Police, Arrests & Suspects Page 15

  “Where do you want everyone, John?” replied the dispatcher, coolly and efficiently.

  Contrary to what some people may believe, there’s no Battle of Britain style war room up at police headquarters; no female officers in A-line skirts with long sticks pushing models of police officers around a gigantic model of the county. In fact, for some Comms operators, Sandford is just another dot on the map and it’s usually left to the officer at the scene to deploy resources where he sees fit. I raced back into reception and picked up one of the dirty brochures from the floor, flicking past the adverts for summer fun days and Christmas parties until I found the site plan. I wiped my forearm across the page to clear the mess and gore before studying it closely. There was a main road for access and egress to the hotel, while to the west, a secondary service entrance led out onto a quiet country lane. Those were the obvious ways in and out of the place, but this was a rambling country estate and there were acres of parkland and woods that an offender could use to make good his escape. Getting officers to these areas would be a logistical nightmare, but it had to be done; even if it meant trekking for miles over open fields, marshland and woods. In order of priority, I identified the key points where I wanted officers to be placed, hoping that enough troops could be mustered to meet my requirements.

  “Get the helicopter up, too,” I added. It would be able to spot anyone making off over rough ground. There wasn’t a moment to lose!

  I still needed to get further basic information about what had happened; some idea before Supervision began clamouring for a situation report, but, before I could even get back to the victim, the radio was already buzzing in my earpiece.

  “John, I need an update now.” Barry was on the radio.

  “Sarge,” I whispered into the mouthpiece, “we’ve one with a serious injury who needs urgent medical treatment. I’ve literally only just arrived on scene, but it looks like there’s been a major disturbance. That’s over now, but I’ll need more backup to secure the scene. We’re looking at a serious wounding or potentially a murder if he doesn’t pull through. You’d better get down here.”

  “I’m on my way now with DS Slade.” He left a pause before he spoke again. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the diary car?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I replied and terminated the call.

  I returned to the injured man; he didn’t look good. I didn’t want him to even try to communicate nor move a muscle if he could help it. The towel was now saturated a deep red, blood dripping from its edges. Instead, I asked his wife what she knew, but she appeared to be pretty much in the dark about everything. She explained that the evening had been pleasant and uneventful until the last half-hour when the air had just seemed to thicken with tension. There had been a commotion at the bar, although she had no idea what it was over. Punches had been thrown and, whilst some had tried to calm the situation down, others had joined in. It had all escalated so quickly. Most revellers, however, had just tried to get away and protect their loved ones. Her husband had steered her into the reception out of harm’s way, but then the fighting had spilled out into the lobby. They had taken shelter against a wall but couldn’t avoid being buffeted by those fighting. The next thing she knew, her husband had slumped into her arms and blood was flowing from his neck. Assisted by the receptionist, she had dragged her husband to the toilets, where she had tried to stem the blood-flow. When she emerged, she explained, I was there.

  As she spoke, I tried to note down the basics in my pocket notebook, but my hands were still wet with the victim’s blood and my pen tore through the paper. I darted back into reception to assess where events had taken place. Distressed guests were now emerging from their hiding places and were walking through the foyer, leaving a further trail of bloody footprints, and destroying my crime scene. Where was my backup? I needed to seal off the area fast. Unceremoniously, I shouted for everyone to move out.

  I summoned the receptionist, who had now returned, and told her to position staff at the doors of the main entrance, the bar area and stairs, and to stop people coming through. When I got back to the injured male, paramedics were already in attendance and lost no time in getting him into the back of the ambulance. Andy and Gwen arrived shortly after and instantly set to work; Andy accompanying the victim to hospital whilst Gwen began trying to establish who else had witnessed the incident.

  By the time the call came through from Comms asking for a description of the suspect, the roadblocks were already in place. Time was of the essence if we were to have any chance of apprehending the attacker. The only reliable fact we had was that the assailant was one of five hundred guests, wearing either a ball gown or a dinner jacket.

  The duty manager had reappeared, and I told him I needed to view the CCTV. He got onto it straight away. The cameras would have recorded the entire incident in the bar and lobby, and hopefully would show the knife attack itself. As he trawled through the footage, I pressed the manager for more information. This was a charity ball at the most prestigious venue in the county: how on earth had it come to this? Looking embarrassed, he rubbed the fingers and thumb of his right hand together.

  It seems, like most things nowadays, it was down to money. A lot of the people who had made their fortune by more dubious means now sought to ingratiate themselves into polite society; and what better way to achieve that than via a function such as this? The ball had started out many years ago as a select gathering, but once the corporate owners of the hotel realised that some were willing to pay any price to become involved, the event grew and grew. Nowadays, the great and good in Sandford society were joined by the greedy and the mean.

  I’ve often been told that rudeness and aggression are little more than expressions of fear: fear of not fitting in; fear of not getting what you want; fear of being discovered. Lace that insecurity with alcohol and it becomes a volatile concoction. He told me that an argument had developed in the bar between some of the ‘newer’ guests and punches had been thrown. Soon a drunken fight had developed into a full-scale Wild West saloon brawl. And somewhere in the melee, our victim had sustained his horrendous injuries.

