TR01 - Trial And Retribution Page 4

  sites scattered around the area. In spite of the foul weather conditions, he felt excited. He was like a kid, a Cub Scout taking part in a field game. He hadn't really thought about the purpose of the search or what would happen if and when something was found.

  Barridge was that kind of officer. Enthusiasm, he had it to spare, but all too often he'd throw himself into an action without looking to see where it might lead or what it meant. As far as he was concerned, policing didn't feel too different from his kiddy days in Scouts with added fast cars screaming up and down Victoria Dock Road on a Saturday night. Like every young policeman, he loved the fast cars. He also loved the rugby, the martial arts, the swimming galas. The slow, meticulous side of the job was not high on his list of favourite things.

  He was paired with PC Marik tonight. They were in a half demolished building when all of a sudden Barridge found the rubble slipping away from under his boots. For a brief moment he was sliding downwards as his footing simply disappeared beneath him.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  He lurched sideways and immediately his hip and elbow found solidity and he came to rest. But his legs were dangling into empty space.

  "There's a bloody great hole here! I nearly fell in."

  Marik shone his torch. Half concealed by a sheet of corrugated iron was an opening in the ground. He could see steps descending below Barridge's feet.

  "Some kind of cellar. You all right?"

  "Yeah, I reckon."

  Barridge scrambled up and directed his own torch beam into the hole.

  Stone steps, damp and slippery with lichens, descended into the earth.

  Gingerly he probed with his feet but realized the aperture was not big enough for him. He came out and both men grasped the corrugated iron and pulled hard. At first the sheet stuck, then slid free. As they tossed it aside, a small avalanche of bricks and rubble bounced into the hole. They heard it plopping and splashing into deep water. Edging down the steps they shone their torches into the now fully revealed cellar.

  "Oh, shit," said Barridge.

  "It's flooded."

  It also stank of oil mixed with organic decay. Marik played his torch over the surface of the water, liquorice- black except where a patch of petrol showed up in rainbow colours. A few items of flotsam could be seen- a plastic bottle, a shoe, a shapeless bloated mass of fur which Marik prodded with his toe. It rolled in the water and the remains of a small face turned up to them empty eye-sockets and grinning, pin like teeth. Marik gagged.

  "Oh, God, it's a dead cat. Get me out of here."

  They hustled back up the steps and out into the clean rain, sucking in air. At this moment Henshaw appeared in the broken doorway of the house.

  "Found anything?"

  "Cellar, flooded. Could be something in there. We're going to need some equipment. You two stick around and I'll go and ask."

  Barridge stumbled past Henshaw and went in search of Phelps, who was with PC Brown examining the contents of a skip.

  Barridge ran up to report.

  "We need waterproofs. The cellars are flooded and they stink."

  Phelps had been in the job five years longer than Barridge. The kid was an innocent and Phelps enjoyed winding him up.

  "First on the scene were you, Barridge?"

  "Cellars? Yeah."

  "Well, finders get wet, son. That's the rule. Go back and stop wasting time." He snorted.

  "Waterproofs indeed!"

  Barridge turned and started to trudge back as Brown came round from the other side of the skip.

  "Hey, don't be a bastard. Oi, Barridge!"

  Barridge turned and Brown pointed in the direction of the distant arc lights.

  "There's a TSG van parked on the edge of the estate. They're handing out the gear."

  He saw Barridge change direction with a cheerful wave of his hand. He was a good-natured lad, you could say that for him.

  Many of the Howarth residents wished to play some part in the drama that had seized their community, even if only that of idle spectators.

  So, despite the rain and the late hour, a number had drifted out in their parkas, macs and plastic hats. The TSG's tea van, known to the policemen as Teapot One, proved an irresistible draw and now a knot of locals were standing around chewing on free sandwiches, sipping from styrofoam cups and speculating about the outcome of the search.

  Among them were Ron Hall, and the two friends. Ivy Green and Karen Hyam, from the seventh floor.

  "We had a kid missing before, remember? About five years back."

  "Oh, yes," said Karen.

