Three Steps to Hell (3 page)

Tom approached the Custody Sergeant’s small and untidy office.

“Morning Jim, what delights have you got for us this morning?”

Jim Solomon was the Custody Sergeant, a very large, 6 feet 4 inch 42 year old ex weight lifter who stood no nonsense from anyone and had an instant sobering effect on the drunks and local criminals.

“Morning Tom, your guvnor’s already been down, there’s only two for your lot this morning, two kids who stole a car and then got caught breaking into the secretary’s office at the secondary school.”

“Who caught them Jim?”

“The caretaker, he’d watched a late film and was walking his dog in the grounds at about 1am when he heard a window smash. His Alsatian isn’t a particularly friendly dog and scared the shit out of the two kids who stood still until PC Williams arrived. His statement’s attached to the paperwork. PC Williams thought he ought to leave them for CID to deal with due to the recent spate of minor office and school burglaries.”

“I bet he did,” Tom said sarcastically.

Tom quickly examined the rest of the night’s custody records to see who else had graced Brampton Police with their presence. One caught his attention.

“I see Paul Dorsey was brought in on suspicion of attempted burglary. He’s a big pal of Wayne Evans isn’t he Jim?”

“Yes that was a bit of a strange one Tom. PC Jennings was driving down Horton Close at about 1.30am and he saw Dorsey in the distance and immediately recognised him. Dorsey heard the car, turned round, saw it was a patrol car and legged it down the alley that runs between Horton Close and Peters Avenue. Jennings stopped and ran down the alley after him but couldn’t find him. By pure fluke the dog handler was nearby, heard what was going on over the radio and took the dog down there. The dog tracked into the back garden of one of the bungalows and to a shed where Dorsey was hiding. Dorsey was shit scared as usual and was as good as gold but couldn’t explain why he ran. He had blood all over his bomber jacket so it was assumed, knowing his form, that he had probably tried to break into one of the bungalows and perhaps cut himself badly on a window. But, there were no break-ins, no attempted break-ins, no broken windows, nothing.”

“So how had he cut himself Jim?”

“Well apparently that’s the weird thing, they got the Doctor out to examine him but he didn’t have a scratch. He said the blood on his jacket was from a nosebleed he had in a fight a couple days ago but Jennings could see it was fairly fresh. When he was interviewed he said he just legged it because he saw the police car and panicked as he had a bit of cannabis in his pocket which he claims he chucked as he was running down the lane. We can’t find any offences or the supposed cannabis so we’re going to let him go but it’s all a bit odd. I’ve just done all the paperwork and he’s sitting in the exercise yard getting some fresh air, you know how he panics when he’s banged up in a cell. He’s ready to be released without charge. Why the interest in him Tom?”

“I got called out just after 2am this morning to the hospital. His mate Evans was there with two stab wounds but he refused to tell me what had happened and won’t make a complaint so I can’t really take it further. I would like Dorsey’s jacket though Jim because we’ve got DNA from Evans from last time he was in and I’d be intrigued to know if it’s Evans’ blood on that jacket.”

“It’s bagged up in his property locker Tom if you want it. Do you want to speak to him only I’ve done all the release papers now?”

“That’s fine, release him and I’ll just have a quick informal chat with him in my office because I’ve got no formal complaint from Evans anyway. I’ll offer the nice Mr. Dorsey a cup of coffee before he leaves, I’m sure he will be so pleased to see me! Just hang on to him for another 10 minutes or so Jim while I go and tell my intrepid leader what I’m doing. I can’t believe that Frank Steele didn’t lightly connect the two incidents last night.”

“You know him Tom, as a night shift Police Inspector he’s about as much good as an ash tray on a motor bike.”

Tom and Jim were very much ‘the old school’ type Police Officers. Both were good friends and long standing colleagues who had joined in the same year. They had witnessed just about everything that represented the sordid, abhorrent and disappointing side of life and human nature and of course the indignity, dismay, finality and anger of death. They had been hardened by their experiences to such a degree that nothing shocked them any longer. Faith had been lost in vast sections of the human race and their nearest and dearest often considered them bereft of normal human emotions. They shared common ground regarding their thoughts upon the demise of the British Police Service and the ineffectiveness of the upper ranks but lived in hope that common sense would eventually prevail amongst the Politicians and manning levels, equipment and funding would all one day improve to a realistic level.

