OUT OF YOUR FUCKING JOB AND OUT ON THE STREET.
KEITH BALDESTONE AND ALAN EDGELEY found Adam Davidson in the public bar of the ‘Bag o’ Nails’ on Ardmore Street, no more than ten minutes’ brisk walk from the Corner Shop on India Street. He had been drinking from the moment the pub opened at 5:30 and was now fighting drunk. He had been flashing money about as well, so much so that the landlord, Randy O’Hare, even asked if Davidson had won the pools. “Nah. My old Mum, bless her, seen me right,” he responded, which Randy O’Hare knew to be a lie, but the man was spending cash like there was no tomorrow, already he had passed over a large white five-pound note, most of which was gone, especially since he was now so drunk he had no idea how much he was spending and so Randy systematically short-changed him.
He was drunkenly belligerent, more so when he saw the two coppers come into the bar (Marcus and Harry had put the word out that they were interested in talking to him. They had, of course, been to his house, but he was not there, and his mother did not know where he was, nor seemed to care). “Look out,” he shouted, “here come the pigs. Oink! Oink,” and thought himself enormously funny as he reeled about in a grotesque dance, repeating himself over and over. “Oink, oink, oink, oink, oink,” before chanting in a sing-song voice, “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, and this little piggy went wee wee wee all over his big plod boots.”
Balderstone and Edgeley were unimpressed, and Randy O’Hare nodded towards Davidson and jerked his head towards the door, get him out of here, said the gesture, he’s trouble.
“All right, Davidson, come along with us, CID want a word with you,” Balderstone said, marching over to the bar where Davidson was leaning, barely able to stand up without support.
“Wassabout, done nothing so fuck off,” he shouted, his eyes bulging and glaring before turning back to the bar to reach for his glass. Finding it empty, he waved it furiously at Randy O’Hare and then at his barman, Nick Jervis, without success. Balderstone and Edgeley took up position either side of Davidson and each took one of his arms, ready to drag him out by force. Suddenly realising his position, he tried to shrug off their arms with bravado before meekly going along with them, weaving drunkenly as he walked, conveniently leaving his change on the counter which Randy quickly scooped and put it behind the bar. “I’ll give it to him when he comes back,” he announced to nobody in particular, realising it unlikely that Davidson would be returning or would remember how much he had left behind in the first place.
Back at the station, Adam Davidson started shouting and swearing again but wisely desisted from taking a swing at Death Breath and so the on-duty Custody Sergeant, Pete Summers, charged him with being Drunk and Disorderly and put him in a cell to sleep it off, being in no fit state to be questioned that night. He emptied his pockets, not without difficulty; he had some loose change amounting to one pound, seven shillings and fourpence halfpenny, one five-pound note, one pound note, and four ten shilling notes. Nine pounds, seven shillings and fourpence halfpenny all told. He also had his door keys, a greasy comb, wallet, cigarettes (Park Drive), and matches.
He banged noisily on the cell door for three or four minutes and then, after urinating in the corner toilet, sat down on the cell bench, slumped over and almost immediately fell asleep, snoring heavily. He was sick once during the night, but fortunately, Pete Summers had earlier turned him over from his back onto his side so that he would not choke on his own vomit.
The next morning he was severely hungover and could barely stay awake when Marcus Harding and Harry Rawlings arrived to interview him. Rawlings’ eyes took on the gleam when he saw him, slumped over the table in the interview, vomit stains down his leather jacket.
“Morning, Adam,” he said cheerfully, “How are you feeling, not too good I hope.”
“Got nowt to say to you, hear me, copper, nowt, wasting your breath, ain’t you?”
“So, you’re a big man today, are you? Been hitting your Mum again, have you, that’s what makes you such a big man?”
“Dunno what you’re talking ‘bout.”
“The money, that’s what, where did you get the money to spend at the ‘Bag o’ Nails,’ did you hit your Mum again until she gave it to you?” Rawlings asked as Marcus opened the foolscap manila envelope and laid out the notes. “Eight pounds, where did you get eight pounds from, eh? Plus the money you spent at the pub. Where?”