  "That MacKenzie girl. But that was different, she was--' " She's been brought back four times, that one, bloody little tart. "

  "Yes, but she was fourteen. This one's only five."

  Ivy was remembering her exchange with that nice- looking constable.

  "First place I'd look is that wino's flat."

  "Which wino?"

  "You know on the parade! Disgusting pervert, he is."

  Karen tapped her on the sleeve.

  "And you tell me how he gets a council house and d'you know, my sister with two kids has been on the waiting list nearly three years."

  "That's terrible," said Ivy, clicking her tongue.

  "Mind you she wouldn't want his place, it's a tip."

  "I told her, I said she should ditch her husband, then she'd get one."

  "S'cuse me, ladies!" Having obtained a sweet tea and a cheese and pickle sandwich from the counter. Sergeant Donaldson was sidling through the group of residents. He spotted Phelps a few yards away, warming his hands on a cup of tomato soup.

  "You'd think that lot'd give us a hand," muttered Phelps.

  "All they're doing is cadging drinks and sandwiches."

  "That kind of help's more trouble than it's worth. Should leave it to the professionals."

  Phelps laughed.

  "Not short of advice, though, are they? Uh-oh. Here comes another one."

  Ivy Green was approaching, with Karen and Ron in close attendance. She spoke loudly, as if addressing them from a soapbox.

  "You checked that corner flat on Howarth Parade? If you ain't, you should. Be the first place I'd look. He's a drunk."

  Brown appeared as Donaldson bent his ear towards Ivy.

  "Corner house, Mrs, er?-- What number would that be?"

  "Twelve, I think. Proper pervert he is in there."

  "Have we checked that one out yet. Skip?" asked Brown.

  Donaldson consulted a clipboard. It was covered with a plastic sheet and the rain snapped down on it. He ran his index finger down a list of names and addresses.

  "Number twelve. Name of... Michael Dunn."

  "That's him," said Ivy.

  "I've told my kids to stay well clear of that animal. He's always messing with them, he is."

  Donaldson glanced at Brown and then back at Ivy. He was interested.

  "Z? he now? And we haven't jet checked him out, so it seems."

  Barridge had picked up a rope and some chest-high waders from TSG.

  When he got back to the cellar, Marik and Henshaw had gone.

  He found them placing yellow tape around a stack of sewage pipes to show that they'd been cleared. Henshaw had just finished shining his torch into them. The ground all around was a morass of liquid mud.

  "Come on," said Barridge.

  "We have to do that cellar. I got the rope and waders but I need back-up."

  "Leave it," said Henshaw.

  "We looked didn't we? Me and Marik had another shufti after you scarpered. There was nothing."

  "There was a shoe, floating. I saw it."

  "Since when did little Julie Ann take a man's size twelves? Since her fifth birthday?"

  "It could still be significant. And anyway we got to look in the water, not just on top of it."

  "Needs a diver. One of them POLSA heroes should do that."

  Barridge started walking back to the cellar.

  "What's the matter with you two? Finde
r gets wet that's me. All you custard creams got to do is hold my string."

  Minutes later, now wade red up and wearing a rope around his waist which Henshaw and Marik paid out above him, Barridge was again cautiously descending the cellar steps. He reached the water's edge and tested the depth with a scaled wooden pole: three foot six inches.

  The stairs descended another six steps below the water- line. He planted a foot on the next one down, tested it, then transferred the other foot as well. Now standing in seven inches of water, he shone his torch into the interior of the cellar. Several things back there, which had not been visible from his previous position, now appeared.

  They were floating, half submerged, one of them looked like a basketball, red no, red and blue. He took another step down, craning forward to see better. There was also a pop bottle and part of what might be a chair sticking out of the stinking water.

  A gush of liquid had flowed into his boot through a gash in the rubber. It was cold and, as he knew, absolutely filthy. He tried to lift his foot clear but, full to the brim, it was unexpectedly heavy.

  He wobbled.

