22

Further enquiries

“Hello, Mrs Chakrabarti, I’m Basil’s boss, I’m Detective Inspector Trebor, but please call me Bob, won’t you? I’m sorry we meet under such unfortunate circumstances, but let me assure you we believe we know the identity of the assailant and we’ll do everything in our power to get him.”

She looked up at Bob, her eyes searching his face for reassurance that her husband was going to pull through, still holding his hand, careful not to disturb the drip taped to his arm.

Bob squeezed past her to the left side of the bed and, leaning forward, he left Basil in no doubt the squad would very quickly get who did this to him. As he left, Al met up with him at the Accident and Emergency reception and told him to ensure that all members of the squad be in the office for 9am sharp to be briefed on tracking down Heath. The only ones excused would be those engaged in court appearances. His chat on the phone during one of the earlier interminable delays waiting for the jury to come back with an answer held a very attractive proposition for Bob that evening. A phone call home to the mother of his children dictated he should really put in an appearance on the home front and forego an evening and probably a night of undiluted pleasure with a woman he had grown so fond of.

Truth is, I’m growing sick of her at home moaning that I’m never there, but in the next breath moaning she hasn’t got enough money to go out shopping for designer clothes, berating me that the children are forgetting what I look like, but I have to do the hours otherwise this detective doesn’t get paid! Her choice, quite frankly, so I’m heading home to see the kids, whom I love dearly, but these days it doesn’t extend to her. One of them is training at the local swimming club and the other is at a gymnastics class about the same time, both of which are at the sports centre, so I can kill two birds with one stone and watch the pair of them. Then take them to the upmarket burger restaurant ‘Back in Time’ for a treat while she’s sat at home festering and plotting my downfall!

*

Bob had barely made it into the office at eight thirty when his phone rang.

“What happened to you last night, I thought you were coming over?” He recognised her beguiling voice, as she made her enquiry so disarmingly casual, but from bitter experience when he’d tried lame excuses in the past, he sensed he was in for a hard time from her.

“I… erm had to cut away, I’m really sorry but one of the kids was sick and had to go to the doctor’s. She didn’t have a car as it was in for a service so I had to take mine home to do the trip.”

Silence. Then an appeal that he could have let her know as she’d cooked a nice meal for them both and was ‘dressed to kill’, knowing that he would know exactly what she meant, but she accepted the reason this time, conditional on better notice should something like that happen again. He replaced the receiver, pledging he’d see her before the weekend, she accepting their complicated relationship meant he had all the balls in the air at the same time.

A hesitant knock on the door announced the entry of DS Hunt, dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt hanging over the waistband as now had become the fashion, Bob noting it for next time.

“All right, Jim?” asked Bob as Hunt planted himself in a chair the other side of Bob’s desk. “So what happened?” he continued.

Hunt unveiled his tale of woe as to how he and Basil were at Knightsbridge tube in the booking hall when they spotted Heath who was on conditional bail from the Magistrates’ Court not to enter the Underground network because of his form for dipping or more violently robbing punters innocently using the services of the tube. A confrontation then took place between them, although he claimed he didn’t directly see it, resulting in Basil being pushed and taking a fall down the escalators. The first thing he knew was Basil near the bottom having gone head over heels down the stairs. Heath by this time had turned and made good his escape. Bob sat staring at Hunt, his hands resting as if praying with his elbows firmly resting on his desk in front of him, waiting see if that was the end of his account. A pregnant pause was broken with Bob giving direction.

“Right, brief the boys and send them out looking for Heath. I want you to go to Knightsbridge Crown and see the witness to this. I believe they’re in the List Office. In the meantime, send Hazel into me will you?”

“OK, guv.” Hunt left, believing his account of Basil’s rapid descent to injury had been accepted by the guvnor.

Bob shuffled some paperwork on his desk, signing off a number of crimes with no hope of ever resulting in a successful arrest or prosecution – a constant frustration to him that so many victims of this hideous crime saw no positive end result, so much so that in many cases the absolute minimum of enquiry by police, consisting of a phone call, a bit of ‘tea and sympathy’, was the best many could hope for. His thoughts were broken with Paul knocking and entering the guvnor’s office.

“Hello, boss, good result for John Innes,” said Paul.

“Yeah Paul, I’d like to catch up with him soonest, can I leave it to you to arrange? I want to get his CICB claim in, I’ll do it for him; he deserves a decent payout from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board, poor bastard. Meantime, we’re going to see Raul Darby, see if he can shed any light on Heath’s whereabouts. We need to nick him damn quick.”

Paul concurred with Bob’s declaration, and left to get a car from the pool, realising he’d be the driver to Darby’s address in Deptford.