“Me Mam, she give it me.” But he looked away, his eyes shifty; to experienced coppers like Rawlings and Harding, a sure sign of lying.
“Your Mum gave it to you, is that right? I don’t believe you, of course, we’ll be asking her, checking with her, she’ll verify that, will she?” Harding pressed.
“Yeah, course, she’s me Mam, isn’t she? Got to, hasn’t she?”
“So, how much did she give you?”
He shrugged eloquently, “Dunno ‘xactly.”
“Ten, fifteen, twenty, a hundred?”
“Look, can I get a cuppa tea or summat, I’m dead thirsty, got a mouth like a donkey’s bum.”
“Yeah, looks a bit like that, in fact, your whole face looks like a donkey’s arse,” retorted Rawlings.
“What you saying things like that for? Eh? Done nowt to you. ‘Ave I?”
‘Not to me, maybe, but what about Maleha Patel, from the Corner Shop?’ Rawlings snapped at Davidson, the words like a slap to his face, and he jerked back, swallowing hard.
‘Who dunno what you’re talking about. Never heard of no, what’s her name?’
‘I never said it was a girl, did I? How do you know that Maleha Patel is a girl?’
‘Well, dunno, sounds like a girl, I s’pose, foreign like.’
‘Or is that you only ever hit girls, eh? Big brave man like you, hitting your mum?’ Rawlings baited him, ‘Hitting a twelve-year-old girl with a cricket bat, that’s your style, isn’t it? You know what you are, sunshine, a coward. A dirty, stinking, low-down, out-and-out coward. What do you think of that, eh, big man? A coward is all you are.’
At that, Rawlings got the reaction he had been hoping for. Adam Davidson sprang to his feet and, the alcohol still buzzing in his head, made a wild swing at Rawlings, who, quick as a cat, was out of his chair, round the table, and with all his weight behind his arm, punched short and deep into Davidson’s solar plexus. With a strangled scream, he fell to the floor, grasping at his midriff, trying to gasp some air back into his lungs; he felt as though his rib cage had imploded, and pain surged through his stomach in waves. Tears of agony sprang to his eyes.
Marcus also got to his feet, ready to restrain Rawlings if he got out of hand, but Harry waved him away. ‘Not a mark on him, Sarge, promise. Not a mark.’ And Marcus stood back; he also had nothing but contempt for Davidson. Rawlings loomed over the gasping Davidson and, with a measured kick, drove the toe of his boot into Davidson’s testicles. Davidson gave out a full scream at this, clutching at his genitals in agony. The scream echoed around the bare walls of the interview room, and a minute or so later, Dave Armitage stuck his head into the room to see what was going on. He knew that a convicted rapist and suspected child molester was being interviewed and would hold no sympathy for him, but he had to be sure no lasting or visible damage was being inflicted; he did not want any blood on the floor on his watch.
Marcus held up his hand to forestall him. ‘Seems like Mr Davidson has had a fit, Dave; he’ll be right as rain in a minute or so.’
‘Careful, lads,’ Armitage cautioned. ‘By all accounts, the new CC doesn’t hold too strongly with our customers walking into door knobs or having nasty falls down the stairs,’ knowing full well what had transpired.
‘Gentle as lambs, we are, Sarge. Gentle as lambs,’ said Rawlings, the wild glint in his eye receded now he had achieved what he had set out to do. ‘Mind you, he could perhaps do with a cuppa tea, me too, no doubt my mate Marcus would and all.’
‘What do you think this is, Joe’s Café or the Falcon Hotel?’ retorted Armitage as he left, but nevertheless, shortly after, there was a knock on the door, and Gladys Smith, one of the canteen serving ladies, entered carrying a wooden tray with three large white china mugs which steamed gently. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of acrid sweat, stale beer, and vomit emanating from Adam Davidson, who was now back in his chair, still clutching his throbbing testicles and groaning under his breath. ‘Thanks, Gladys,’ said Rawlings, ‘all well sugared, are they?’
