TWELVE MEN AND TRUE

 

When you appear in the crown court

You put your faith in, without a thought

Twelve people who weren't, frankly

Smart enough to get out of jury duty

HOSTILE WITNESS

 

"You appear to have more than

Average intelligence for a man

Of your background and career”

The Lawyer spoke with a sneer

To the poor witness on the stand

Who was unhappy you understand

"If I wasn’t under oath,” said the gent

“I’d certainly return the compliment"

The Abbottsford Police Chronicles – # 1, The New Recruit

 

Detective Inspector Bill Overend often referred to himself as “optimistically middle aged”, because although there was no guarantee that he was in the middle of his life, he was nonetheless optimistic. 

He was actually forty-five years old, at least for another twenty-one days, and he knew only two well that he had long since seen the middle of his life.

He described himself as “a well-made man” not in a conceited way and not in the terms of an Adonis or someone of Herculean stature but more like solid, sturdy or robust some might even say, “Well built”.

But he liked to be thought of as “well made” it was an old fashioned expression, which his father always used, and he liked it for that reason as much as any other.

The few enemies he had were less flattering about his 6 foot 4 inch 18 stone presence.

But he was a popular man in the job as well as out of it.

As if his height and size did not make him distinctive enough he also had close-cropped Grey hair, that is, what had not already fallen out had turned Grey, and a predominantly Grey beard.

His children often told him he had his head on upside down.

 

It was a cold March night, well early morning actually, as he stood alone in the back garden of his four bed roomed detached home in the idyllic village of Chapel Hill.

He and his family had lived there for almost ten years.

They all loved it there so much.

Life had been good to them and they had a very comfortable and rewarding life.

It had not always been so.

It had taken a combination of hard work and good fortune in equal measure to get to where he was today.

He and his wife of twenty-six years, Sally, had always been happy in each other’s company but life had been more difficult and testing at times.

When they were first married they had a dingy two room flat in Nettlefield, a sprawling commuter town about ten miles and nearly twenty-five years away from where he now stood.

They got out of there after two long years of hard work, with Bill doing as much overtime as he could get, and Sally working days for a Paper Merchant as an office assistant and three evenings, and the occasional weekend, waiting tables at a Pub restaurant.

On the rare occasions that they were not working they spent quiet evenings planning their future and not spending anything.

There only vices being the occasional bottle of wine and smoking roll ups.

So in time they managed to scrape-up enough money for a deposit on a one-bedroom shoebox on a new development on the outskirts of Northchapel.

But they still had to keep working the long hours and extra shifts to meet the mortgage.

Mortgages were new territory for both of them, as no one in Bill’s or Sally’s family had ever owned their own house.

 

Then after a little over a year in their new home Sally broke the news that she was pregnant.

She was very worried about telling him and she delayed telling him for almost three days before she finally blurted it out, as a result of fear and simple delight and a need to share her joy.

But she need not have worried he was as delighted as she was and they were so excited that they danced around like march hares for what seemed like hours.

Even though this was not part of the plan yet they could not have been happier.

The unexpected news of Sally’s expectancy did cause some problems however the main one being the house was far too small for another person however little they might be. 

They could have decided on an abortion and delayed the family a few years but that didn’t sit well with either of them.

And they dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came to mind.

Not that they were part of the anti-abortion lobby it just wasn’t for them.

What was meant to be was meant to be.

 

They put the house on the market and sold it within two days and with the housing market booming they made a very healthy profit.

However the size of house they were looking for they just couldn’t afford.

They could have borrowed the extra money and taken out a bigger mortgage but they would never have been able to meet the payments with only one salary coming in.

Then out of the blue came a turn of good fortune.

There was a knock at the door; it was an old friend of Bills, Dave Butcher.

He had joined the RAF as an aircraft fitter as soon as he was old enough but they had stayed in touch and got together whenever possible.

“Butch” was an only child and had inherited the family home, a three-bed semi in Abbottsford, when his dad died suddenly of a heart attack eighteen months previously.

His mum had died when he was only four from a brain tumor.

Bill and Sally had taken care of the funeral arrangement as the news had hit him hard.

“Butch” and his Dad were very close and he took it really badly.

 

When they had announced they were getting married, out of all their friends and family only Butch, and Sally’s best friend Janice had supported them.

Everyone else had said they were too young, that they should wait and they should experience life first.

Sally’s parents were horrified when she told them she didn’t want to go to Art College.

That she needed to get a job so she could start saving up because she was going to marry Bill.    

They had thought that she would grow out of it that it was just an infatuation, a maturity thing, and when she came to her senses she could just go to Art School the following year instead.

They didn’t know her as well as they thought.

Suffice is to say they didn’t think Bill was good enough for her but then no parent really believes that anyone is good enough for their daughter.

Bills parents didn’t want him to tie himself down so early in his life, even though they loved Sally almost as much as he did, they just wanted them to wait for a year or two.

Never the less they married in 1985.

She was nineteen and he was twenty.

Janice Monk was bridesmaid and Dave Butcher was best man.

 

When Butch called round he said that he needed a favor as he was being posted to Sardinia for the next three years and he needed someone he could trust to house sit for him.

He still couldn’t bring himself to sell; the place still had too many memories.

“You could rent it out,” Sally suggested.

“It needs doing up before I can let it” Dave countered.

“And I only have 4 weeks leave”

 

So would they help him out and house sit while he was abroad, rent free, on the condition they did some of the maintenance.

They knew they would not be doing him as much of a favor as he would be doing them.

This was his way of thanking them for being there for him when his dad died.

So they agreed.

They lived there for three years which gave them the time to save for the next move.

The miners’ strike in the 80’s helped to grow many a Policeman’s savings fund due to overtime and subsistence payments.

It was on the last occasion after returning from a stint in the Nottinghamshire coalfields that Bill found himself in the right place at the right time.

