being, the selected numbers to make up the plan of any eight from ten teams to finish with a drawn game.

They always failed to click so that the £75,000 as it was known in those days which if won, would change working families lives forever, it never happened.

When mother had commented every week it was a waste of time and money his father had replied immediately, again, every week the four magic but elusive words “Have a little faith”.

Regretfully mother had proved to be the prophet in the family for the £75,000 or anything like was never won.

Thinking of his current project and now looking at the screen of what he was currently typing he became more despondent.

 Speaking with other budding authors practically all had failed to find someone prepared to publish their book.

The few that had now complained of waiting two years to see the results of their labour after all in their eyes it was the best book ever written and published in the public domain.

Their long awaited anticipation being rewarded with only 10% of the selling price of the book whilst the seller in the shop received a massive 50% simply for displaying the masterpiece on the shelf.

 In the worst-case scenario if the masterpiece did not sell as the seller had them on sale and return the shopkeeper suffered no loss.

Perhaps he thought, the worst report he had received was of those who have been advised suggested to or conned into promoting their books free as an ebook on the Internet, which was guaranteed to bring massive numbers of readers.

Books that no one was interested in suddenly became popular and all who had tried the system reported many hundreds of down loads but for no recompense.

Since the free days they had anxiously been waiting for the downloads with payment.

Nothing had happened either for three months when they had attempted the promotion once again, either with a new book or the same book and once again received yet more massive downloads, followed by no sales.

Convincing them their books were good and many thousands wished to read them but only for free, the vast cost of £2 being a bridge too far.

He would also attempt to avoid the mistakes of those who had become a local bore or worse, a nuisance by discussing their book or books in depth with the locals who weren’t actually interested them or their books and so since the first encounter had avoided the budding authors like the black death plague.

Those few that were interested, with smiling faces, and wet lips showing their appetite to read the latest wonder even offering to call and pick up a copy.