‘What do you think, this is a cop shop?’ she snapped, not too happy at being on the Sunday morning shift; she should be at Mass and then confessing her sins, such as they were, to Father Barnes, the most serious being envy at her neighbour Maureen Appletree’s shiny new green Vauxhall Velox. ‘What’s up with him when he’s at home?’ Gladys said, pointing at Davidson, ‘he looks like something my cat’s sicked up on the carpet.’
‘Him, right as rain, aren’t you, sunshine?’ Rawlings laughed, leaning over and tapping Davidson lightly on his cheek.
‘Fuck you,’ he answered sullenly.
‘Language, language, there’s a lady present. You are a lady, aren’t you, Gladys?’ Harry answered, in a rare good mood. ‘Although I’ve never been too sure of that, myself.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ she snarled and marched out, making sure the door slammed behind her.
‘Gonna sue you,’ Davidson said, pointing his finger at Rawlings. ‘Just watch, sue the arse off you, have you out of your fucking job and out on the street. That old cow could see there was something up with me, and you saw him hit me and kick me in the balls, didn’t you?’ he asked Marcus.
‘Sorry, Mr Davidson, I saw you fall off your chair and hurt yourself because you’re still drunk, arseholed to the eyes, but Harry hitting you? Kicking you in the balls? Nah. You’re imagining it, mate, hallucinating,’ he answered with a shrug. Although not so violently hostile towards Adam Davidson as Rawlings, Marcus saw no reason to protect him, a cowardly scumbag who would hit his mother for money and most likely have attacked Maleha Patel with a cricket bat.
Once he had recovered slightly and drank his tea, Davidson continued to deny that he was the Corner Shop robber and assaulter of Maleha Patel, still claiming that the money had been given to him by his mother. Harry Rawlings did not hit him again, although sorely tempted to do so.
Davidson was returned to his cell, swearing his innocence, demanding a lawyer, to see a senior officer to lodge a complaint of assault and generally making a nuisance of himself before Dave Armitage told him in no uncertain terms to shut it.
Meanwhile, Marcus and Harry drove over to Davidson’s house to see his mother. With a sense of weary resignation, Enid Davidson led the two officers into her spotlessly clean house. A widow, she took immense pride in her small terrace house; not a speck of dust was to be seen, every surface gleamed with polish, the parquet floor washed and waxed to an ice-rink sheen.
It was lunchtime Sunday, and the smell of the weekly roast (a chicken) in the oven wafted invitingly from the kitchen. The ‘Billy Cotton Big Band Show’ played on the radio, one of Marcus’ favourite radio shows, and he felt a faint snag of disappointment when Enid Davidson turned it off before lowering herself into her chair by the side of the fireplace, wincing with the pain from arthritic knees.
‘What has he done now?’ she asked. ‘It can’t be good news, you coming like this. I was dead worried when he didn’t come home last night, been awake all night worrying about him. I knew he was either in trouble or else in hospital, and judging by the look on your faces, it’s trouble, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, luv, ‘fraid so,’ answered Rawlings. ‘We’ve got him down at the station.’
She peered short-sightedly at Rawlings. ‘You were here before, weren’t you? Asking about Adam and the murder of that poor girl? Searching his room, looking for a white coat.’
‘Yes, love, you’ve got a good eye for faces, I can see that.’
‘Don’t flatter me, son, I’m too old and weary for soft-soaping. Just tell me what he’s done this time?’ she asked with a sigh.
‘We think he robbed Patel’s corner shop on India Street and assaulted a young girl. He’s got a lot of money on him, and he says that you gave it to him,’ answered Marcus.
‘How much? How much money has he got?’
‘‘Bout nine pounds, something like that.’
‘Hah, I’d not so much as give him nine shillings, nay, not even nine pence as give him nine pounds. Where have I got nine pounds to give him?’
Rawlings and Harding looked at each other, ‘got him’ the look said. ‘Would you make a statement to that effect, love, that you’ve not given him any money?’ Harding asked, squatting down beside her chair.