There had been a gruesome discovery in woodland near the sleepy village of Pepperstock Green, The murdered and mutilated bodies of Anne Gresty and Juliana Molesworth. 

Detective Inspector Walter Quilty had been asked to put a murder squad together to investigate and Bill was picked for the squad.

This great opportunity came at a time when he had pretty much given up any ambitions to be a detective, he thought he would just study for his Sergeants exam and stay in uniform

Getting onto a murder squad was one of the most difficult things in the life of a P.C. but not as difficult as staying on it or indeed joining CID permanently.

 

One of the older hands on the squad told him “The trick is to get noticed, but for the right reasons, and without it being obvious you are trying to get noticed”

He wasn’t prepared to play that kind of game; it seemed more trouble than it was worth.

He decided to leave all the tactics and brown nosing to his more ambitious peers.

Besides because of his size he was a difficult man not to notice.

So he would have to make sure he did what he was asked and hope for the best.

He needn’t have worried.

 

Quilty had noticed Bill on several occasions during the course of the investigation and had been impressed with the quiet assuredness in which he handled his assignments and some of the more delicate situations they sometimes found themselves in.

So although he didn’t know it at the time DI Quilty had already earmarked Bill for the team even before Bill turned up the vital links, which lead to the arrest of the killer.

It turned out that the two women were lovers and after thorough searches of their homes Bill discovered that they had a mutual friend.

The mutual friend was Nicola Cuffe, also a lesbian.

She had formerly been involved in a sexual relationship with both of the dead women, although not at the same time.

When she discovered that her former lovers were now lovers themselves it enraged her to the point of committing murder, twice.

The act of mutilation was perpetrated out of sheer spite.

As if finding out Juliana and Anne were lover was not enough she then found their love letters and the knowledge that they were not just lovers but in love as well tipped Nicola over the edge.

So it was a crime of passion.

 

Detective Inspector Walter Quilty always liked to make new appointments to the team personally.

His favorite location for this, at any station, was the police canteen not because he took any pleasure in the foul brew misleadingly dispensed as tea, But because that was where people tended to be more relaxed and less formal.

Some DI’s liked to do it in the pub over a drink or two.

Walter Quilty didn’t drink himself; he didn’t care if others on the team drank as long as it didn’t affect their work in any way. 

So when Quilty walked into the canteen Bill had no idea of his purpose in being there.

Having collected a mug of something brown, wet and luke warm he made his way towards the table occupied by Bill and another PC John Holt.

John was the same age as Bill but joined the force two years after him and they had become firm friends. He and his wife, Mary, were to be godparents to his first child Isabel.

“Morning gentlemen” he said, he sat down and stirred his tea and looked across at John Holt.

John fidgeted nervously and ran his finger inside his collar, excused himself and left.

If he’d stayed under Quilty’s stare any longer he felt he would have confessed to something, anything.

With PC Holt out of the way Walter turned his gaze upon Bill.

“That was good work on the Pepperstock case constable Overend” The DI said looking suspiciously at his tea. 

“Thank you sir” Replied Bill

“How would you like get out of uniform permanently?” Quilty asked “and join my team?”

“Very much sir”

“Do you think you can handle it?” Questioned the DI

“Yes sir” 

“Ok I’ll square it with Superintendent Foxton” Said Walter as he stood leaving his tea.

“Unless you hear otherwise report to CID tomorrow, eight thirty”

 The DI said over his shoulder as he walked away.

“Yes sir”

 

Isabel’s birth was followed by another daughter Abigail then sons Daniel and Harry luckily his promotions followed at a similarly frenetic pace.

.

By the time Harry arrived Bill had made Inspector and his boss was promoted to DCI

This was on the back of their success in solving a very high profile child abduction case.

Arresting both abductors as well as securing the child’s release, unharmed.

 

Bill inherited most of his predecessors team plus the addition of two new transfers Detective Constable Boris Katarski and Detective Sergeant Tom Adamson.

Bill was very much a first impressions kind of person and when he overheard the two men talking he knew they would fit right in..

“Katarski? What sort of name is that? Where the hell does a name like that come from?” asked the DS.

“Cricklewood Serge” he answered walking away.

“Ask a stupid question” Adamson muttered to himself.

Bill chose Tom Adamson as his DS.

He never regretted it.

 

The house, “Little Harding’s,” was nestled in the hillside amidst the remnants of the ancient forest, which was once draped across the whole of the southern landscape.

The garden sloped gently away from the house and he looked out across the valley to the distant lights of Abbeyvale, the nearest town, and beyond to Grace Hill on the far side of the valley.

He looked up at the clear night sky.

The sky was clear but for the heavens bejeweled with stars, were their more stars in the sky tonight, no of course not, it’s just been a while since he enjoyed the simple pleasure of the night sky.

There was frost in the air and his breath showed like plumes of smoke as he exhaled.

“Smoke.” He heard himself say “if only.”

He found himself wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking, he hadn’t thought about smoking for months.

Bill had stopped smoking nearly a year ago, St George’s day.

He had defeated the nicotine monster as St George had defeated the dragon he would have said it was symbolic were it not for the fact that he hated symbolism so much.

He had been a serious smoker for almost thirty years.

What prompted him to stop?

It certainly wasn’t the insufferable bores who would wave their hands exaggeratedly in front of them and cough irritatingly while simultaneously rolling there tongue out and grimacing whenever they are in a smokers presence.

People like that only make you wish you smoked a pipe.

Nor was it the endless health warnings where smoking was the cause of every illness from cancer and heart disease to athlete’s foot and piles.

Bill always thought that every smoker accepted that smoking was harmful to your health.

But they took a gamble that it wouldn’t happen to them, that was certainly his view.

Even the fact that his brother, who was five years his senior, and a heavy smoker, had had a series of heart attacks when he was Bills age didn’t deter him from smoking.

And he was certainly feeling the effects of smoking like the morning cough and the breathless gasps climbing stairs. 