  Had Marik been keeping the safety line taut Barridge might still have been saved but it lay slackly on the cellar steps. Overbalancing with a theatrical wave of his arms, and with his mouth open to yell, he pitched sideways into the flooded cellar. Briefly the water closed over him. He kicked and flapped and surfaced, ejecting the oily,

  brackish mouthful he'd taken in. Even before he'd found a foothold he was yelling.

  "Bloody hell! Give me some light!"

  His head bumped painfully into something floating on the water. It was his torch, which had gone out. He grasped it, working the switch. Dead as a kipper.

  Meanwhile, somewhere above him in the dark, Marik was shouting, "You all right?"

  "Bloody get me out!"

  As he thrashed around he realized Marik and Henshaw were hooting with laughter.

  "Got your twenty-five yards badge, Barridge?"

  "You been bitten by that dead cat or what?"

  "Shut it you two! Just give me some UgW. It's freezing and I think I've swallowed some of this bastard water."

  "You'll definitely be needing a stomach-pump, then," Henshaw managed to say between fits of laughter. They stopped laughing as they saw the terror in Barridge's face as he lost his footing again and went beneath the water. When his head burst to the surface from the stinking black water, his eyes were stark with terror.

  "For fuck's sake, pull me outV

  Howarth Parade was where Anita Harris had looked vainly for her daughter at the Collins' place the previous afternoon. Number twelve was one of the same small ground-floor flats that had been built along the back of the parade of shops. Originally, each had had its own mini-patch of garden in front, an area now universally reduced to urban waste ground The garden in front of Michael Dunn's address had been turned at some unspecified time into a dump for useless motorbike parts. Part of his front window was boarded up.

  The flat was in total darkness. Donaldson stood back and watched Phelps hammering on the door. Brown was shining his torch in through the un bearded part of the window.

  "Mr. Dunn! Mr. Dunn!" Phelps called, crouching to shine his torch through the letter slot. The flat remained dark and soundless. Phelps straightened up and looked back at the Skipper.

  "It doesn't look as if anyone's at home."

  Donaldson shook his head. Dunn was beginning to interest him.

  "That doesn't mean he's not there, does it? But there's nothing we can do if he won't open up. If he's as much of a piss artist as they say he might be sleeping it off. Now I think I'll go over to the Harris's place and see what they know about this Michael Dunn."

  The Harrises didn't know much about Michael Dunn but despite Richards's presence and Sergeant Donaldson's skilful exercise of tact, an atmosphere of untargeted hostility was building up on the third floor.

  "Look," Helen was saying, 'has this Dunn man got our Julie? Is that what you're saying? "

  "No," said Donaldson.

  "I was just asking if Julie Anne knew him."

  Peter got up and advanced on the policeman. He pushed his face almost into Donaldson's face.

  "Julie! Her name is Julie} Not Julie Anne! And I've had enough. I'm not staying in here, I'm going out. And you can't stop me."

  "No," said Donaldson simply, 'we can't, Mr. James. But it really is better for your wife that you stay here. "

  But Peter had already pushed past him. In the hall he swept his coat from a hook. Anita caught her breath, as if hit by a twinge of pain.

  "I want to go with him! Peter, wait, I'm coming too."

  Meg stepped forward but as she did so, caught Donald- son's eye. He gave a minute shake of the head and Meg stayed where she was as Anita half ran into the hall. They all stood still as the flat door slammed.

  There was a pause, followed by a hammering on the door. It was Anita.

  "Just get out of there! All of you. Leave us alone!"

  Paul Donaldson and Meg Richards exchanged another glance as the sergeant picked up his cap.

  "I think," he said quietly, moving towards the door, 'that we're going to have trouble with him. "

  Barridge was in the TSG van, peeling off the wet overalls so when she looked in to ask what had happened Pat North found him sitting shivering with a towel around his waist.

  "Oh! Sorry, Barridge."

  She looked to see if he was embarrassed but Barridge seemed more exhausted than anything else. So she came in.

  "You all right? I hear you had a tumble."

  He nodded as her radio squawked.

  "Ma'am? Some of the residents, they're talking about a Michael Dunn.

  You know? "

  "Yes, I heard. Don't worry, he's being checked out."