The CID office was on the first floor. It was an open plan office with two smaller offices within one corner, one being the Detective Sergeants’ office and the other the Detective Inspector’s. Tom shared his office with DS John Nichols who was currently sunning himself in a more favourable climate. Between them they supervised eight Detective Constables, a shift of four per DS. However, with having to provide early and late cover, allow for annual leave, sickness and detachments for courses and incident rooms they were often lucky to have two or three Detectives on duty in a 24 hour period.

The Detective Inspector in overall charge was Barry Lowe, a graduate entry Officer with limited CID experience who, in Tom’s view, was only interested in his next step up the promotion ladder and played a very small part in every day investigations. That way he was safe not to make an error of judgement that may impair any future promotion prospects. Better to let the DS’s run everything, blame them for any blunders or oversights and then make an example of them to show who is truly in charge. Lowe had a tendency to put all his efforts into management meetings and futile projects in an effort to impress the hierarchy with his all too numerous ideas on increasing the detection rate, cutting the overtime bill and generally reducing the CID budget. Unfortunately a majority of his cost cutting exercises had a knock on effect of demoralising his staff and increasing pressure and stress on already overburdened Detectives. A short, almost completely bald, slightly overweight 35 year old, with sharp facial features who favoured designer suits and wore bi-focals low on his nose, something that just didn’t work in Tom’s mind. He felt that Lowe wore them that way as he liked to look down on his underlings like a headmaster would observe his pupils. But somehow, it never worked, as he was shorter than the majority of the Policemen that he came in contact with and thus had to look up. Perhaps explaining his reluctance to get up from behind his desk Tom would often muse. Tom sarcastically referred to Lowe as ‘the slap head’, a man whom he considered was suffering from ‘small man syndrome’. A small man yearning to be a big man, using his rank and fanciful superiority and power in an effort to make his staff feel and appear inferior. Tom’s experiences both within the police service and in his dealings with the general public had only too often verified that small men were the most difficult to work for and to deal with on the streets. He found larger men to be calmer, less volatile and easier to reason with, probably as they naturally had size and power and had less to prove to themselves or their peer group in respect of their perceived manhood.

Tom walked through the main CID office.

“Good morning Sarge, you look like you’re in immediate need of a large mug of our best, no expense spared coffee,” suggested Dave Sweeting, one of Tom’s more experienced Detective Constables and closest friends, generally referred to as ‘Sweetface’ by his colleagues. A name probably derived from his cheeky laddish good looks and surname.

“You’re a star Sweetface,” replied Tom.

“Make two mugs will you, I’m going to invite one of our highly intelligent, articulate inmates up for early morning coffee and a little chat.”

“As good as done Sargie,” quipped Sweeting.

As he passed the DI’s door he heard the dulcet tones of his intrepid leader.

“Ah! Thomas, just the man I need to talk to.”

Tom grimaced.

“Morning Barry.”

Tom knew that Lowe wanted his staff to refer to him as Sir as he felt it reflected the respect that his rank should carry. Tom was of the opinion, like many others with similar career experience, that it was the person that earned respect through proven ability rather than the rank carrying it regardless.

“Did you get a note left for you relating to Evans and my visit to the hospital in the early hours?”

“Yes thanks Tom but I need you to fill me in with a bit more detail ‘cos I’ve got morning prayers in a few minutes.” (A term used for the Superintendent’s morning meeting where one or more representatives of Uniform and CID brief him to outline the events of the last 24 hours).

“Come along with me Tom as I’ll no doubt get quite a few questions.”

Tom declined the invitation and after quickly outlining events explained his wish to speak to Dorsey upon his release from the cell block and made his way to his own desk.

“Sweetface,” Tom shouted from his office.

“At your beck and call Sarge.”

“Go down to the cells, in Dorsey’s property locker you’ll find a jacket with blood stains. It’s all sealed up in a bag apparently. Drop it into Scenes of Crime for me. Tell them I suspect the blood will be a match for public enemy Wayne Evans. Get them to do the necessary comparisons to see if they can get a match on it for me. I imagine they’ve got sufficient on Evans from his previous visits and offences to make the comparison. Also there are a couple of idiots in for stealing a car and a burglary at the school, you and young Martin can deal with them.”