As for National no smoking day he always found it to be an amusing concept.

Many more smokers would participate if there were also a national smoking day when all the sanctimonious little prigs would have to have at least five good drags on a Woodbine.

That would give them something to cough about.

Then there is the annual ritual of the Chancellors Budget, when anything which might give the slightest pleasure to the great unwashed, must be taxed. But even having to pay more for the privilege didn’t persuade him to stop smoking.

What finally pushed him over the edge was the realization of the fact that he was an addict.

He was no longer choosing to be a smoker; he was one because he was addicted.

He was no better than a common junkie.

And that just made him mad.

He’d never really tried quitting before and he wasn’t sure how too.

There were plenty whom did have the solution to his problem and they weren’t backwards in coming forwards.

The funny thing was that most of them had never smoked in their lives.

His Aunt Mary suggested Hypnosis.  

He really didn’t fancy hypnosis at all just in case they discovered he was the reincarnated embodiment of Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler or even worse a new labor supporter.

The woman in the off license suggested acupuncture.

Acupuncture was never going to do it for him.

He didn’t believe in alternative medicine.

And if you don’t believe in the treatments one hundred percent they will never work.

Also he thought there is something faintly ridiculous about someone who sticks pins in people for a living.

And he lost count of the people who swore by nicotine substitutes, patches, chewing gum, lozenges, tablets or inhalers, all designed to replace the nicotine you would normally get from tobacco.

To his way of thinking if you want an efficient means of getting nicotine into your system then have a fag.

Now as a confirmed cynic he happened to think that nicotine substitutes are more effective at keeping affluent Pharmaceutical companies affluent than helping people to break the habit of smoking.

The addiction was to nicotine after all.

In the end he chose cold turkey, why do they call it that? , He didn’t know.

With a little positive thinking and an awful lot of will power he did it.

It was a lot easier than he thought it was going to be.

The first week was by far the hardest but he did start to feel the benefits, such as more energy, improved sense of taste and smell and tackling the stairs without getting breathless, which boosts you up when your will power might get a little shaky.

He found the hardest things were social events especially those involving alcohol, but it could be done.

He never really suffered any withdrawal symptoms but he has suffered the most extraordinary side effects in the form of unusual and extraordinarily vivid dreams.

Just a few nights ago for example, it should be mentioned that under no circumstances could Bill be described as a Cricket fan.

His knowledge of the game is virtually non-existent, this may seem an odd subject to dream about then when he detests it so much but nonetheless he did.

It amused him greatly as he thought of it.

He had on many occasions described the games rules as unfinished because the games inventor died of boredom before he could complete his work.

He always enjoyed baiting cricket fans with his suggestions as to how to improve the game, such as “tip and run” a concept familiar to most young boys forced to play the game.

Or playing with a burning ball, that would liven up the game.

So why someone so disparaging about the game should dream about it is one of life’s imponderables.

He had been selected to represent England in a test match against the West Indies in Trinidad.

If that wasn’t amazing enough he was to open the batting with Phil Tufnell, you see even his subconscious knows nothing about Cricket.

Now for some reason there was an unpronounceable Pakistani bowling and Bill hit the last ball of his first over the pavilion for a huge six.

As he began acknowledging the crowd’s applause, Tuffers began walking down the wicket so Bill walked to the middle to meet him, he shook Bills hand warmly and then he reached in to his pocket and brought out a packet of menthol cigarettes and offered him one, and they stood there smoking and soaking in the atmosphere.

As they stared about them they saw the West Indies captain talking animatedly with the umpire and they turned their gaze on Tuffers and Bill and then walked towards them.

Bill naturally thought they were in big trouble and even Phil looked a little nervous.

As they reached the middle the umpire said “I am sorry Gentlemen to interrupt your smoke break but do you think I could trouble you for a match”? And he took out his pipe.

And that was how it continued after every over they would meet in the middle and have a smoke.

And that is fairly typical of the dreams he has from time to time.

I suppose the big questions are firstly, does he miss it?

Yes he does, not that he has cravings.

What he misses is the habit, the ritual and the feel of a cigarette in his hands.

And secondly would he ever smoke again?

Yes in a heartbeat but he would regret it so he refrains.

He would kill for one now though.

 

He looks at his watch

2.00am.

He shakes his head and sighs.

He is standing in the middle of his lawn in his back garden at 2.00am on a cold march night wearing dressing gown and slippers wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking.

He looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes.

Correction wearing wet slippers and wishing he hadn’t stopped smoking. 

Just then bright yellow light spills into the darkness behind him illuminating the lawn but for his large shadow stretching into the darkness.

“Bill are you coming in?” A woman’s voice called softy.

It was his wife Sally also donning dressing gown and slippers.

Sally however, sensibly chose not to venture out into the night air and just put her head out far enough around the French door to call to Bill without waking the neighborhood.

“I’ve made coffee.” She waited a few moments.

“OK sweetheart” Bill returned in equally hushed tones without turning round.

“I’ll be in, in a moment”

He heard the door close and the bright light disappeared as Sally drew the curtain back across the door.

He looked at his watch again 2.05am.

Bill despaired.

He had had some intriguing cases over his career and he was certainly no stranger to sleepless nights, either because of his work or because of the children.

Every parent experiences it at some time even with the best of children.

But this was different this was a new experience.

And it was something totally out of his control he could do nothing.

He could not help in any way, he felt redundant.

He was about to become a Grandfather for the first time.

 

Sally was sitting in her armchair giving every outward appearance of dignified calm.

She was in her normal corner beneath her lamp, cross-stitching, the normal paraphernalia scattered about her.

But for the fact that she had re-stitched the same area six times she was coping well.

She was wishing now that she had not insisted that her son in law, Paul, phone the moment, Isabel went into labor.

“We could have had a good night’s sleep and woken to the happy news” She said to herself.

But it wasn’t the lack of sleep that worried her it was not being with her daughter to help.

