Police, Arrests & Suspects Read online

  “I’m available, if that’s what you’re asking,” she responded with a wink.

  “I wasn’t, actually. So, what happened between you two?” Being glassed by your partner may seem like an obvious answer, but they had reconciled long before the matter had even reached court. In a nutshell, Kirsty and Wayne’s volatile relationship can be best described as a Barbie and Ken doll being repeatedly smashed together until they burst into flames; yet, through it all, they had both kept on coming back for more. Maybe it was their shared business interest that had played a part in keeping them together: it turned out that they had a substantial illegal cannabis crop in their loft, which may also have gone a long way in explaining Kirsty’s mood swings as it is currently estimated that one in four cases of psychosis is associated with smoking weed.

  Clearly, some other heinous act had once again caused young love to flounder. Rumour had it that Kirsty had sent Wayne a photo message asking if she looked fat in her new leggings; apparently, he had texted back ‘Noooooo!’, but it had autocorrected to ‘Moooooo!’. She had then flown into a mad rage and Wayne had had to jump out of a top-storey window to avoid being stabbed by his angry girlfriend, breaking both his ankles in the process. I decided not to mention it.

  “Of all my mistakes, he was the mistakiest,” she eventually declared after some considerable thought.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Witnay? Have you got joint custody?”

  “She’s fine, but I’ve told you, PC Donoghue, I’ve been out of trouble. I’ve given up the cannabis now!”

  “No, I meant joint custody of your daughter. Does Wayne still see her?”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah. Sometimes.”

  “I’m having a baby,” piped up Anne-Marie, breaking the awkward silence.

  “You’re kidding!” I replied.

  “Well, technically, she is,” added Brad, looking pleased with his funny.

  “Oh, so you’re a bodybuilder now,” I joked. She just gave me a confused look.

  “We’ve pulled out the book of names,” interjected Kirsty. “We’re almost through to M and we think we’re really close now to guessing who the father is.”

  Anne-Marie just smiled blankly.

  “So, what are you going to call it, then?” asked Brad.

  To a police officer, this is an important question. Whenever we attend an incident we need to record the names of all the children in the household and ensuring that we get the correct spelling can sometimes be a nightmare. In some cases it’s as if the parents went to register the name as Emily, only to be told that name was already taken but they could have Emily_2480 or Emmalee. I am forever apologising for mispronouncing their child’s made-up name.

  Denmark is one of the few countries that still have a list of approximately 7,000 official names that parents can choose from. Elsewhere, it took a judge in France to stand up for common sense and tell the parents that they couldn’t call their child Nutella, however much they loved the chocolate spread. Anal, Anus, Monkey, Superman, Lucifer and Robocop have all been vetoed in other places, along with Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii. In Venezuela, they even drafted a bill banning names that ‘expose children to ridicule, are extravagant or difficult to pronounce’. I made a mental note to forward the article to our inspector – Dick Soaper.

  We drove the girls home and then set off for our unfortunate victim’s house. Lysa had asked if we could let his wife know that he was in hospital and also see if we could get any further information regarding any allergies he might have. We found the address nearby, and were let in by his daughter who took us through into the kitchen where the wife was chatting with a neighbour. We explained how Mike had been found near the shops and that he had now been taken to Sandford Hospital.

  “I… I just sent him out for some milk,” she informed us, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her concern. She looked over at her coffee cup. “I suppose… I suppose I’ll just have to drink it black.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was shock, but as we weren’t getting any coherent responses from her mum, we asked the daughter if she knew of any medical history.

  “I know Fleming discovered penicillin in 1928,” she replied. “We did it in school today.”

  This was all becoming a bit surreal. We tried to reassure them as best we could by telling them that it seemed to be some kind of allergic reaction, but that he was in good hands; finally suggesting that they might wish to make their way to the hospital. We then made our excuses and left, heading back to the police station. Between Drew Peacock and his bottom-feeding, Kirsty and the angry rope, Anne-Marie and the EpiPen and Mike and his mysterious allergic reaction, we felt that we needed to get back to normality and people who would talk sense to us.

  “You pair of numpties!” Barry could hardly contain himself as we told him about our escapade with the string snake, whom we had now christened Brian. “How long was it? How many feet?”

  “None, Sarge. We told you it was a snake. It didn’t have any feet.”

  “Absolute muppets, the pair of you!” He was merciless in his mockery. “Can’t tell the difference between some string and a serpent? Maybe I should send you to get your eyes tested!”

  We both skulked off into the parade room and sat in front of the blank computer screen wondering how we were going to word our sequel to Comms. After five minutes, we decided to go and get a cup of tea in the hope that it would get our inspirational juices flowing. A further five minutes on and I was part way through typing a report that Ernest Hemingway would have been proud of, when we heard a loud shout and the muffled sound of somebody stumbling back and crashing against the door to the toilets.

  It would appear that as our sergeant was lifting up the lid of the toilet seat, a blue monster – aided by an elastic band sellotaped under the lid – had leapt from the watery depths and almost scared the living crap out of our fearless leader. As shouts of: “BLOODY BRIAN!” echoed down the corridor, we decided it was probably best if we left the station and resumed our patrols… as quickly as our legs would carry us!