  “I saw it happen,” interrupted the receptionist. “I saw the guest who slit that poor man’s throat.”

  I looked at her in stunned silence for a second. This was the break we needed. “Fantastic!”

  She shot me a disapproving glance.

  “I meant fantastic that you saw it,” I quickly clarified. “Not fantastic that he was almost killed.”

  This seemed to appease her.

  “Well,” I prompted, “who was he?”

  “I don’t know his name,” she replied, “but he’s got a room booked. I’ll have to check the records, but he was a massive brute of a man. He looked like the son of Godzilla!”

  “I know who that is,” pronounced the manager confidently. “Liam Bell.”

  I was glad he had butted in so quickly, as I was about to suggest ‘Jesuszilla’.

  The identification of the suspect had arrived at the most opportune moment, given that Supervision had just pulled up outside, closely followed by Jessica, Lloyd, Ron and a dog unit. I was summoned to brief the sergeants with what I knew. When I told them we had a suspect, DS Slade informed us that he was already aware of him. Apparently, Liam Bell had once been an enforcer for a drugs gang and was well known for his extreme violence towards those who didn’t pay up quickly enough.

  These days, however, Bell was better known as an aspiring business owner. But, before you start thinking that at least he gave up his old criminal ways to become a pillar of society and budding entrepreneur, think again. Bell went into the skip-hire business – a tough enough environment to compete in with its stringent legislation, but slightly easier to succeed in if you don’t worry about technicalities such as the law.

  Not only did Bell not allow the vagaries of licences and insurance to bother him, he also had his own particular way of securing business: if you happened to be having some building work done, you m
ight wake up one morning to find a skip outside your house. If you tried to explain to Bell that you hadn’t ordered a skip, you were informed, in no uncertain terms, that you had now. If you already had one outside your property from another company, that skip would be removed during the night and replaced by one of his own. And it wasn’t unusual for the owners of legitimate skip-hire companies to arrive at work to find the tyres on their vehicles slashed or their engines spiked. Bell’s trademark was to pour water in the fuel tank; a far more effective way of disabling a vehicle than using sugar or salt, as fuel floats on water and stops the diesel from reaching the engine.

  All in all, Bell was a nasty, violent, unscrupulous thug, but the motive for attacking our victim still wasn’t clear. I rang Andy and asked if he could check with the victim’s wife whether they were involved in the building trade. Meanwhile, the manager had located the relevant CCTV and we all squeezed into the reception’s rear office to review the footage.

  Fortunately, the cameras were high quality and clearly showed some pushing and shoving that had started in the bar. An added bonus was that faces were clear and distinct. There was no audio, but it wasn’t needed: facial expressions were enough. There! That was the first punch, quickly followed by another. Soon the place was in uproar as staff gave up trying to calm things down and innocent guests made a stampede for the exit. It was a hard core of only six or seven men fighting, but, so far, there was no sign of Bell.

  Fights tend not to be static affairs and we switched cameras as the melee spread, like a travelling tornado, the ten yards or so through into the reception. I could make the victim out now, turning his back on the fighting to defend his wife. We switched onto the second reception camera to get a better view of the pair; still no sign of Bell. Even though the footage showed only three or four minutes from the outset of the brawl, the room already looked like a war zone. Suddenly, we got our first glimpse of our suspect coming into sight from the left-hand side. We quickly swapped cameras to get a sharper, more detailed image of him. Bell paused for a few seconds, surveying the scene, before a wave of recognition spread across his face as he eyed his victim.

  As the footage played on, Bell bent down and disappeared from sight. We flicked from camera to camera – he was back in sight again, only this time he had something in his hand.

  “Pause it there,” instructed Slade. We squinted at the monitor to try and get a clearer view.

  “I think it’s a champagne glass,” proposed Barry.

  “That’s it!” declared Slade. “A champagne flute.”

  The footage was started again. Bell walked towards the reception desk, shielded his eyes and then smashed the top of the vessel on the wooden surface, leaving him with just the jagged glass stalk in his hand. He then made a beeline for the victim, punching a couple of brawlers en route to force them out of his way. He was now standing directly behind our man.

  Hastily, the manager swapped cameras again in order to facilitate a direct, full-on view, and just in time to see Bell place his arm around the front of the victim’s neck, violently dig the champagne flute stalk into his throat before dragging it forcibly down and across. As the blood started to spurt, Bell quietly slipped into the bar and out of sight.

  “Right,” declared Slade, “the other offenders can wait – we can identify and pick them up anytime. Tell the officers on the cordon that Bell is our suspect, and circulate his description. Search every vehicle that’s leaving and take details of anyone who’s seen anything.”

  As Barry updated the team at the perimeter, Slade indicated for the dog handler to get his attack dog out of the back of the van. A few seconds later and he was back with police dog Max straining at the lead, eager for some action.

  “The rest of you,” he added, “are with me.” We set off behind him, accompanied by the manager and the receptionist with a passcard to the room he was booked into. There was no time to lose: we didn’t want him disposing of any evidence or fleeing the scene.