She looked at the clock again.

“It hasn’t bloody moved” then she laughed.

She was always onto Bill about swearing.

The door handle rattled as Bill opened the door, there was some fumbling behind the curtain and then Bill appeared.

“My feet are wet,” he said

“I’m not surprised” Sally said unsympathetically.

“Your coffee is by your chair but it’s probably cold by now”

Bill sat down and kicked off his slippers and picked up his coffee.

Putting the mug to his lips he took a mouth full and grimaced

“Uh that’s horrible” and put down the mug.

Sally set her stitching to one side and got up.

“You go and dry your feet and I’ll make some fresh” she said and took his cup.

“It’s all right love I’ll do it, it’s my own fault its cold, you carry on with your stitching” Bill protested.

Sally reached to her full five feet two inch height and kissed him warmly.

“Go and dry your feet,” she said

Bill hugged her to his chest and kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” he said

She reached up and kissed him again.

“Of course you do, why wouldn’t you love me I am wonderful after all” she walked nonchalantly out of the room suddenly her head reappeared around the door.

“I love you too”

They both laughed helplessly.

It was amazing how, no matter how old he got, he still loved her as much as he did when he first saw her all those years ago.

 

It was 4.00am.

Sally had gone back to bed at three o’clock but Bill had decided to sit up a little longer. He should have gone to bed with Sally as he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

He had been struggling with the “long blinks” for the last half hour.

The blinks were getting longer and longer and.

Bill was hacking his way through the dense jungle with a machete while Stanley and Livingston offered words of encouragement.

Bill stopped to mop his brow with his handkerchief.

“Let’s press on Overend” called Stanley.

Bill acknowledged Stanley and went to work again with the machete in a short while he broke through into a large clearing.

Very soon thirty or forty pygmies surrounded them from a previously undiscovered tribe.

They were led through the jungle by the fierce looking pygmies for about an hour until they suddenly found themselves in the pygmy’s village.

The pygmies spoke a very strange language that none of them had ever heard before yet funnily enough they could understand every word.

They were introduced to the tribal chief amid great ceremony and then they were led into a large hut.

The hut was lined with the tribal elders and the visitors were introduced in turn finally they were invited to sit in close proximity to the Chief.

After a magnificent feast, complete with music and dancing girls, the Chief clapped his hands three times and a serving girl came into the hut carrying a large tray.

She presented it to the chief and he gestured grandly to his guests and the serving girl offered round a box of Henri Winterman slim panatela cigars.

Bill woke with a start.

“No I don’t do that anymore”

He looked around the room and for a moment he didn’t know where he was.

Looking down he saw the cat curled up on his lap and he stroked her.

“Hello Blackberry old girl”  

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

He replaced his glasses and looked at the clock.

6.40am.

 “Breakfast time eh girl”

She jumped down purring loudly and trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.

Getting to his feet Bill paused to stretch then he walked to the French doors and threw back the curtains letting in the weak morning light.

The cat mewed loudly from the kitchen doorway and Bill turned and walked towards the kitchen.

“Ok you stupid creature I'm coming”

As he walked into the kitchen he picked up the kettle and checked the level, finding it sufficiently full he replaced it on the stand and switched it on.

Then he opened a cupboard and took out a sachet of cat food and a clean bowl.

The cat was in a frenzy not knowing whether to meow or purr and performing figures of eight around Bills Feet

“Ok Berry, ok, here it is, anyone would think you’d never been fed before”

Bill placed the bowl on the cats mat then he turned his attention to the tea.

 

With the cat fed and the tea made Bill took a sip of his coffee before he made his way upstairs with Sally’s cup of tea.

He walked into their bedroom and walked around to Sally’s side of the room,

“Cup of tea Sal” he said as he put her tea down on the bedside cabinet.

“Thanks love” she said sleepily

“What’s the time?”

“Just after seven” Bill said as he sat down on the edge of the bed his coffee in hand.

“Any news yet?” she asked

“No” Bill yawned “not a thing”

Just at that moment the phone rang, Bill and Sally looked at each other.

Sally reached out her left hand and clasped Bills hand tightly and with her other hand she picked up the phone.

“Hello”

“Paul? Hello what news?”

A Pause.

“A boy, that’s fantastic, seven pounds eight ounces”

She’s looking at Bill all the time.

“A good size”

Another pause to absorb more information

“Mother and baby both doing well”

She let go of Bills hand to wipe her eyes

“Oh Paul we’re so proud”

She wipes away another tear.

“Yes we would love to, ok well see you later bye”

Bill put down his coffee in preparation.

Sally hung up the phone looked at Bill and dissolved into tears and launched herself into his arms.

 

After the tears had subsided Bill got up and took off his dressing gown then he pulled back the duvet and slipped under the cover and snuggled up close to Sally.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” said Sally suspiciously

“It just occurred to me that I’ve never made love to a granny before”

 

 

 

 

 