  She was listening to the radio. Pat North felt tired too. This was a big operation fifty-strong TSG party, POLSA macho-men running around on the docks in inflatable boats and wet suits, estate residents up in arms. If she screwed up she couldn't expect any sympathy from the Super.

  Tactfully she turned her back, occupying herself with her radio as Barridge pulled on some trousers. The Control Van was relaying a message from the chopper about Howarth Parade. Barridge continued.

  "It's just that the winos from round here they either hole up in one of the derelict houses if it's bad weather, or there's a park and like a gent's toilet. They meet up there, just across from the Job Centre."

  He pulled on a sweater.

  "Anyway, as this is Thursday, they'll have got their Giros, so ..."

  "Was Thursday. It's Friday now." She spoke into the radio.

  "OK... On my way. Over."

  She turned back to Barridge. He was decent. She said, "We've got a crowd forming on Howarth Parade. Better go."

  She left Barridge feeling unsatisfied. He hadn't explained his thinking at all well. What he meant to say was that, if Dunn was really a wino, they should interview a few of the other people he hung around with, and that they'd maybe have taken shelter somewhere in one of the derelict places nearby. TSG had probably turned some of them up already.

  Outside number twelve Howarth Parade a small mob had been gathering for some time as a growing number of residents converged on the place.

  Phelps and Brown stood guard in front of the door. The mood of the residents, as soon as they had begun to connect the scruffy toe-rag

  Dunn with the disappearance of the golden-haired child, had turned ugly.

  Peter James stood at the front, taunting the grim-faced officers.

  "Break down the sodding door! What you waiting for?"

  Other shouts were directed at Dunn himself.

  "Bleedin' nonce. Where's little Julie? What you done with her, you bastard?"

  Meanwhile three or four in the middle of the crowd began to chant, "Break the door! Smash it in} Break the bastard's fucking chi nV They must have been the outflow from the pub: there was a noticeable slur in their voices. Donaldson a
rrived to the sound of their refrain, noticing that Julie's mother was standing at the back of the pack, weeping. A neighbour the woman he recalled who'd first mentioned Dunn's name to the police was trying awkwardly to hug her. A few seconds later Pat North joined her sergeant and together they forced their way to where the two constables were looking increasingly nervous.

  A half brick bounced off the wall of the flat. Donaldson took PC Brown's elbow and pointed to Peter James.

  "That's the kid's stepfather. Get him out of here, right?"

  As Brown went to tackle Peter, Pat North said to the sergeant, "What we got on Michael Dunn? You checked his sheet?"

  "Yeah. Nothing apart from persistent vagrancy."

  She glanced again at the angry residents as another brick hurtled towards the flat.

  "Well ... They're throwing bricks. So that gives us a bloody good reason to check this flat for damage?"

  Donaldson looked at his guvnor and smiled. For once a modicum of public disorder was exactly what the police required. It would mean they could effect an entry to the premises without a warrant.

  "Well," he said, 'it's been over twelve hours now so maybe.. "

  "We're looking for a body, aren't we?"

  "Right!"

  That added up to two possible pretexts to enter the Dunn house without a warrant. The decision was down to Pat North. She hesitated, weighing up what the Super would say. Again a brick spun through the air and clattered against the plywood screwed to Michael Dunn's window frame.

  Donaldson said, gently, "Well, guy? What do we do?"

  Pat snapped her fingers.

  "All right, do it. Break down the door."

  It was Phelps who sprinted to the equipment van and collected a sledgehammer. When he returned three blows against the lock sufficed to crash through the door. Pat North led Donaldson into the dark interior, with Phelps bringing up the rear. He still held the hammer, as if believing it may come in useful again.

  The hall was littered with bottles, boxes, cans and dirty clothes.

  Broken glass crunched underfoot.

  "God," said the sergeant, 'the place stinks. "

  Moving gingerly forward Pat North called into the darkness: "Mr. Dunn!

  Michael Dunn! This is the police. Is anybody here? "

  She paused, waiting for a reply, listening for movement, snoring, a television set, anything. There was nothing. She looked to her left and right and found a lightswitch. She flipped it down. Nothing happened.