“It means nothing to me, oh Vienna.”

‘Click’, as Bob turned his office radio off. Right let’s go, he thought to himself, checking he had his wallet, his brief, aka warrant card, and his loose change. Happy that his day’s papers were up to speed, he strolled down the six flights of stairs from his third-floor office to the station yard where Paul waited, the car on tick-over.

“OK, Paul,” he said as he dropped into the front passenger seat. “Do you know where we’re going?”

Paul knew the address in Shelduck Court in Deptford; confirming with the guvnor, he asked, “Is there any chance he can help us then, guv?”

Bob filled in Paul on Raul’s background: he’d been a snout of his for a couple of years, in return for getting a ‘life’, as he perceived, and not getting nicked, or in his mind fitted up for a non-existent attempted theft offence adding to his extensive previous convictions for previous offences. From the nick they went east through the Angel Islington, down to Old Street, then to Houndsditch, over Tower Bridge – something the United States thought they’d bought when they actually purchased the old London Bridge – then Old Kent Road to Deptford.

“Will the car be alright here, guv?” asked Paul as they parked up in an area below Darby’s address looking more like a war zone in the Middle East than a place where on return you wouldn’t find the car on bricks! Bob laughed and said he’d been there many times without incident; of course, there was always a first time but it was a job car, not their own.

*

Hunt, dressed casually, carrying a small black leather portfolio, acquired as a present from his peers when he was first promoted to sergeant, walked purposefully along Hans Crescent towards his appointment with the young lady in the List Office, who it seemed had seen everything when Basil met his demise. In his mind he ran through how he would approach the witness statement he was about to commit to paper, if she really did see Jim’s ‘shove’. In his mind, what he needed to ensure was that, in the confusion, she might not have seen what she thought she had. The List Office was on the same level as the front doors to the building and was one of those new modern ways of using office space with everyone in together, no walls, just room dividers. Hunt realised he’d have to find somewhere more private with the witness if he was going to succeed in convincing her what she ‘really saw’. Penny’s face drained as she saw DS Hunt enter.

*

Paul followed like a dutiful dog behind Bob as they ascended to the first-floor maisonette via the urine-smelling staircase, something which seemed to inform anyone visiting they were entering a block of council flats. Turning left they went past two front doors before arriving at Raul Darby’s reinforced metal gate at the end of the landing. Bob pressed the buzzer to the right but then saw a small wire hanging loose from the back of the bell plate. Paul shook his head, berating Raul’s crap doorbell. Typical, Bob thought, and resorted to leaning through the gate banging hard on the dirty white-painted wooden door.

Now I’ve known Raul for about three years. He’s a dip pure and simple, probably with the accent on the latter, but that said he was honest enough to put his hands up to the attempted theft I nicked him for, without crying ‘foul’ as so many in his position have, he just accepted he wasn’t going to win by claiming I’d had such a vivid imagination shall we say? He accepted his fate, did his time – he had to with the form he had – but we got on well, and I don’t know why but I felt obliged to help him get somewhere to live when he was released from ‘the Scrubs’. It’s amazing sometimes what a little rank and authority can do! Since then he’s been a useful source of information, particularly when I was looking for members of the same ethnic group, you get my drift? Today I’m hoping he might tell me where I can find Errol Heath. The boys have already been to the home address he gave when he was charged and last remanded and as King Charles I said, ‘it seems the bird has flown’. So now we’re on a hunt for the shit!

“Who is it?” came the voice from behind the closed door. Raul, not anticipating visitors at the unearthly hour of eleven o’clock, had just staggered to his kitchen inside his maisonette to get a glass of water.

“Raul, it’s me, DI Trebor, open up will you for fuck’s sake, before one of us gets a bad reputation.”

Two bolts were slid open and a key in the middle Chubb lock enabled Raul to free the door from its security. Slowly it opened revealing a bleary-eyed Raul, seeking visual confirmation of the voice he thought he recognised. His buck teeth started a smile across his face as he was happy he was right in his assumption. Without saying a word he then unlocked the deadlock on the gate, beckoning Bob and Paul into the hallway.

“Hello boss, sorry about that but you can’t be too careful round here. I’ve just got up, want some tea for you and DC Hazel, isn’t it?” he said as Bob and Paul followed him into a sparsely appointed lounge, where they sat on a brown corduroy sofa facing the lounge door. Raul left them and after a desperate search for two mugs, which he hastily washed out, the kettle whistled to announce it was ready to disgorge its contents on two ‘Happy Shopper’ teabags. To his surprise he found a new carton of long-life milk in his fridge, courtesy of his mate still sleeping upstairs. Having wrung the life out of the teabags he returned to the lounge with the mugs and milk, placing them on an upturned orange box doubling as a coffee table, apologising for an absence of sugar. His humbleness was now beginning to irritate Bob.