The Abbottsford Police Chronicles – # 2, Natural Justice

Frank Owen stepped through the automatic doors and onto the pavement; he paused briefly and cast a glance back over his shoulder at the Churchill hospital and tried to think of a time when he had left that ghastly building with good news, but he couldn’t so he proceeded to the bus stop through the mist and murk.
It was a damp and dismal late October day, grey and uninspiring, the kind of day when it was impossible to discern where terra firma ended and the sky began.
When he reached the bus shelter he entered the inhospitable Perspex box and sat down on what supposedly passed for a bench.
He leant his walking stick against the bench beside him and then reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
He put one to his lips.
“You shouldn’t do that you know, they’ll kill you they will” A voice said from one corner of the shelter.
He turned his head to see that the voice belonged to a small skinny women in her fifties wearing a shabby coat over what he presumed was a cleaners uniform.
“They killed my husband” she continued as she sat down on the bench.
“And he was a lot younger than you”
He smiled and nodded then he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Frank was seventy nine years old, eighty in November, and he gave up smoking on his fortieth birthday and apart from the very rare occasion when he was offered a cigar at a special occasion, a wedding, a regimental reunion or some other gathering, he had not smoked for half of his life, until a few weeks before when he was first diagnosed.
The oncologist used words like carcinomas and metastasised he didn’t really take it all in but it was in his pancreas, oesophagus, stomach and bowel which meant they would have to gut him like a fish even if surgery was an option which it never was.
There were treatments of coarse but they would merely delay the inevitable.
The prognosis was that without treatment he would probably see another birthday but not another Christmas.
So he thought what the hell he’d really missed smoking and it was hardly likely to kill him now.
He exhaled and a cloud of smoke which seemed to hang in the still moisture laden air.
“I will just have to take that risk my dear” he said to her and smiled.
Frank was a big man; over six feet tall and broad shouldered and despite his need to walk with a stick he still carried himself with a military bearing and apart from rheumatism in his knees, hence the need for the stick, and the fact that he was dying he had felt ok, a little discomfort at times but no more than that,
He had lost a little weight of late, not a bad thing in itself he had been a stone or two overweight for a good few years, and he had felt tired a good deal which he put down to his age, he would not have gone to the doctors at all but for chronic indigestion the reason for which had soon become quite apparent.
But in those few short weeks since the initial diagnosis the pain had started and it was getting worse, pain like he had never known before, even when he was shot in Korea it didn’t hurt so bad, and he was starting to look gaunt and skin hung loosely about his neck.
He thought back to that day’s consultation and the doctor’s words.
“You have a little time to get your affairs in order” he said to him.
“But you will deteriorate quite quickly”
Just as well I have no affairs to get in order, he had thought to himself.
He had no one to miss him or mourn him; his passing would be be as insignificant as a ripple on a pond.
Irene his wife of 39 years passed away ten years previous after a stroke and his only child Derek was knocked down and killed by a drunk driver while he was crossing the road outside his university digs aged 20.
He had no other family left his elder sister had died in childbirth and her daughter died shortly afterwards and his brother died in the port of Aden a victim of Yemeni terrorists in 1966.
He had no nephews or nieces, no distant cousins, the friends and comrades who were not already dead were gaga so there were no beneficiaries of his meagre estate.
There was enough in his savings to bury him and the rest of his worldly goods would be sold and the money could go to the hospice where he was set to shuffle off this mortal coil.
He was ready to die, he had had enough, his life had been almost intolerable since Irene died, lonely and meaningless, but the last year had all but broken him and he was ashamed of himself and that was something he thought would never happen, but he had allowed himself to become a victim, giving in to intimidation and what was most unforgivable of all he had become a coward.

A car horn sounded which brought him back from his self pitying reflections. He looked up to see a car parked in the bus bay with the passenger window down.
“Can I give you a lift Frank?” The driver called.
Frank got to his feet and walked stiffly to the car.
“Thanks” he said through the open window.
“As long as it not out of your way”?
“It’s not a problem Frank” Said the driver.
So Frank opened the door and got in, the door made that whirring sound as the window was raised as he belted himself in.
The driver was a muscular man in his mid thirties with Jet Black hair and wild eyes who appeared to be tall even sitting down.
His name was, Boris Katarski and he was a Detective Sergeant with the Abbotsford CID. Whom Frank had got to know during a murder enquiry almost a year previous.
This was not the first time they had bumped into each other, and it had happened more then once at the hospital, he supposed that police business was bound to involve visits to the hospital for any number of reasons.
“Thank you Sergeant this damp weather gets right in your bones” he said rubbing his knees.
“No problem, Frank, so what brings you to the Churchill on a damp and dismal Thursday?” Boris asked trying not to sound like a policeman.
“Just visiting a friend” Frank lied not wanting to be pitied. “And you?”
“Oh just interviewing a victim of crime” He answered not entirely convincingly.
“Anyway how come you’re at the mercy of public transport? Where’s your car today?”
“Oh it’s in my lock up I’m afraid I can’t afford to keep it on the road anymore”
Frank replied not quite honestly. “The pension doesn’t seem to stretch as far as it used to”
The rest of the journey consisted of small talk about politics and the previous nights match.
Then they turned into Orchard Lane and pulled up outside number 14 where Frank lived.
“Thanks for the lift Sgt it’s really appreciated” He said as he opened the car door.
“Don’t mention it and please call me Boris”
“Ok. Thanks Boris” He replied a little uncomfortably and then he got out the car after some undignified effort.
“I don’t move as well as I did” he said with a laugh.
Just before he closed the car door he said goodbye, then made his way up the short path to his front door.
It was a an unremarkable little house build in the same decade as Frank was born but looked as if it had stood the test of time better than he had himself and would be around a good many years after his passing.
The front garden much as the back needed some attention and he had had to admit to himself some while ago that he wasn’t up to the task anymore.
The hanging baskets that throughout the summer hung either side of the front door and half a dozen stone planters were about all he could keep on top off though not for much longer.
He fumbled for his door key and slipped it into the lock and having unlocked the door and he went inside turning briefly to wave to Sgt Katarski before closing the door behind him.

Boris sat in the car and watched Frank walk up the path and returned his wave and carried on watching him until the door closed.
He liked Frank, he was a nice old boy, but that wasn’t the reason he kept engineering these accidental meetings.
He knew Frank was keeping something from him and DS Katarski was like a dog with a bone he would not let it go.

Safely in his house he lit the gas and sat down in front of the fire he was glad he had got a lift the damp weather was getting to him, but as much as he appreciated the life and as much as he liked the Sergeant he always made him feel ashamed.
He had first met DS Katarski when he was investigating the brutal murder of Brenda Sage, an elderly neighbour, who lived in the house across the road from his own.
The reason for his great shame was that he lied.

