Читать книгу Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller - James Nally, James Nally - Страница 12

South London

Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 20:05

After several months on the beat together, Clive and I had hit on just one mutual interest: food. And even then we rarely saw eye-to-eye. That evening, we pounded the streets of South London discussing which confectionery fridges best, and which shouldn’t be subjected to cooling at all.

As he launched a passionate defence for keeping the toffee in Rolos soft – thus, unfridged – I realised that the drama of the last twenty-four hours had made me desperate to make the jump to murder squad. I’d grown frustrated wasting time mooching about in a comedy uniform, not quite knowing what we were trying to achieve. ‘Catching baddies,’ I’d initially assumed, ‘gangsters, rapists and people who mug old ladies.’ If only it were like that …

The training at Hendon College should have given me a clue. I spent most of the six-week course learning about multiculturalism, hate crimes, best practices, paperwork and adopting multi-agency strategies. There was nothing about gathering evidence, hoofing down doors or bitch-slapping villains – surely the job’s only real attractions.

Since then, I’d spent lots of time taking statements from battered wives who later withdrew them and from gang members who didn’t show up for court. I spent even more time taking statements from victims of vandalism / theft / assault whose complaints against known perpetrators never even made it to court. But I spent the vast majority of my time filling in a mountain of mandatory paperwork that accompanied every single recorded crime, no matter how petty. In other words, I was a uniformed response officer who spent eighty per cent of my time at a desk.

Occasionally, we’d be knee-jerked into an initiative on the back of media pressure. Last year’s big campaign: Nike Crime. There’d been a worrying spate of young trendies getting mugged at knifepoint for their £120 Nike Air Jordan trainers. Of course, the more the media publicised Nike Crime, the worse it got, which in turn gave the media and politicians licence to grow ever more hysterical. It was a vicious cycle, or a self-fulfilling prophecy, depending on how you made your living. Before long, teenagers began to actually get knifed for their Nikes, vindicating the media frenzy and turning the spotlight directly onto the police’s failure to prevent it. The Commissioner ordered every beat officer in the capital to attend a day-long seminar on how to identify Nike-wearing trendies and defend them from knife-wielding envy. The majority of cops who turned up looked too bloated to catch a pensioner wearing flippers, let alone a lithe young shoe-jacker enhanced by recently acquired air-cushioned soles.

I resented being dragged away from my soothing, pointless paperwork to protect spoiled teenagers. As far as I was concerned, anyone dumb enough to wear £120 trainers had it coming. I wanted to solve proper crimes, like who murdered Marion Ryan.

After I caught Marion’s killer, I wanted to ask him: why? Why did you savagely take the life of a completely innocent woman? Look me in the eye and explain it to me. I need to understand.

‘Well?’ said Clive.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Have you ever actually seen someone eating a Milky Way? You know, on the tube, or the bus?’

I was racking my brains when the disembodied fuzz of the radio buzzed in. It was a T call to a house on Salcott Road. A suspected intruder. I realised right away – Salcott was just a stone’s throw from Sangora. Maybe Fintan was right. What if there was a maniac on the loose?

‘Fuck, it’s him,’ I said.

‘You what?’

‘Marion’s killer. I bet that’s him.’

‘Don’t be soft. Probably some kids …’

‘We’re three streets away.’

Clive sagged petulantly, so I took off. But I kept it to a jog: I’d need some puff left if I was going to disarm any deranged psycho.

Images of Marion flashed through my mind: the shock in her cold, dead eyes, her partially ripped-off fingernail.

As I turned into Salcott I checked back. Good old Clive was trundling along fifty feet behind, his head bowed, nodding like a knackered pit pony.

I looked for number 16 and clenched my fists, ready for anything. I gave the brass knocker three manly raps, shouted: ‘Police, open the door.’

A voice from the other side said: ‘Oh, thank God.’

The bright yellow door opened quickly to a pair of big, scared, brown eyes.

‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ she panted, as I stepped into the hallway.

‘Are you okay?’

She nodded.

‘Winona Ryder,’ I gasped. The resemblance was uncanny.

‘Pardon?’ she said.

‘Where is he, er, right now?’ I blurted, hoping she’d assume that’s what I’d said the first time.

‘He was looking through my patio door. Now he’s in the alley behind the garden, looking through a gap,’ she explained, shutting the door behind me.

‘Oh God, he’s never done anything like this before.’

‘You know him?’

She nodded rapidly, scared. Just then, the knocker went again. She jumped.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. When I opened it, Clive nearly tumbled inside.

‘I’ve called for back-up,’ he panted.

I turned and strode through the house until I got to the patio door. I slid it open and stepped into the garden, totally calm. I’d waited three years for this.

‘I’m coming, Eve,’ I thought to myself, ‘this time, I’m coming.’

I strode to the back of the garden, focusing on the only gap in the six-foot fence.

‘Wait for back-up,’ protested Clive from the patio.

Why give him the chance to escape? I thought to myself, deciding there and then to leap the fence, confront the fucker head on. I took out my standard-issue wooden truncheon, ran three strides, mounted, threw one leg over and braced myself.

I looked left, right. Nothing.

I didn’t need to throw my second leg over: this narrow alleyway had no hiding places. He was gone.

I jumped back into the garden and sensed Clive’s shaking head.

As I walked back to the house he grabbed my upper arm, hard.