“Raul, sit down on the beanbag. You probably realise why I’ve come to see you.”

A quizzical look adorned Raul’s face indicating he obviously didn’t have a clue what Bob was referring to, but then he’d often deployed such a look when being interrogated by the police over some crime which he claimed he did know about. He waited for the officer to divulge more before he’d commit himself.

“You see, Raul, you know I’ve always been straight with you, I’ve let you run when I could’ve nicked you, you’ve had a ‘life’ or two off the boys. Why? Because I’ve told them to leave you alone, not to cause you hassle, and that’s because of the… what I’d like to call friendship between us. You know?”

Darby sat, still mystified as to why the guvnor of the Dip Squad was in his lounge and smiled to himself about the unthinkable proposition of getting fitted up by Bob. Friends? He wasn’t quite sure about that, but he could give Bob some old nonsense he’d believe, then maybe he’d just piss off out of his flat. His mate John was upstairs and he definitely didn’t want him getting even a whiff he might be a snout for the ‘old bill’, especially Trebor!

“I bet you know about one of my officers being thrown down the escalators at Knightsbridge, don’t you? Now don’t say anything. I know who’s done it, I just want to know where he’s living. The last address he gave is crap. I want to get to him before his next court appearance, Raul.”

Darby wondered to himself, What the fuck is he on about? I haven’t heard nothing at all. But he nodded as if he was an all-knowing Buddha, waiting to impart his pearls of wisdom.

With that, there was loud thumping as someone descended the stairs two at a time, and a roar of anger as the lounge door burst open and Darby’s massively built mate stood, filling out the doorway, wearing camouflage jeans and jacket and holding a large carving knife in his right hand poised and ready to use. There stood Sean Vivian Crawley, a violent black pickpocket, the whites of his bloodshot eyes glazed against his dark skin, nostrils flared, his growl revealing the two bright gold teeth at the front of his snarling mouth.

Darby spun round, “No Sean, no, they’re sweet, man, they’re sweet.” Bob and Paul remained seated, creating the impression they were unaffected by some gobshite hell bent on filleting the pair of them.

“Hello Sean, wondered where the fuck you were living these days, now I know. So now you have a problem. As Dirty Harry said, ‘Do you feel lucky?’ Are you going to try and get both of us, in which case a fight will happen, and I guarantee you’ll get fucking done. You’re wanted on warrant at the moment, and even if you’re not, you know a script will mean you stay banged up until your trial, and you know Raul is sensible enough not to get involved, or you fuck off while we carry on extending our hand of friendship to Mr Darby.”

Crawley said nothing but threw the knife to the ground with such force that it dug into the chipboard floor and quivered like a spent arrow, turned, slamming the door behind him, and a second slam of the front door announced that he had indeed left the flat.

“Now Raul, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Yes, my officer lies injured in hospital, recovering from being thrown down the escalator. I know who did it and I want to know where he is.”

“Honestly, Mr Trebor, I haven’t heard anything. I will ask around for you.”

“Errol Heath,” said Bob, “that’s the fucker that did it and I want him. Soonest.”

Darby was honest in his declaration, he knew nothing, but he knew Heath; it didn’t really sound like a thing he would do, but he’d try to find him, and tell Bob.

With that assurance, Bob and Paul left Darby to recover the knife still stuck in the floor.

I’m on my way back to the ‘dream factory’ to see how Jim got on with the young lady in the List Office. With any luck her statement will put beyond doubt that Heath is the man and I can charge him with a good GBH or better still attempted murder with the right verbals. Must say I’m a bit surprised Darby didn’t know anything, usually the old jungle drums beat very quickly on something like this, especially when a copper has taken a fall. Still, there it is.

*

Paul drove back through the busy rush hour traffic of central London to the nick, cursing the endless procession of buses causing, as he thought, more gridlock and aggravation than they’re worth. Bob, tiring of Paul’s whinging, was relieved to get back, and as punishment he told him to make the tea and bring him a cup. Jim picked up the case history folder on Basil’s assault, gathering together a sheaf of papers together with the much-awaited statement from the List Office witness. He knocked and entered Bob’s office to find the guvnor leaning back in his chair listening to Kenny Loggins declaring, “I went through the danger zone.”

Bob beckoned him in. “Sit down, Jim, let’s have a look at this statement.”

Hunt pulled out the totality of her statement, which went into three pages. Bob studied its content, reading each page slowly, conscious this was the only independent view of Basil’s assault.