On the evening of the murder Frank had been stood at the kitchen sink washing up after his supper idly looking out through the window, he had an unhindered view of the road and the houses opposite due to the lack of net curtains which he had dispensed with after his wife died, mainly because he thought them too fussy but also because he liked to see what was going on.
Just as he was washing up the last saucepan he saw Brenda’s front door open, which surprised him because she didn’t get many visitors especially of an evening so he was curious to see who it was.
The porch light was off and in the shadows he could only just make out a slight figure. But as they moved down the path to the gate they were illuminated by the street light.
Franks jaw dropped to see Danny Blake open the gate and pass into the street.
Blake was a small wirery man in his twenties, a vicious thug, who having never done an honest days work in his entire life made his living from crime.
Burglary, robbery, mugging, shop lifting you name it he’d done it, he was nothing if not versatile.
Then to Frank’s horror Blake looked directly at him and smiled a very unattractive smile, then his blood ran cold as Blake waved his hand across his throat in a cutting gesture.
Frank was frozen to the spot, powerless to move under his evil gaze.
Then he turned and walked casually down the street.
Frank was in turmoil he knew something bad had happened, Brenda could be laying in her house injured, but the implication from Blake was clear if he said anything he was dead.
He didn’t know what to do, he picked up the phone and put it straight down again, if he phoned the police he would have to say what he saw.
He grabbed his coat and rushed out the back door, went down the path and through the back gate where his car was parked.
He drove a couple of miles down the road until he reached a small parade of shops where he knew there was a phonebox, from there he called the police.
By the time he got back to his kitchen the police were already knocking on Brenda’s front door.
Once they had gained entry and then returned to their car he could tell by their body language and the lack of urgency that she was dead.
DS Katarski knocked on his door the next morning and that was when the lying began.

Blake had not been satisfied with his implied threat to Frank on the night of the murder he made a point of reminding him whenever he got the chance in the street, in the pub, at the shops, and whenever he got to hear that Frank had been seen talking to a policeman then a window would be smashed, the flowers in his planters would be dug up or a tire on his car would be slashed, the last time his wipers were ripped off, that was the reason he kept his car off the road now he couldn’t afford the repairs.
But the worst thing of all was when he just stood in the street and stared at his house, taunting him, shaming him.
Every act perpetrated against him underlined the contempt he had for himself for succumbing to Blake’s intimidation.
But now the worm was turning, he was dying and that he could do nothing about, but he didn’t want to die a coward and that he could do something about.
It was too late to tell the police what he saw the cancer would have seen him off long before the case got to trial; it was too late for conventional justice but he had something better in mind.

The next day he put his plan into action, he had hatched the plan while he was waiting in the oncology department at the hospital.
The first part was quite simple and involved luring Blake to his house and he decided the best way was with the lure of money.
The only snag being that he didn’t have any so he spent an evening cutting up pieces of newspaper to the size of a ten pound note and by placing a real note at each end and securing them all with a rubber band it made up an impressive looking bundle of notes.
The second part involved making sure Blake saw the bait; this was achieved by way of an improvised meeting.
Frank knew that Blake was a regular at the Bricklayers Arms, the pub at the end of his road and was generally in the pub between six and seven most evenings.
He got himself in a position so he could see his mark through the window then he drained his glass quickly and was on his feet directly in his path as he entered then he stood blocking his way as he put on his overcoat.
“Come on old man get out of the way” He sneered.
Frank made an exaggerated movement to get his arm through the armhole and could see by the expression on Blakes face the precise moment he saw the bundle of notes that was now clearly visible sticking out of Franks inside coat pocket.
“I’m just going, I’m just going” Frank said and made his goodbyes to the barmaid satisfied that the bait had been well and truly taken
He knew he had plenty of time to walk the 80 yards or so to his house as Blake would have to bide a while in the pub so as not to draw suspicion on himself.
Once he was through the front door he quickly took off his coat remembering to retrieve the bundle from his pocket and went straight too the sitting room.
He had now reached the third and decisive part of his plan which he had pondered on long and hard.
Now he was dying he intended to address the situation of allowing himself to be intimidated before it was too late.
Before sitting down he adjusted the angle of his armchair so that it faced the door but was not visible from the doorway until the door was fully open.
Then he sat down and with his left hand picked up the revolver from the table.
The gun was a war souvenir from his time in Korea and he hadn’t had it out of his trunk for forty years or more.
He spent most of the day cleaning it and he loaded it with three rounds, that was all that he had, but he only needed one.
He had covered the sofa with a large platic sheet that he used for decorating which was peppered with spots of different coloured gloss and emulsion. Not that he was doing it to conceal the crime he just didn’t want to ruin the sofa, his wife really liked it.
At first he thought he would just scare a confession out of him but it would never hold up in court and he would retract it as soon as he could.
So he had resolved to kill him quickly and cleanly and then give himself up.
Frank knew Blake would come through the front door, there were security lights out the back, and the front door wouldn’t take much force to open.
He just sat there and waited he didn’t suppose it would be long the lure of a roll of notes is very strong to someone of criminal bent, and he was proved right, when he heard the wood splinter on the front door, Blake had stayed little more than an hour at the pub and now he was in the hall.
Frank passed the gun into his right hand and pointed it in the direction of the door.
What Frank hadn’t considered until that moment was the possibility that Blake wouldn’t come alone but he needn’t have concerned himself as Blake was far to greedy to share the spoils of an easy score.
The door handle turned and the door began to move and all of a sudden it was wide open and Blake rushed in.
“I thought I’d come for a little visit Frank” He said looking round the room.
“I think you have something for me ..”
Then he saw the gun for the first time and started to edge backwards to the door.
“No need to rush off Blake, come in and sit down, make yourself comfortable as you’ve come for a visit”
Blake carried on edging backwards then Frank pulled the hammer back with his thumb until there was an audible click
Blake turned white and Frank smiled.
“Sit down” He said again.
Blake sat down on the plastic sheet.
“Is that thing supposed to frighten me?” Blake said trying and failing to regain his bravado.
“No, it’s supposed to kill you” Frank replied coldly.
Blake started to shake
“No, please” he begged
“You don’t have to kill me, I’ll leave you alone from now on, I promise, please don’t kill me”
“Why should I spare your life, you miserable piece of vermin?”
“I beg you please I don’t want to die”
“Did Brenda beg for her life before you beat her to death? Why should I spare your life you didn’t spare hers?”
“It wasn’t me, I’m innocent”
Frank was shaking with rage now all the anger at his shame and cowardice was coming to the fore, he wanted to tell Blake how he had stained his life, how he made him feel about himself, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead he sat and stared at the snivelling creature before him and decided now was as good a time as any and picked up the cushion he had earlier placed by his chair that he would use to muffle the sound of the gunshot, again not to conceal the crime but so as not to disturb the neighbours.

