Born in a Burial Gown (11 page)

‘Welcome to Pinegrove, ladies and gentlemen. The ASBO capital of Cumbria,’ Towler said, as he turned into the estate. ‘Drugs, violence and underage sex. We have it all.’ He paused. ‘Now, where the fuck am I going?’

Douglass didn’t know the estate, so Towler parked up beside an off-licence and got out. There were graffiti-covered steel shutters on the windows despite it being open. Fluke had seen less-fortified police stations in Northern Ireland. He’d never been in the shop before but knew that all the overpriced goods would be locked in cages, nothing being handed over until the owner had the cash in his till.

In less than a minute, Towler was back with directions to Seaview Terrace, the last known address of McNab, and they quickly found it.

The street was quiet. Everyone with a reason to get up had already done so. The rest were still in bed.

‘It’ll be one of these houses here, sir,’ Douglass said as they were near the middle of the wide road. ‘They take the numbers off the houses to make it difficult for us and bailiffs to find them. Even those with nothing to hide do it. They’d get called a grass if they didn’t.’

It was obvious that Seaview Terrace was one of the poorer streets on the estate. About a third of the houses had windows that were boarded up and were obviously derelict. A third had windows without curtains; the remaining third had curtains that were twitching. Fluke knew their presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. A group of young children walked up and started looking over the car. Towler lowered his window, flashed his warrant card and said, ‘Fuck off.’ They backed away but didn’t disappear.

‘Right,’ Towler said getting out. ‘Let’s knock on a few doors, then.’

‘We’ll need uniform backup before we can do anything, Sergeant. I’ll call the station, get a van out,’ Douglass said.

‘Don’t worry, Douglass,’ said Fluke, smiling, as he followed Towler out of the car. ‘He’s his own backup.’

For a minute, he thought she was going to stay in the car but eventually she joined them on the pavement, looking nervous.

‘Right, let’s try here,’ Towler said, walking up the first path and hammering on the door. There was no answer. He kept banging, looking round to see if anything else was stirring.

The occupants of the next house along opened their door a fraction to see where the noise was coming from. Towler was there in an instant, jumping over the neglected fence without touching it.

‘You McNab?’ he shouted through the door, jamming his foot in the crack to stop it closing.

Fluke, having not moved from the pavement, watched on amused. Towler was in his element. While he had finesse when needed, this was what he liked doing. Getting down and dirty. Fluke didn’t hear what the person behind the door replied, but Towler didn’t like it.

‘Wrong answer, dickhead,’ he said, forcing the door wide open and walking in.

Thirty seconds later he was back out.

‘McNab’s at thirty-three, boss. Lives there with some local lass, has done for a couple of months,’ Towler said. ‘This house here is seven, so it should be twelve doors up if the evens are on the other side.’

‘Wanker,’ came the shout from the door behind him.

Towler ignored it.

They left the car where it was and walked up the street, counting the houses as they went. After a short discussion about whether they’d counted correctly, they arrived at a dilapidated semi-detached. The front lawn was overrun with weeds, dog faeces and empty cans. An old sofa sat on the grass underneath the window. There was a headless child’s doll on the path. Towler kicked it into the garden and they walked up to the front door together.

Towler knocked and they heard movement inside, and some whispered talking.

The door opened, and a man of about thirty stood before them, shaven-headed and topless. Heavy muscles competed for space over his squat frame. He was covered in prison tattoos. His small eyes were dull and malevolent. Coarse black hair crept to the top of his shoulders. His body language was shouting ‘I’m dangerous, don’t mess with me’. He was holding a can of beer and it was obvious to Fluke that he was deliberately sucking his stomach in and tensing his muscles hoping to give the impression that it was how he always looked.

Towler smiled at him, but not in a good way.

Failing to get the fearful reaction he wanted, his stance changed from intimidation to confusion. ‘What the fuck do want?’ he said.

Ignoring the insult, Fluke asked, ‘Are you McNab?’

Some of the tension seemed to leave his body. He gestured to his right with the can. ‘Next door mate,’ he said, closing the door.

‘I think that’s him, sir,’ Douglass whispered.