‘Aye, course I will, he’s a bad ‘un, I know that now. ‘Spose I’ve always known it really when I think about it, but he’s my only son and with his Dad being killed…’ She let the sentence die away as memories of her dead husband came back to her, never very far away, and a slow tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek. ‘I’ll not be on my own.’ she then said, apropos of nothing, looking into the flames of the small coal fire dancing in the grate. ‘A girl, you say, you think he’s assaulted a girl?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘It was bound to happen; I suppose after that last one he went to jail for. Always knew he would do it again. The poor lass, what about her?’
‘We think Adam attacked a twelve-year-old girl with a cricket bat in the course of robbing a shop, stealing from the till,’ said Marcus.
‘A cricket bat? There’s one he left in the kitchen; I don’t know when but yesterday sometime, maybe when I was at the Coop doing my weekly shop.’
‘He lets you go to the shop? Why doesn’t he do it for you, big lad like him, it’s not as though he goes to work, is it?
‘I did ask him once, but he got angry, he’s always angry and said it’s woman’s work.’ She looked up sadly. ‘A twelve-year-old lass, you say? Is she hurt bad?’
‘She was hit on the arm with the bat, on her elbow. It’s very painful, she went to the hospital but fortunately, her arm isn’t broken, just very sore and she’s very shook up. She was also sexually assaulted,’ Marcus added softly.
Enid Davidson looked down at her feet, her hands clasped across her lap. ‘I just feel so ashamed, it must be my fault, the way I brought him up.’ she whispered, ‘How could it have come to this? The poor girl,’ she said, shaking her head in sorrow. ‘He was such a nice little boy. So polite and well-behaved, but when his father…’ she let the sentence die away again.
She sat quietly for a moment or two before climbing painfully to her feet, wanting to make tea for them, apologising for not offering before, but she had been so worried she clean forgot.
‘Not to worry, love, we’ll not take much more of your time,’ answered Rawlings.
Marcus then led her slowly through her statement as Harry wrote it down. She did not know where her son was yesterday, the day of the robbery, and she did not give him any money. She was prepared to stand up in court to say so. ‘He’s a bad ‘un and he has to learn to take the consequences of his actions,’ she said. ‘I can’t pretend to myself any more, he’s gone right bad and there’s nowt more I can do for him, his Dad would’ve been so ashamed, as it is I reckon he’s turning in his grave, out there in Holland somewhere. Never did get to see his grave, now I doubt I ever will,’ she said, wiping away the tears. ‘I’ve got a photo, but it’s not the same, is it?’
As they prepared to leave, Marcus asked if they could take the cricket bat that Adam Davidson had left in the kitchen.
‘Aye, yes, go ahead; I don’t think he’ll be playing too much cricket where he’s going by the sound of it.’
‘Poor old soul,’ Harry said as they got back into the car. ‘What’s she got in life, her husband dead and that piece of shit for a son?
‘Life’s just not fair, Harry, that’s the top and bottom of it, and it’s always the decent folk who get the shitty end of the stick.
Back at the station, they asked Dave Armitage to set up a police identification line-up and, much against Amit Patel’s wishes, Maleha was brought to the station to see if she could identify her attacker from amongst the nine men in the line-up.
She immediately picked out Adam Davidson, it was his greasy quiff and bulging eyes she said. She also knew by heart the serial numbers of every banknote in the till, a memory test she gave herself to while away the boredom whilst serving in the shop, and these banknotes were the ones found in Davidson’s possession. He was also confronted with the cricket bat, at first denying that it was his before being told it had been found in his mother’s kitchen and then said, stupidly, ‘Yeah, remember now, gonna play cricket, weren’t I?’
‘Cricket season’s over, it’s nearly October, nobody plays cricket this time of year,’ Rawlings responded.
Trapped by his own lies, he had nowhere to go, and Adam Davidson was duly charged with Robbery with Violence, Assault, Sexual Assault, Threatening Behaviour, and, much to the relief of his mother, remanded in custody as he had threatened to ‘see to her’ for not sticking up for him.