  Chapter 14

  Possession

  “The voices in my head are telling me to kill someone.” The male sounded calm and collected on the phone as he talked candidly to the operator about his murderous intent.

  “Is there anyone with you?”

  “Just the apparitions that taunt and torture me every day. Do they count?”

  “Stay there. We’ll send an officer out to you straight away.”

  I’ve paraphrased somewhat but that’s the gist of it. If someone rings the police to tell them that they have the urge to go on a blood-soaked rampage, someone has to assess whether it’s a genuine threat or not; that ‘someone’ is your local, friendly, unarmed response officer.

  Naturally, the operator would have probed further and carried out checks on the system to try and establish how credible the caller seemed, but you can never be certain of someone’s intent until you actually speak to that individual in person. Today, the person speaking to the caller face to face would be me. I had been in the office, happily chatting to Samantha, the front-counter clerk, when Comms had passed me the call; she had heard every word.

  “Chances are it will just be a cry for help… well, hopefully, anyway,” I told her as I put the phone down.

  “Seriously, though, is it?” she enquired, ashen faced. “What if he’s been told in a seance to lure a police officer to his house so he can massacre them?”

  “Luckily, I don’t believe in all that sort of nonsense,” I told her.

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe in,” she replied flatly. “It’s what he believes.”

  There followed an awkward pause as I tried to think of something amusing to fire back. My first instinct had been to tell her that after learning Morse code when I was in the navy I’d had to stop eating Rice Krispies because of all the evil things they were telling me to do; however, one look at her face told me that my feeble attempt at humour wouldn’t have gone dow
n at all well. To be honest, after she had planted the thought of evil in my head, even I didn’t find my little joke funny anymore.

  “I just have this sixth sense,” she confided, looking me directly in the eye and placing her hand on my forearm.

  “Don’t tell me: I see dead people,” I quipped.

  “No. I’ve just got a very bad feeling about this.” She was genuinely concerned at the prospect of my going out to the house alone.

  Comms were on the phone again, telling me that they had checked the caller’s previous history and discovered that our would-be killer, Robert Taxil, had a couple of convictions dating back to over a decade ago and in a different force area for a series of bizarre sexual offences.

  Past records had shown that Taxil was fond of posing naked in the window of his front room at the exact time in the afternoon that the local school came out. Furthermore, he also had a penchant for lurking in public toilets, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to appear; then, when they began relieving themselves at the urinals, he would suddenly leap out, catch some of their pee in a cup, shouting, “I’M THIRSTY!” before drinking it in front of their eyes. I must confess, I didn’t know quite what to make of this information. Samantha raised a quizzical eyebrow; I had to hand it to her: he did seem odd. In fact, something about this whole thing just left a bad taste in my mouth.

  It seemed that he was now living in our force area and had come back onto the police radar just this year for various petty thefts and criminal damage.

  In January he had gone into Tesco, where he had proceeded to open can after can of lager, standing calmly in the aisle drinking them one by one until police finally arrived and he was led away.

  In March he had smashed a window in the Catholic church with a brick. On this occasion he had sat on the floor, waiting patiently for officers to arrive.

  Every couple of months after that there had been similar incidents. At no time had he put up a struggle or made any excuses for his actions – he simply allowed himself to be led meekly away. His behaviour had, however, raised suspicions, and one intelligence report stated that officers noted that Taxil appeared to be taking an overly keen interest in police procedures: protocol; which particular officers dealt with him; as well as what shift was on duty at those specific times.

  “I’ll give Lloyd a call,” I told Samantha. “I’ll see if he can come along, too, if that makes you any happier.”

  Half an hour later, and with daylight fading fast, I was waiting for Lloyd at the entrance to the long dirt track that led to Taxil’s smallholding. I thought about what Samantha had said and locked the car doors. According to the satnav, my exact location appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, parked on an unnamed road.

  I soon saw the headlights of Lloyd’s van in the distance. As he pulled up, I got out and briefed him with the scant information that I knew. He nodded grimly in response. Getting back in my car, I shuddered in the autumn chill.

  In convoy we made our way up the rough dirt track to the house, our tyres sending muddy water splashing up the sides of the vehicles as they bounced in and out of the potholes along the way. As we arrived, the bare trees seemed to cry murder as the sky suddenly filled with crows; their harsh caws protesting at our intrusion.

  The open yard was dotted with obsolete farming equipment and broken-down cars that were half stripped and gutted and their windscreens ritually smashed. We got out of our vehicles and looked towards the house: it was in total darkness, looking ramshackle and foreboding, silhouetted as it was against the darkening sky.

  Walking through the puddles, we made our way to the front porch. A set of wind chimes was gently clinking in the light breeze; and, as if things weren’t already eerie enough, there was a rocking chair sitting a few feet away. I silently prayed that it wouldn’t start moving of its own accord. The only thing that could have added to the air of trepidation would have been the sight of an abandoned funfair on the field opposite. I was thankful for small mercies.