‘Get one thing straight, pal, I don’t want to be a hero. If I say wait for back-up, I’m waiting for back-up, whether you wait or not. I’m not risking my neck for you or anyone else.’

‘Gotcha,’ I said, yanking my arm from his surprisingly firm grip.

I marched on into the house.

Winona had backed up against a neutral sitting room wall to keep an eye on all doors. I realised she was half-expecting her tormentor to outfox us and come through the front. That’s what real terror does: it bestows superpowers upon the aggressor. I loathed bullies, especially men picking on women. I’d spent years watching Dad chip away at Mum until she became what he loathed most: a timid, meek, frightened wreck.

Winona’s big brown eyes seemed so embarrassed, yet grateful.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said, her soft voice oozing exhausted relief.

‘I’m PC Lynch by the way, that’s PC Hunt. And your name is?’

‘Gabby. Look, I hate calling you but he was trying to open the patio door. I’m really scared he’ll do something stupid.’

‘You know him?’ Clive harrumphed.

She took a deep breath, clearly summoning the energy to go through it all, yet again.

‘He’s my ex. We split up just after Easter, and he won’t accept that it’s over.’

‘He’s still bothering you after, what, four months?’ I said.

‘It’s getting worse.’

‘Has he physically …’

‘No,’ she said quickly.

‘Damaged any property?’ added Clive.

She shook her head again: ‘But this is the first time he’s come into my place.’

Clive threw me a look, one that said, ‘Why do we bother?’

‘How many times have you called us about this?’ he said.

‘This is the third time. Look, I feel terrible dialling 999 but sometimes it’s the only way I can be certain something bad won’t happen. And it’s the only way I can get him to leave.’

‘The trouble is, love,’ patronised Clive, ‘unless he’s committed an actual offence, there’s nothing we can do.’

She nodded, biting her lip.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

I could tell, right away, what she hated most about all of this: the fact that she had to ask for help at all. I’d seen it in Marion’s family that morning: these dignified, fiercely independent, proud people were the ones who paid their taxes so that we could exist, but they never wanted to need us.

Cringingly, Clive wasn’t done yet demeaning our non-victim of crime.

‘I’m not being funny, love, but you could get done for wasting police time. We’re not Relate.’

She put her hand over her face and nodded again: ‘It’s just … there’s no one else I can turn to.’

‘Clive, a word,’ I said, heading to the front door.

‘Shut the door behind you,’ I told him.

‘Are you telling me that there is nothing we can do to help her?’ I asked.

‘What can we do?’

‘We could go see her ex-boyfriend, have a word.’

‘You know the drill with domestics, Donal. He’ll say: “I was only trying to talk to her.” Unless there’s hard evidence of an offence, you end up going round in circles.’

‘What, so we’ve got to wait until she’s lying on her landing with forty-nine stab wounds before we get involved?’

He sighed. ‘She can go to a solicitor, apply for an injunction. We could get him on that later, okay?’

‘But this is our patch. We can’t just abandon this woman until he hurts her. What if she ends up like Marion?’

‘You’ve got to stop letting your emotions get in the way, Donal. You’ll never survive this business if you don’t. We’re not here to referee relationships.’

‘She’s not like the other people we deal with, Clive. You know that. It’s not good enough.’

He sighed and nodded: ‘I know, son. I know. But we don’t make the laws.’

I was growing heartily sick of our helpless appeasement of petty criminals. It felt like we were almost taunting them to go one step further, to do something that would make our dealing with them worthwhile. Make our day, punk, stick a knife in her next time.

‘What can we do?’ asked Clive plaintively.

‘We can do whatever the fuck we like,’ I muttered, knocking on number 16 again. I knew Clive’s heart was already at the Wimpy. ‘Order me a chicken burger and fries. I’ll see you there in ten.’ Gabby didn’t open the door until he was out of sight.

Her place was classy; chic but homely. I clocked her graduation photo: she was smart too. Why then had she shacked up with a psycho?

She didn’t know where her stalker, Dominic Rogan, currently lived. Mutual acquaintances had confirmed that he still worked for Bank of America in the City.

‘Is there any pattern to his activities?’

‘No. It’s just that he seems to be getting worse. Like I said, he’s never actually come into the garden before.’

‘Do you think he’s capable of violence?’

‘I know he is,’ she snapped, ‘that’s why I dialled 999.

‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘I know you’re just doing your job.’

‘What level of violence, Gabby … are you in fear of your life?’

‘I know he’s capable of … lashing out. That’s why I broke up with him.’

‘What does he want?’

‘I’ve tried talking to him, if that’s what you mean. I tried for weeks. He just won’t accept that I don’t love him.’

‘I can help you get a court order.’

‘I’ve thought about it, but it’d probably just provoke him. I don’t want to make him more angry than he already is. He’d break it, I’m certain. Then what? He gets arrested, charged, a court case? It could drag on for months. All that time, he’d still be in my life. He’d love that.’

‘Look Gabby, don’t listen to my colleague. If he comes again, dial 999. I’ll vouch for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, biting her bottom lip again.

I took out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘This is my work number, and my home number. I live half a mile away. If you feel in danger, call either.’

‘I … really? Wow, I don’t know what to say. Is that …? Thank you, Officer.’

‘Donal,’ I said, offering my hand.

She took it and shook it hard, her tearful smile lighting up a distant galaxy.