Unlawfully At Large, page 30
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, two of the other residents turned up with four very noisy, very drunk punters in tow. They were National Front types from the look of them, with buzzcuts and flattened noses. One of the hookers, a loud-mouthed Asian girl who called herself Lola, spotted Angela and invited her to join the party. “Some easy money if you want it,” she said, slurring her words, “but it’s gonna be wild!”
The thuggish punters looked like they had come here to do some heavy partying, and Angela suspected they would pay well for the privilege of doing so, but she had to get back to the flat in case Cribbins turned up and there was no one there to admit him.
“Can’t,” Angela said. She couldn’t rely on Garston getting back in time to sort Claude out, and if he didn’t, they would both take it out on her.
As she walked towards the front door, one of the drunks veered into her path, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He immediately started to gyrate against her, dry fucking her like a dog in heat. He was a real charmer, with a small Swastika tattooed on the right side of his neck, just above his collar line.
“Stay and have some fun,” he said, huskily. She could feel his erection pressing against her like a tent pole. As she tried to back away from it, the man laughed, exposing uneven yellow teeth, and squeezed her even more tightly.
“I’ve taken two Viagras and snorted a tonne of coke,” he boasted, “and I’m ready to fuck you girls, one after the other, until I break you all.”
His mates all cheered; one patted him on the back, while another passed him a half-empty bottle of Russian vodka.
He released Angela and took a long swig. “Want some…” he asked, turning to offer the bottle, only to find that she had vanished.
Angela made her way through the kitchen and left the squat by the rear entrance, knowing from experience that it would be far quicker to do that than try and get past the four drunken idiots Lola had brought back for an orgy.
A gig like that might pay well, she reflected, but you always had to work really hard for your money, doing whatever the deviants wanted for as long as they wanted. Sometimes the shagging went on all night as the girls were passed around like toys. The last time she’d participated in one of those debauchery-filled marathons, she hadn’t been able to walk properly for the best part of a week.
She emerged into Evesham Road and headed down to Portway, keeping the hood of the Parka up to ward off the wind. Walking as fast as she could, her heels clackety-clacked off the pavement like a pair of badly played castanets. As soon as she reached the main drag, Angela headed for the local mini-cab office that the girls all used. With any luck, she would be back at the flat in next to no time.
◆◆◆
Steve Bull pulled the car up outside a three-storey Victorian house with an imposing stone façade.
“Is this it?” Dillon asked, squinting into the darkness to try and work out the number.
“I think so,” Bull said. He reached into the back, where he retrieved a small torch from his jacket pocket. Unwinding his window, he switched it on and shone the weak beam of light over the street door and ivy-covered wall adjacent to it.
“Yep. This is definitely the place,” he said a moment later. Winding his window back up as quickly as he could to close out the arctic wind that battered his face, Bull turned to Dillon. “Do you want me to wait here or come in with you?” he asked.
Dillon grimaced. “You’d better come in with me,” he said. “If this old dragon is half as bad as the on-call Clerk said, I’ll need all the support I can get.”
When the Duty Clerk, a bubbly lady called Stephanie, had called Dillon back after checking the out of hours Magistrate availability, she had sounded apologetic – almost remorseful – when she’d informed him that the only person available in East London was Mrs Hilda Baxter. He’d immediately picked up on her regretful tone and asked if that was a problem.
“Not for me,” the Clerk had replied jauntily, “but she has a reputation for being a mean old troll who enjoys giving the boys in blue a really hard time.”
That didn’t sound good. “Surely she can’t be that bad?” Dillon had asked hopefully.
“Imagine a demon from the bowels of hell, but uglier and meaner.”
Dillon didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Oh dear,” he had said, wishing he’d opted to call IR and draft the briefing document instead.
“Just make sure your paperwork is mistake-free, and don’t try to bullshit her,” the helpful Clerk had advised. “That woman can spot a fib a mile off.”
Dillon alighted the car, nervously adjusted his tie and then did up the first two buttons of his Pierre Cardin suit jacket. Satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed the folder containing the warrant and information, and the other little bits he had brought along to support his application, from the back seat. Followed by Bull, he made his way along the path and knocked loudly on the door. “Well,” he said, “here goes nothing.”
He heard footsteps approaching from inside. “Wait one moment,” an authoritative voice barked.
“Doesn’t sound like she’s terribly pleased to see us,” Bull whispered.
Dillon turned and winked at him, full of bravado. “Don’t worry, as soon as I turn on the fabled Dillon charm, she’ll be putty in my hands.”
Bull groaned. “Why did you have to go and tempt fate by saying something stupid like that?”
Before Dillon could respond, a latch turned, a bolt clunked, and then the heavy wooden door slowly swung inwards, spilling light onto the doorstep where Dillon waited with bated breath to catch his first glimpse of the demon that was Hilda Baxter.
“You must be the police officers Stephanie told me about,” the diminutive woman in her sixties who answered the door said.