Fluke nodded at Towler and gestured towards the back of the house. Fluke waited until Towler had enough time to get round the back and knocked again.

‘Mr McNab, can we have a word, please?’ There was no whispering but the sound of running, a door opening and then a loud crash. Someone shouted. A child’s scream rose, wild and piercing, above the sound of whatever was happening at the back. The noise rose as a woman started crying. Fluke and Douglass ran down the side alley.

Douglass looked shocked and a little worried. Fluke saw exactly what he’d expected to see.

McNab was on his knees in front of Towler, who had him in some sort of wristlock. He was clearly in a certain amount of discomfort and was keeping as still as possible to avoid more pain. Towler was exerting minimal pressure on his wrists, which were nearly at right angles.

A woman, no more than eighteen or nineteen, was yelling at Towler and tugging at his suit. He ignored her. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and fresh and old bruises were visible on her pale, thin arms.

Inside the house, the baby’s cries grew louder and more urgent.

‘Get her out of here,’ Fluke told Douglass.

Douglass tried to calm down the woman and persuaded her to go and see to the child. With one last look at everyone, the girl went back inside.

Fluke beckoned Douglass over. ‘Go and see if she’s all right. And while you’re at it, search the house. See if Ackley’s in there,’ he whispered. She nodded and followed the girl in. Eventually, the sound of crying stopped.

With silence restored, Towler loosened his grip on McNab who stood up warily and rubbed his wrists. He looked at Towler with a mixture of hatred and fear.

He turned to Fluke, animal cunning telling him that he was in charge. ‘Bastard can’t do that. I’ve got fucking rights, you know.’ He looked round to see if there were any obvious ways out. He took a look at Towler, six feet eight and built like a whippet, and decided there was no point running. ‘What the fuck do you want, anyway? I’ve got no charges coming up and I’m clean. Not touched smack this year, ask anyone.’

Bet you’ve had some steroids though, haven’t you, McNab?
Fluke thought, but didn’t say anything.

‘What’s your first name, McNab? And we’re not the drug squad,’ he said as he got out his warrant badge and identified himself.

McNab didn’t say anything.

‘No first name? McNab it is then. Shame, I was rather hoping we could be friends. I want to know what you can tell me about Darren Ackley,’ Fluke said.

A brief glimmer of understanding flitted across his dull eyes.

Yeah, you know something.

‘No comment.’

So it was going to be like that? The copper’s anthem, no comment. Fluke wondered how many times he’d heard that said by someone on the opposite side of an interview room. Thousands probably. Like detectives using pens to pick up evidence and doctors saying ‘sharp scratch’, it was another of those anomalies that made little sense. Criminals watched the same bad cop shows as police officers, he guessed. Everyone arrested has the right to remain silent but they don’t have to say ‘no comment’ to assert that right. Saying nothing is enough.

‘You’re not under arrest, fuckface,’ Towler said.

McNab stared at him but looked away when he realised that Towler wasn’t looking even looking at him.

‘My colleague is right, of course. You’re not under arrest. Now stop pissing about. When did you last see Ackley?’ Fluke said.

‘No fucking comment.’

Fluke had seen it countless times. When the police were involved in their lives they felt powerless. Refusing to answer anything allowed them to get some control back.

‘Ackley’s not in trouble, McNab. You’re not in trouble either, unless you lie to me. Then you’ll be in big trouble. I don’t want to search your house but I will. I wonder what I’ll find? What do you think, Sergeant?’

Towler turned to look at McNab, his contempt obvious. ‘At the very least enough steroids to put him away for six months, boss, would be my guess. Maybe something harder.’

The flash of fear that crossed McNab’s face told Fluke that he was right. Steroid abuse. It explained his muscles and the bruises on the girl’s arms. Steroid abuse and increased aggression were inextricably linked.

 ‘We think Darren may have witnessed something last night that he’d rather not have. We need to know what he saw.’

Another flicker of recognition passed across his face. Bingo. He’d seen him recently.

‘No comment.’

Douglass reappeared and shook her head briefly. Ackley wasn’t inside.

‘McNab, don’t be a tit all your life. Tell me what you know,’ Fluke said, raising his voice slightly. ‘If you don’t, you know I’m gonna have to nick you.’