“What the fuck is this, Jim? She’s given a detailed account of how she came to be there in the first place and she tells us a lot of how she went to the court. But when it comes to witnessing Heath pushing Basil down the escalator she gets all vague. Didn’t you try and pin her down on what is obviously the crucial bit of her evidence? What happened?”

Hunt realised he was going to have to confess all, because sooner or later the boss would find out or the witness might drop him in it anyway.

“Basically, guv, she swears she saw me push Basil down the escalator. To be honest, guv, I think I might have done, I just don’t remember. Because of that I thought I’d leave it a bit up in the air. I didn’t want her thinking I was trying to get her to tell lies, I honestly didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, guv, I just panicked.”

Bob stared at Hunt. “Shut up, you tart.”

He picked up the statement and slowly read through it again. Hunt didn’t dare say a word; he figured he’d wait for the guvnor’s response to the monster of a problem he’d created. If only she hadn’t come forward, Bob thought, he’d be able to mask his actions with Basil, nick Heath for the offence and fit him up. Who’s going to argue with the story of a violent black dip, breaching his conditions of bail, trying to escape, and in the process throwing a plain clothes copper down the stairs. Not only that, the Asian-looking copper could have just been a member of the public. So the defence could dress it up that maybe it was an accident he fell, in which case Heath would just be facing the breach of bail conditions, and maybe an attempted theft allegation, better still, attempted theft from Basil not realising he was in ‘the job’!

“Right, here’s what you are going to do. You are going to be the officer in charge of trying to catch Heath, and for putting the file together to nick and charge him, not only for the breach of bail but also the assault on Chakrabarti. Also you are going to have to get together with him to write up Heath and that it was as a result of Basil discovering he was being dipped that Heath pushed him down the escalators. You sit on that statement you’ve got from the bird at the court. Better still, give it to me; I’ll put it in my safe, so no one else sees it. I assume nobody else has seen it?”

“No guv, I haven’t spoken to anyone in the office; I just came back and seen you.”

“So you put it about that she wasn’t really that helpful on the actual time of the assault so basically the whole case revolves around you and Basil. I’m going to leave it to you to get your storylines tight and together with him. When’s he going to be discharged from hospital?”

“I think probably tomorrow, guv. He’s a bit bashed about but he’ll be all right. I’ll speak to him, he’s still a bit vague about what happened.”

“You’d better straighten him out for this otherwise we’re all in shit creek. You hang on to the case, and don’t be so quick at getting Heath circulated as wanted for this. It needs a bit of distance put into it, which also gives you a chance to run through the script with Basil a few times to make sure you have it right! Do a recce on the location to get some idea of measurements for the scene, see if Heath could’ve lunged at you as you ducked and he connected with Baz pushing him in the back to his fall. I think that’s the safest scenario, don’t you?”

“Yes guv. I’m really sorry for this. I’ll make sure Basil is well briefed on what happened.”

“Not half as sorry as Basil, he’s still licking his wounds! Now fuck off and get it sorted. But you tell me if any problems arise otherwise I can’t help you. OK?”

Hunt left the guvnor to get on with a huge pile of crime reports he had to sign off.

I knew it, I bloody knew it! That prick Hunt, rhymes with… He’s causing all sorts of aggro for me. First he fails to do his homework on two jobs where all he had to do was have two different descriptions of victims in each of the attempted theft cases and he would have been home and dry. But no, he gets sloppy, uses the same victim description and both trials follow one after the other in front of the same judge. The same judge for God’s sake! The judges already know what’s going on, they know the dips need ‘taking out’ regularly, what they don’t want is to be put in an embarrassing position like that caused by the efforts of Hunt. You might think his stunt to avoid the second trial a tad extreme. So do I. What panicked him into throwing Basil down the escalator is anybody’s guess. Luckily, from what I hear, Basil is going to be all right. But fuck me, it now means he’s got to con Basil into believing Heath did it. That would be all right if it was only me who knew, but we’ve got a female witness who honestly believes Hunt did it. So now he’s got to reframe the whole story again and somehow lose the witness! I wouldn’t mind but this isn’t the first time he’s done it. Before, he stabbed a DC in the arse to avoid a repeat like those on the fucking BBC! I’ll let you in on a secret, someone stabbed in the arse will survive, it’s soft tissue, no vital organs or arteries, so no risk to life. A good GBH, and just unable to sit down for a while, but a very good excuse for getting out of a difficult situation. And, so my DS Hunt has form. There’s me trying to show that we’re clean, good thief takers, good reputation, pillars of society, not on the take like my predecessors, and I get an idiot of a sergeant who wants to dramatise every damn incident he’s involved in!