Dillon stared at her in open-mouthed surprise. Mrs Baxter didn’t look anything like a demon. The tiny woman was wearing a big, fluffy red dressing gown with little Beatrix Potter animal imprints, a pair of bunny rabbit slippers – complete with floppy ears – and she had her grey hair up in curlers. The eyes, which he had expected to be little black holes that sucked the life force from her victims, were warm and friendly. “Come in out of the cold,” she said and ushered them into the hall like a mother hen.
“Go straight through to the kitchen at the back,” she said, following on behind.
They traversed a long, tastefully decorated hall with a beautiful tiled floor until they came to an enormous kitchen with wood flooring. A centre island dominated the middle of the room and behind that stood a gigantic Rangemaster oven.
“Let’s sit at the dining table,” Mrs Baxter said, pointing towards a huge oak table off to their left. “While you sort out your paperwork, I’ll put the kettle on.” With that, she shuffled off to one of the cupboards and removed three mugs from it. “Coffee or tea?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder at them.
“Coffee would be great,” Dillon replied, feeling a little shell shocked. It dawned on him that the bloody Clerk had been winding him up. Feeling a little silly for having fallen for it, he turned to Bull and whispered, “See, what did I tell you? Putty in my hands.”
As soon as coffee was served – she had thrown in an assortment of biscuits and told them to help themselves – they got down to business.
“Will you be taking the oath or making an affirmation?” Mrs Baxter asked.
“The oath, of course,” Dillon replied. In his experience, Magistrates always preferred it when people swore on the bible before giving evidence.
Mrs Baxter smiled approvingly. “Good,” she said, removing a King James Bible and a laminated card from one of the drawers in the cupboard nearest to them. The card had the oath written on it in big bold letters. Dillon took the bible in his right hand, held it up and recited the oath. He didn’t need to refer to the card she offered him; he knew it off by heart, a fact that was not lost on the wily old Magistrate.
After formally introducing himself by name, rank and the unit he was attached to, Dillon explained that he was there to apply for a search warrant under Section 8 of PACE. He provided her with three copies of the warrant, a written Information – an official document outlining the nature of the offences under investigation, the type of warrant being applied for, the grounds for making the application, and the evidence sought – and then gave a detailed overview of the case and Angela’s involvement. He was pleased to see Mrs Baxter listened to his every word in rapt silence, appropriately nodding enthusiastically and shaking her head sadly at every juncture.
He explained that he was asking for a single-entry warrant to cover multiple premises, by which he meant that the house that they wanted to search was a squat. As such, it was possible that the transient occupants moved around, sleeping in different rooms on different nights, depending on which one was available for occupancy at the time.
When he was finished, he took a deep breath and helped himself to a slice of shortbread.
“Very well,” Mrs Baxter said, “before I make a decision, can you tell me if there are likely to be any children or animals at the premises?”
Dillon shook his head emphatically. “No children or animals. Our intelligence suggests this is a large house in a state of disrepair that has been used as a squat by a number of local prostitutes for the last few months. Some of them, like Angela Marley, live there on pretty much a full-time basis while others doss down for a night or two here and there. The local authority is currently trying to get it closed down as some of the hookers have started bringing punters back for sex parties on an increasingly regular basis, and the squat has effectively turned into a self-ran brothel.”
“I’m sure the neighbours love that,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m told there have been one or two agitated complaints,” Dillon informed her.
“I bet there have,” she replied, shaking her curler-laden head disapprovingly. “Very well, Detective Inspector Dillon, I’m happy to authorise the warrant.” A pen magically appeared in her hand and she began to sign the copies. “Please make sure a copy is returned to the court as soon as it’s executed. I wish you luck with your investigation and I would be grateful if you could let me know how it all turns out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking possession of the signed copies one at a time. “And thank you for seeing us at such short notice, and for your hospitality with the coffee and biscuits,” he said as she escorted them back along the hall to the street door.
“You’re very welcome, Inspector,” she said, smiling sweetly. “One last thing,” she said as she showed them out.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I have a hard-earned reputation for being a rather formidable lady in court, so if either of you dares to tell anyone how I was dressed tonight, or that I was nice to you, I will have no alternative but to hunt you both down and kill you.”
Dillon’s face broke into a huge grin. He liked this woman – a lot. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Your secret is safe with us.”
◆◆◆
Garston was sitting in the bedroom with Winston when Angela finally arrived back at the flat. She poked her head around the door sheepishly. “Everything okay?” she asked timidly.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, standing up angrily. “You were supposed to come straight back here after going around to see Horace.” He looked at his watch and scowled. “That was over three hours ago! What have you been doing since then?”
Angela couldn’t meet his eye. “Sorry,” she muttered contritely, looking down at the floor. “Needed to go home and get changed.”
Garston moved towards her with menace. The slap he had given her the day before had changed the dynamic between them, knocking some of the arrogance out of her. Maybe she needed a little more of the same today? “What did I say to you?” he snapped, spraying her with spittle. “You don’t go anywhere near the squat until I give you permission. If I find out that you opened that horrible big gob of yours and blabbed to anyone about where we’re holed up…” He raised a hand as if to slap her.