“What do you reckon Evans has been up to then Sarge?

“I’ll brief you later Dave, I must get on. Anything much in the Crime Book overnight?”

“No Sarge, only a couple of vehicle thefts in the town centre, 3 minor town centre office break ins and an attempted burglary out in Whitbury village just off the coast road. The occupant seems pretty sure that it was her estranged husband trying to get in so Uniform are looking into that. Nothing for you to worry about anyway Sarge.”

“Thanks Dave.”

Tom swiftly tidied his office, concealed any documents that shouldn’t be seen by one of the local criminals and made his way back down to the Custody Sergeant in the cell complex.

“Alright if I take Dorsey up to my office now Jim?”

“Help yourself Tom, he’s signed all the paperwork, I’ve released him refused charge and returned all his personal belongings except for his jacket obviously. I told him you want a friendly chat and he’s quite happy, although very nervous. But I never know if that really means much with him ‘cos he’s always so quiet and nervous in here. He was very concerned as to why you want to keep his jacket though. I told him I didn’t know. He’s in the visitors’ waiting room.”

“Thanks Jim.”

Tom opened the waiting room door and saw Dorsey sitting in the corner with his head in his hands looking disconsolate. Dorsey was the same age as Evans, a solidly built young man of about 5 foot 10 inches, covered in tattoos with a completely shaven head. Tom had never seen him in anything other than jeans and Dr Martens boots. He liked to portray himself as one of the town’s hardmen but inside the police station he was generally as quiet as a mouse and exceptionally anxious when shown the cells.

“Paul do you remember me? I’m Tom Lancaster, one of the DS’s here. I’ve got a coffee for you up in my office, we need to talk.”

“Why Mr Lancaster, why have you kept my jacket, I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“Follow me Paul and I’ll explain. You know full well why I’ve kept your jacket.”

“No I don’t.”

“Come on, this way Paul.” Tom led him upstairs to his office.

Once inside, Tom shut the door. Dorsey sat down opposite Tom’s desk and was handed a coffee.

“There’s sugar on the desk here Paul, help yourself.” Tom sat behind his desk.

“So why did you want to speak to me Mr. Lancaster? I told them why I ran away.”

“You’re a big mate of young Wayne Evans right?”

“Yeah, he’s my best mate.”

“Christ you pick some nice friends don’t you Paul?”

“He’s okay when you get to know him.”

“Well you know what happened to him last night don’t you?”

“No.”

Tom studied Dorsey’s face and bodily reactions. He was an intuitive Detective whose lengthy CID experience had made him very proficient in the observation of body language. He immediately detected Dorsey’s unease.

“Come on Paul, I’m too busy a man to waste time going round the houses, I wasn’t born yesterday, your mate Evans got stabbed last night, that blood on your jacket is from him.”

Tom saw little body reaction from Dorsey to the statement that his best friend had been stabbed, so immediately knew he was on the right track.

“No, I don’t know what you’re talking about, it’s from a nose bleed I got in a fight a couple of days ago.”

“The blood was fresh Paul, don’t waste my time. The reason I’ve kept your jacket is so that Scenes of Crime Officers can do comparisons to see if it’s a match for Evans’ blood. I’ve got a good idea what the result of that will be. If it is Evans’ blood you will be paying us another visit but this time on suspicion of a serious stabbing.”

Tom noticed the sudden change in Dorsey’s body language and knew he was getting somewhere instantly.

“It’s got nothing to do with Wayne and I didn’t know he’d been stabbed, honest Mr Lancaster.”

“You and Evans had a fight did you Paul? It’ll be easy for me to check it out from the blood on your jacket.”

Dorsey started to get flustered and agitated.

“Hey Paul, as I said I’m a really busy man, I’ve given you the chance to be up front with me about the blood, if it turns out to be from Evans you’ll have to take the consequences. A stabbing is a serious offence and we all know how much you love being in here in the cells. Don’t expect any sympathy from me when it happens. Finish off your coffee and you can get off home, I haven’t got time to be fucked about by the likes of you, I told you I’m a very busy man Paul.”