Fluke thought he saw another flash of fear cross his face. So he’s scared of being arrested. Why? He must have been arrested countless times judging by the tattoos and the way he was talking to them. Hostility towards the police is a learned behaviour. Upstanding citizens were normally polite and as helpful as they could be. McNab was hiding something, that much was obvious.

As he stood and thought for a minute on how he could get the information without arresting him, Towler took matters into his own hands.

‘You know something, boss, I don’t think he’s cool enough to be called McNab. I met a McNab once when I was in the Paras. He was doing a talk on resisting interrogation. Something he’d learned when he was caught by the Iraqis during Desert Storm.’

‘Andy McNab,’ McNab grunted. ‘Bravo Two Zero. They made him eat his own shit.’

‘Check out the military historian here,’ Towler said. ‘Yes, that’s right McNab. Andy McNab. And I think he’s a cool bloke. A credit to his country. I don’t think you should have the same name as such a cool bloke. What do you think, McNab?’

McNab glared at him but said nothing.

‘I think you need a different name. From now on you’re called McKnob.’

There was an immediate reaction. Anger replaced the fear in his eyes. His breathing changed, became shallower, as adrenalin flooded his body. Towler was taller but McNab easily had a three-stone advantage, three stones of steroid-induced muscle, brawn and aggression. It would make no difference.

Towler would wind up a difficult suspect to such an extent that he’d provoke a primal physical reaction which gave him every reason to meet it with his own.

At that point, the girl came back out. She was holding the baby.

‘Ah, just in time. Can we get a cup of tea here, please, love? McKnob here is very thirsty. He’s been telling us all sorts of things haven’t you, McKnob?’ Towler said.

The woman looked at McNab then at Towler, decided she didn’t want anything to do with what was going on and disappeared back into the house.

‘You think we’ll get biscuits with our tea, McKnob?’

Again McNab said nothing. Being humiliated in front of the girl had turned his face and neck bright red. Fluke could tell he was only one remark away from losing it. And that would be bad for him. He could sense Douglass fidgeting beside him, wanting him to stop the deliberate provocation but Fluke didn’t have time to explain what was happening.

Towler then delivered it. ‘How’d your missus get those bruises, McKnob?’

The ‘quick and dirty signal’ scientists call it. A survival trait where the thalamus allows the body to react without speaking to the brain first. In dangerous situations, it can save several seconds. If you know what to look for, there is a subtle change the split second before someone switches from flight to fight. With McNab, it wasn’t that subtle. With a bellow, he charged and swung a giant hairy fist at Towler with a force that would probably have killed him. If he’d been where McNab thought he was.

He wasn’t.

Fluke was no stranger to violence. He’d been a Royal Marines Commando for six years and a police officer for eighteen so had witnessed his fair share. From barroom brawls to full-blown riots, from the fully mechanised war in 1990 to women pulling each other’s hair out in Carlisle city centre, he’d seen good fighters, brave fighters, psychotic fighters and any number of others.

And he’d seen Towler, and Towler was in a category all on his own.

He wasn’t a martial arts expert and he wasn’t the biggest dog in the pack. It was a combination of absolute confidence, controlled aggression and an utter lack of fear that made him so formidable.

During the part of Parachute Regiment basic training known as P-Company, all recruits are required to undertake a particularly brutal test called ‘milling’. Two recruits of equal size are paired against each other, and for the longest minute of their lives are forced to go head-to-head in a version of boxing not seen anywhere else. Having a solid defence is frowned upon. Fancy footwork is frowned upon. Boxing skills are irrelevant and not scored. The object of the test is to demonstrate that the recruit can stand up to violence, that they won’t let their head go down. That they can take a pounding and still come back for more. That they are in control of their aggression. That in battle, when they are pinned down by effective enemy fire, they will have the character to get up and fight.

The spirit of Wireless Ridge and Goose Green.

During one of the rare times their leaves coincided, Fluke had met up with Towler and a mate he’d brought up from Aldershot who he’d been going through P-Company with. After several beers and a couple of hours of Marines versus Paras piss-taking, and when Towler was in the toilet, his friend had told Fluke about their experience of milling.