“I didn’t say anything to anyone, I swear,” Angela cried, cowering in fear.
“Leave the bitch alone,” Winston said, speaking for the first time. “She knows I’d gut her like a fish if she dropped me in the shit. Ain’t that right, girl?”
Angela nodded, too afraid to even speak, not with Garston looming over her, looking for an excuse to lash out.
There was a knock on the door.
“Who’s that?” Garston asked, suddenly looking worried. Rodent had a key, and they weren’t expecting visitors. And then he remembered that Cribbins was meant to be popping around, and he let out a sigh of relief.
“Make yourself useful,” he said, shoulder barging Angela out of the way. “Clean Claude’s wound while I let our guest in.”
Angela went over to the bed and began to remove Claude’s bandages. “How are you feeling?” she asked him.
He shrugged grumpily. “How would you be feeling with half your insides hanging out?”
Angela wondered why men were prone to such over-exaggeration. She was just about to peel the dressing back when she noticed some tablets in plastic foil on the bedside table, next to a half-drunk glass of water. “He got you some antibiotics, then?” she observed.
Winston grunted. “Just gave me the first couple of pills. Massive things, they are too. Had trouble swallowing the fucking things.”
Just then, Garston returned with Cribbins. The latter was carrying a small brown medical bag of the type favoured by doctors making house calls.
“Who the fuck’s this motherfucker?” Winston demanded, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. Garston noticed his right hand had slipped under his pillow, where the gun was no doubt hidden. He raised his hands placatingly. “It’s all cool, Claude,” he said hurriedly. “This is Horace. He’s come to stitch up your wound.”
Winston’s hand slowly reappeared from beneath the pillow. Thankfully it was empty. “You took your motherfucking time coming,” he complained. “Fucking useless wanker.”
Ignoring the insult, Horace Cribbins opened his bag and removed a pair of rubber gloves. “You’re a lot more vocal than my normal clients,” he said conversationally.
Garston and Angela exchanged nervous glances, suddenly allies again. If Winston found out what Cribbins did for a living, and what he had been dismissed for doing in his previous occupation, he was quite likely to shoot all three of them.
“Let’s have a look at the wound, shall we?” the white-haired embalmer said, demonstrating the perfect bedside manner. He sat down next to the gangster and gently peeled the dressing back. Winston swore as the sticky gauze came away, but Cribbins took no notice of the outburst.
“Hmmm,” he said, examining the wound. “There was obviously widespread infection of the inner lining of the abdomen, which is why the surgeon has made a wider than usual incision. The procedure is called a laparotomy.”
“Do I look like I give a flying fuck what it’s called?” Winston growled. “Just sow the damn thing up so I can move around again.”
“It looks like there has been some bleeding under the skin, which is why there’s a firm swelling here,” he indicated an area below the scar. “That’s called a haematoma,” he said with a helpful smile. “It should get better on its own, but if you’re concerned you can always consult your GP.”
“There was some puss coming out of the wound yesterday,” Angela said, “but that seems to have eased off now.”
“He might still have an infection, but the antibiotics you’re giving him should take care of that. Is this them?” he asked, picking up the tablets and reading the label. His eyes narrowed and he turned to Garston with a questioning look on his face. “But these are –”
“Horace, let’s just concentrate on stitching up the wound for now, and we can discuss Claude’s medication later,” Garston said, grabbing the embalmer’s arm and squeezing hard.
“Ouch,” Cribbins yelped. “That hurt.”
“The boy’s right,” Winston said impatiently. “Just get your needle and thread out and patch me up.”
“Very well, “Cribbins said, still rubbing his arm. He turned to Angela. “What have you been cleaning the wound with?”
“Iodine,” she said.
“That won’t do,” Cribbins told her sternly. “Warm soapy water is what’s required. Can you get me some, please?”
Angela bristled. “Why are you asking me to get it?” she demanded. “Is it because I’m a woman?”
“No,” Cribbins told her patiently. “I’m asking you because you strike me as being far more capable than him,” he indicated Garston with a jut of his chin.
“Oh,” Angela said, genuinely surprised. “In that case, I’ll get right on it.”
Cribbins raised an eyebrow. “According to the news reports, Mr Winston, you’ve been running around fighting with the police. That wasn’t very wise, was it? Didn’t your surgeon tell you to avoid any strenuous exercise for the first two to four weeks after the operation?”
Winston looked from Cribbins to Garston. “Is this dude shitting me?” he asked. He couldn’t tell if the man was being serious or taking the piss out of him.
“Mr Winston,” Cribbins said with a fatherly smile, “In a few minutes I’m going to stitch you up, but the sutures won’t be any stronger than the ones you were given in hospital. The point I am trying to make is that if you exert yourself too much there is a very good chance they will tear apart and you will be back to square one.”
“So, what? I’m supposed to be bedridden while I recover? That what you’re trying to say?”
“You can move around slowly and carefully, ideally with assistance. You cannot roll around on the floor, fighting with policemen. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