  The front door was open as if inviting us in. I entered and shouted for Taxil. We were met with a deathly silence. There was still enough light coming in through the windows to make out a spartanly furnished room littered with cups and dirty plates.

  The light switch consisted of two bare wires protruding from the wall – I decided against sparking them. Instead, we proceeded cautiously, holding our torches up next to our heads so that our eyes followed exactly where the beams shone. The room itself was freezing – the temperature even colder than outside. Tattered curtains hung limply either side of the panes of glass; swathed in cobwebs. Old newspapers lay scattered across the table and floor, with various articles ringed several times in black ink; someone had obviously pressed so hard and circled them so frantically that the pages were torn where the biro had dug in.

  We shouted again, but no one replied. Feeling unnerved, I racked my baton whilst Lloyd shook his pepper spray. Admittedly, sometimes it feels like a sorry state of affairs when you feel you have to prepare yourself for a fight when, ostensibly, you’ve come to help someone, but, on this occasion, and especially with Sam’s words fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but think that at any moment a madman with a machete was about to jump out at me. I changed hands, moving my torch to my left and holding my baton poised above my right shoulder, ready to bring down on any would-be attacker; nevertheless, we were still at a disadvantage: the house owner knew the layout and terrain and, in most circumstances, action beats reaction. In circumstances such as these, every doorway and corner was a potential hazard.

  Whilst I slowly pushed the door to the kitchen open with my foot, Lloyd quickly scanned the area with his torch. “There’s something on the table,” he whispered urgently. I entered the room, almost slipping over on the wet floor. I shone my torch down and saw that it was swimming with congealed blood. On the table was a pig’s head; but this wasn’t a bronzed, glazed pig’s head that oft adorn the table of medieval banquets and where the animal looks like it has died merrily, whilst eating an apple: this one was a pale, sad-looking specimen; its ears flopped down; teeth broken and uneven.

  “That’s one little piggy who won’t be having any roast beef,” I muttered.

  Lloyd just gave me a quizzical look. I didn’t elaborate.

  The far wall of the kitchen was lined with shelves containing various specimen jars filled with odd-looking animal parts suspended in a musky yellowish liquid that I suspected was formaldehyde. It looked like a Victorian freak show; and it made my skin crawl.

  Now satisfied that the rooms downstairs were empty, we started up the stairs, calling out as we went but again there was no reply. As usual in this type of situation we made our way carefully, keeping our backs to the wall in case something was thrown down on us. Once safely at the top, we prepared to enter each room in turn.

  The bathroom was dirty but functional. The only thing that indicated that someone slightly unhinged might be living there was that the toilet paper hung down over the wall-mounted holder instead of under it, but, then again, everyone has their own little idiosyncrasies.

  Even from the doorway of the first bedroom we could see that it appeared to be set out as some kind of workshop: technical drawings of cars were strewn about the floor; scores of old keys lay on the desk amid intricate sketches of locks; we found soldering irons that were still plugged in, along with randomly discarded circuit boards.

  The second bedroom was very spartanly furnished: a double bed that had a bare mattress with a sleeping bag lying on top and two dark wood wardrobes both heaped high with clothes and dirty shoes.

  The remaining bedroom, however, seemed at complete odds with the rest of the property: it was decorated in a pretty, flock wallpaper, with pictures adorning the walls; porcelain dolls stared down from a shelf. The bed was carefully made and the drawers were full of neatly folded items. When we looked inside, the wardrobes were hung with women’s clothing. On a nightstand stood an old-fashioned music box containing an assortment of rings, trinkets
and old watches. The last few remaining notes played out as Lloyd replaced the lid. Something just didn’t feel right here…

  Back on the landing, we looked up and saw that the loft hatch was slightly open. My colleague sighed – he knew what that meant. I cupped my hands in front of me to give him a leg-up so that he could take a look inside.

  “What’s that?” Before he had even started to move the hatch cover, Lloyd had suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and motioned for me to stay silent. I heard a slow creak followed by a violent slam. “Downstairs!” We raced down to see a large recess in the centre of the living room floor; the old rug that had been covering it had been folded to one side and a heavy wooden door lay on top of it. We stood either side of the entrance to what looked like an underground cellar. We knew what had to be done, but neither of us relished the thought of climbing down into the unknown.

  “Robert! Robert Taxil! It’s the police. We’re here to help. We know you’re down there. Come on up and talk to us.”

  We were rewarded with an eerie silence.

  “I’ll go,” I volunteered.

  “Are you ok with that?”

  “Danger is my maiden name,” I replied. I’d like to have said something profound like: never let your fears decide your fate, but, in reality, the only reason I was offering to go into the basement alone was that I didn’t relish the thought of that heavy door slamming shut whilst we were down there and trapping us both. Besides, out here in the middle of nowhere the reception on our radios was sporadic – it would probably be non-existent in the basement. Lloyd could stand guard at the top.

  “We know you’re down there! Don’t make me come and get you!” In vain I tried one last time to persuade Taxil to show himself, but to no avail. I put my baton away and swapped it for the pepper spray; in a confined space it would be easier to wield. I gave it a little shake to wake it up and, with my torch in my other hand, I took a deep breath and took my first step into the void.