Boris was officially finished for the day and off the clock but decided, as it was on his route home, to call round to see Frank Owen.
Boris thought Frank must have seen someone the night Mrs Sage was murdered and he had a pretty good idea who and he planned to ask him straight out why he hadn’t come forward.
Boris was a pretty good judge of character and there had to be a good reason why a man like Frank Owen would keep quiet.

As he turned into Orchard Lane everything was quiet and he parked in the first available space. It was only as he walked up the path that he noticed the front door was ajar.
He pushed it open slowly and stepped inside the dark hallway.
“Frank!” he called

Frank heard the Sgt call just as he aimed the gun at Blake, who seeing the old man momentarily distracted took his chance and sprang up off the sofa and launched himself at him,
Then the gun fired and the bullett hit Blake in the chest throwing him back onto the plastic covered sofa, before continuing its flight, hitting the wall by the door just as Boris opened the door.

Boris burst into the room and heard something hit the wall about twelve inches from his head, he wasn’t sure what it was until he saw the smoking gun in Franks hand then he looked at the hole in the plaster and thought to himself that that was too close for comfort.
He tried to put the fact that he had narrowly missed being killed from his mind and quickly surveyed the scene, a motionless body, the plastic sheet, the cushion silencer, a wad of cash and a smoking gum.
His first task was to take the gun from Frank who relinquished it without argument then he checked the motionless body for signs of life and for the first time realised it was Danny Blake.
He turned and looked at Frank.
“He’s dead” He confirmed.
“Good”
“What the hell happened Frank what was he doing here?”
“I set a trap for him, ambushed him if you like,” He pointed at the bundle of notes
“I lured him here and then executed him”
Boris sat down on the vacant chair while Frank filled him in on the events of that evening and the previous year which lead up to it.
He told him everything, seeing Blake, the 999 call, the lying, the intimidation, the vandalism and the cancer right up to the point when Boris entered the room.
“You can arrest me now” Frank stated.
Boris sat in the arm chair with his head back and his eyes closed and said nothing.
“Well Sgt arrest me”
“I’m not going to arrest you, you old fool” Boris replied leaning forward.
“But I killed him, and you know I did”
“I’m not arresting you” Boris repeated
“But you have to, I killed him and I’m prepared to face the music”
“If I arrest you for murder you will spent your last days in prison awaiting trial” He paused
“I have spend half my professional life trying to put that in prison” he pointed at the corpse.
“And all I hear are the excuses, “he’s from a broken home, his mother was prostitute, his father was a drug addict, the poor lamb it’s really not his fault” but you Frank they will convict in a heartbeat, while vermin like him play the system”
“I don’t want you throwing your life away, your career away, to save me” Frank said
“Don’t worry” the Sgt said
The next hour passed largely in silence, as Boris tried to think what to do next.
Then he suddenly got up and walked to the door, when he got there he fumbled in his pocked producing a pen knife which he used to dig the bullet from the hole in the plaster then he put both in his pocket.
Then he turned to Frank and asked.
“Where’s the fuse box?”
“Under the stairs, Why?”
“We need to disable the security lights at the back”
Boris said with his head inside the cupboard.
Then he and Frank wrapped the corpse in the plastic sheet which they then carried out to Franks garage, fortunately it was possible to access the garage from the garden reducing the risk of being seen and with the lights disabled and a convenient fog they managed to get to the garage unnoticed.
Once in the garage they put the body in the boot then paused for a breath Boris then checked the shelves and found a container of metholated spirit and another of turpentine and put them in the boot next to the body.
“What now” Frank asked still breathing heavily.
“Drive to the old Northchapel print works on Oakham Road I’ll follow on in my car, ok?”
“Ok”
It was a foggy night which was something of a blessing and a curse, a blessing as it was good cover if you were up to no good but a curse when you’re nearly eighty years old and your eyesight’s not to clever.
So Frank drove carefully over to Northchapel constantly checking his rear view mirror to make sure the Sgt was behind him.

Boris was nervously following Franks beat up old Mondeo through the fog cursing the slow progress and praying that Franks funeral pace driving would not attract any unwanted attention, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he finally saw the Mondeo indicating to turn into the old print works.

Frank drove on round to the back of the buildings to a spot that couldn’t be seen from the main road Boris pulled up some fifty yards from the other car and once out went straight to the boot and after a cursory glance at his surrounding dragged the body from the boot and with some difficulty and little help from Frank manhandled Blake’s body into the drivers seat.
He threw the old plastic sheet onto the back seat then started to splash the contents of the two containers of flammables all over the cars interior, remembering just in time to leave a small amount in one container.
He then rummaged in the car boot and found an old umbrella he then soaked the end of it with the remaining turpentine.
“Go and get in my car” He said to Frank
Finally he lit the end of the umbrella with Franks lighter and tossed it through the open car window, and then almost as an after thought he fished in his pocket and retrieved the bullet and tossed it into the flames.