  Room 312. We didn’t bother knocking; just quietly slipped the passcard into the slot and then barged in, our pepper sprays and batons at the ready. The room was bare. We checked under the bed and in the wardrobe. Nothing. As I approached the bathroom, I considered opening the door slowly and deliberately, but instead opted for violently booting it open in case he was hiding behind it. The room was empty, but his wash kit and bloodied shirt were still there. He couldn’t be far away.

  Systematically, we began searching each room along the corridor and then the other rooms floor by floor. Knowing Bell’s style, I wouldn’t have put it past him to have informed an innocent couple that he was now occupying their room – whether they liked it or not. Barry coordinated our activities from reception, watching on the CCTV system as we checked each section of the hotel. Each time we cleared an area we lost another officer as they were posted in the corridor to ensure Bell didn’t sneak back into any of the rooms we had just checked.

  So far, we had been met either by guests alarmed at our intrusion, or empty rooms. We had been checking them so quickly that if you had been in the vanguard on one search, you were bringing up the rear by the time the next room had been entered. I had just finished one negative foray and was again apologising to the occupants, when I heard a cry go up from next door. It must be Bell!

  I ran but couldn’t even get near the door as my remaining colleagues were already jammed in the small opening. They were slowly squeezing in, foot by foot, trying to enter the room before fanning out. We didn’t want to be wedged into the doorway, unable to swing our batons if Bell did attack us.

  “Where’s the flute, Bell?” demanded Slade.

  “The fucking what?” Bell seemed genuinely confused.

  “Where’s the throat-slitter, Bell? The throat-slitter!”

  Both parties were shouting. From Bell’s demeanour and reply, I could sense that he wasn’t going to give in without a struggle.

  Bell was now brandishing the weapon, holding the throat-slitter aloft as if to emphasise his negotiating stance. He was standing against the far wall, the bed between him and us. He had one leg up on the mattress and was bouncing up and down on his other foot. His face was contorted with anger and hatred, the sinews in his neck pulled taut.

  “I came into this world kicking and screaming and covered in someone else’s blood,” he spat, “and I don’t mind going out the same way!” With that, he heaved himself forward and then launched himself at us.

  Something shot past my leg and met Bell mid-air. I heard a scream as Max made contact with our attacker. There then followed kicking, screaming and, undoubtedly, blood. There were also anguished cries of: “Pull the dog off!” from Bell, but the dog handler merely retorted that Max preferred a squeaky toy as a reward for catching a criminal. I could still see Max shaking his head back and forth as Bell struggled beneath him.

  I waited in the corridor with the manager and receptionist whilst my colleagues arrested a subdued Bell. Usually, I wouldn’t have gone near the suspect to avoid any cross-contamination issues, but, with officer numbers as they were, sometimes needs must and my presence was still required in case Bell became violent once again. Minutes later, our offender was led out in cuffs, pausing only to tell the manager that he thought the function was ‘shit’, and that he wouldn’t be coming back. Unsurprisingly, neither staff member seemed to be overly hurt by his critique. As he spoke, I was forced to consider whether it was acceptable to throw a breath mint into someone’s mouth whilst they were talking.

  Soon I was back at reception with Jessica and Gwen, where I learned that as an added bonus the police helicopter had directed officers on the ground to two males who were making their way across the open fields to the south of the estate. They weren’t connected to the incident at the hotel but had been breaking into vehicles in the car park. Andy had also radioed from the hospital to inform us that the victim was stable, and that his wife had revealed that her husband had had a recent confrontation with a man who had parked a skip ou
tside their house. Could this be the motive we were looking for?

  The reception and the main bar remained cordoned off as crime scenes. The band was still packing up their equipment in the main ballroom, but couples were now leaving the hotel in droves. I held a door open as a shell-shocked couple walked through, thanking me profusely for my help. A woman followed shortly afterwards and shot me a pleasant smile. Her husband, who was just behind her, gave me a disapproving look as if I had been trying to make a play for his partner. It’s a sad indictment on society when politeness is such a rarity that it’s mistaken for flirting… A third duo followed in their wake and barely looked up at me. I made a mental note that if I ever became king, it would be made law that you could take anyone down with a leg swipe if they didn’t thank you after you held a door open for them.

  Meanwhile, the manager was outside the front of the hotel asking guests if they had enjoyed the evening. It struck me a little that it was like saying to the President’s wife as she left Ford’s Theatre in Washington: “Other than that, Mrs Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

  I gazed soulfully into the distance for a few minutes until an irate man started to shout at me, breaking my chain of thought. Apparently, I had been inadvertently staring directly at his wife the whole time. I apologised and quickly moved back inside.

  “We’re just waiting for the CSI to arrive,” I explained to the receptionist, “then you can get this area cleaned up. Will it be much of a struggle?”

  “A struggle?” she repeated. “You don’t know what a struggle is until you’ve tried taking a turtleneck sweater off a big-headed toddler! Don’t worry about it. It won’t take us long to sort once you’re done. Look, you’ve had a busy time – would you and your friends like some of the leftover food? I’m sure the manager wouldn’t mind.”