Once the car was well ablaze they drove off, they made better time on the return journey with Boris driving.
“Fancy a pint?” Boris asked
“No not really” Frank said rather surprised at the suggestion.
“Well you need to have a reason not to be at home so we’ll go and have a beer”
The pub he chose was the Coach and Horses on the outskirts of Abbottsford and it was not chosen at random.
The first reason he picked this particular pub was that its car park was adjacent to the river and was a handy disposal point for the gun and secondly it was known to be the favourite watering hole for more than one of Blake’s associates so in the unlikely event that the gun was discovered the finger of suspicion could reasonably be pointed in their direction.
Once they arrived at the pub he parked the car as near to the river as possible.
Boris opened the glove compartment and removed the gun that he had wrapped in a tea towel and placed it on his lap.
Then he very carefully wiped it down thoroughly including the two remaining bullets and the spent cartridge case.
“Ok Frank lets get that beer”
They both got out of the car and Boris lead frank towards the river.
“I suppose you used to fish this river when you were a lad” Boris said for the benefit of any unseen ears.
Frank wondered what the hell he was talking about then Boris gave him a knowing look.
“Yes, yes” Frank replied finally cottoning on.
“Yes many times, I’ve caught many a fish in this river.”
At that moment Boris tossed the gun into the dark water.
Then they turned towards the pub.

They stayed in the pub for an hour or so and barely exchanged a word but once they were back in the car Boris went over what they would have to do next.

On arriving back at Franks house they had to make sure there was no evidence of the shooting, but in order to account for the broken front door they had to make it look like a burglary had taken place so draws were pulled out a table knocked over, that sort of thing, and they had to do it quickly because it was supposed to have already happened.
Once Boris was satisfied it looked like a burgled house he phoned the station and reported that Frank Owens house had been burgled and his car stolen.
Then he had to go outside and break the lock on the garage doors to make it look like that had been broken into as well.
It was just as Boris sat down on the armchair to make a call to the police that he noticed the bullet hole in the wall again.
He stood up scratching his head wondering how to cover it.
“We could move that cabinet” He suggested pointing at a tall unit at the other end of the room.
“Or the hat stand from the hall”
He shook his head and muttered to himself.
“What about a standard lamp, do you have a standard lamp?”
He was panicking now.
“Why don’t we just move that picture so it covers the hole”
Frank suggested.

The story Boris gave the police was that due to a nagging suspicion that Mr Owen was withholding information about the murder of Mrs Sage he had decided to visit Mr. Owen.
He had thought that if he invited him out for a drink in the hope that in convivial surrounding over a pint he might relax and let something slip, which unfortunately he did not, so he gave him a lift home.
Staff at the pub were questioned and confirmed that the Sgt and Mr Owen were indeed at the pub that night and though there were conflicting statements as to what time they arrived these were ignored as it was a busy pub.
On returning to 14 Orchard Lane they found the hose had been burgled and Mr Owens car stolen.
It was at this point that Mr Owen admitted have withheld information about the Sage murder and went on to say he believed he had been targeted because he had been seen in Sgt Katarskis company as certain acts of vandalism and spite had been perpetrated on him in the past to ensure he kept his mouth shut.
This story was later borne out by the fact that Blake’s corpse had been found in Mr Owens burnt out stolen car.
In the following weeks police took the view that Blake had either had a falling out with one of his own associates or a rival miscreant who had then killed him.
All the evidence pointed to Blake having burgled the house his fingerprints had been found on the external and internal doors of the property and having located the car keys he had stolen the car which he then drove to a remote location where he later met his end by a single gunshot the bullet having been found at the scene confirmed this hypothesis.

Boris only saw Frank on a handful of occasions after that night the last of which was at the hospice a few days before he died Frank was very near to the end and had little strength left but he manage to grasp Boris’s hand firmly and mouth the words “thank you”.

Sgt Katarski never regretted his actions in not arresting Frank for Blake’s murder it was not done solely with the intention of getting him off the hook but rather more by allowing him a dignified end to his life while at the same time dispensing some natural justice for Mrs Sage.
The bi-product of his actions was to give the CID the excuse to raid the property of every known associate of Blake’s with the thinly veiled motive of finding his killer.
They could never find sufficient evidence to prove them guilty of his murder but it did turn up enough evidence of wrong doing to lock them up for something else.
While Boris felt his conscience was clear in relation to helping Frank, the many pats on the back he received regarding the numerous indirectly related arrests did make him feel a little uncomfortable.
But he did smile to himself at the irony of the situation of Blake’s murder being in the same pile of unsolved cases as that of his victim Brenda Sage.

LOCKERBIE LAMENT

The grieving families
Of Al Megrahi’s victims
Have no truck with mercy
Or Scotland’s political whims
They say they want justice
For their loved ones
But most just want vengeance
When all said and done
In their grief they crave
Justice for the just
Al Megrahi’s death itself
Won’t satisfy the bloodlust
Because withering away
Consumed by cancers hand
Is an inadequate passing
For such a man
Perhaps some more public end
Shown on live TV
A public execution
For all the world to see
Stoning him to death
On the Whitehouse lawn
With Obama saying “yes we can”
As the families look on

JUSTITIA

Justitia, or lady justice
Matronly Goddess
Stands for fairness
Validating justice
Sanctifying the law
A figure of trust

Before the court
She stands
Blindfolded
To mete out justice
Without fear of favour
Equality for all
In the eyes of the law
Impartiality

In Justitia’s left hand
The measuring balances
The scales of justice
Weighing the evidence
For and against
Support and opposition
Guilt and innocent

Justitia, in her right hand
Holds the sword
The symbol of power
Of reason and justice
A double edge sword,
The sword of justice
The nemesis sword
To be wielded for or against
Retribution or vengeance

Justita is a fraud
Justice is not blind
Rip off the blindfold
From the bitch’s eyes
She is not blind
She has no impartiality
She is the establishment
The ruling order
Her principled scales
Don’t measure justice
Only a rich mans coin
And her noble sword
The sword of justice
The nemesis sword
Is used to smite the weak