LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

of an inspector screwing a policewoman or having a beer on duty, or a superintendent sloping off for a quick round of golf with his mates, he’d write it all down: Exact time, date, place, etc.” He mimicked the actions of a person writing, as far as the handcuffs would permit, then added, “Anytime he was in the shit he’d pull out his book, flick through the pages, and remind some poor sod what he’d done. It worked like a charm. Everyone was scared to bloody death. He reckoned he had something on every senior officer in the force. That’s how he got promotion, nobody wanted to upset him in case he pulled out his book.”

      Bliss stopped him, “But you weren’t a senior officer, what did he have on you?”

      “Nothing,” replied King quickly, annoyed at being interrupted, annoyed that Bliss would think he had a shady past. “He didn’t have nothing on me.”

      Bliss screwed his eyes in confusion. King explained, “It was a domestic case. Some bloke with handy fists clobbered his wife and Edwards just happened to be in the area. I got there first. The woman had a bloody nose and a cracked tooth—bit messy, hardly fatal. The husband was upstairs bawling his eyes out, couldn’t believe what he’d done. Anyway, I was patching the wife up when Edwards arrived. ’Leave her,’ he said, ’Go and arrest the bloke.’

      “He ain’t going anywhere, Serg,’ I said.

      “You arguing with me?’ he said, real nasty. Anyway, before I could do anything, the woman’s brother arrived, took one look and said, ’Where is he?’ Edwards pointed upstairs and the brother went up like an express train. I tried to go after him but Edwards stopped me. Ten minutes later the brother comes down and chucks three of the husbands fingers and a handful of teeth on the floor. ’He won’t do it again,’ he said, and stalked out cool as a cucumber.”

      King paused for a long time and closed his eyes, reliving the horrific moment when he realised the blood soaked fingers and teeth had been physically wrenched from a living human being. They had rushed up the stairs to find the husband writhing in agony, several pairs of his wife’s knickers stuffed into his mouth as a gag; the remains of his crushed fingers hanging limply, some dangling by threads. The bedroom door was awash with blood, lumps of skin, and flesh still stuck to the jamb where the fingers had been mashed to a pulp, or chopped off, as his brother-in-law had thrown his weight against the door, the fingers trapped between it and the frame.

      “Didn’t you hear anything?” asked Bliss quietly, seeing the sadness in the other man’s eyes.

      “Yeah, I heard a few shouts and some bangs. I thought he was just smacking him around a bit. Edwards thought it was bloody funny …” He paused, unsmiling, “Until the brother came down with the fingers, then he went as white as a ghost.”

      “What happened?” enquired Bliss, expecting to hear how long the brother-in-law spent in prison.

      “Me and Edwards were charged with conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm,” King continued, dealing with the side of the story which affected him the most. “I didn’t know what to do. Everybody said keep quiet. Don’t say anything—deny, deny, deny. Say you never saw the bloke go up the stairs. But that was wrong. It was Edwards’ fault, so I went to my chief inspector and told him.”

      “What did he say?” enquired Bliss, helping the story along.

      “He says, ’Go with your conscience. Tell the truth.’ So I did. I stood in the dock, put my hand on the Bible, and told them exactly what happened. Then Edwards got in the witness box and came out with the biggest load of bull … reckoned he arrived as the brother was coming down the stairs, when it was all over. Then the chief inspector pulled out the station log book and backed him up—calling me a bloody liar.” He paused to cool down, then added the obvious, “Someone had fixed the log book.”

      Bliss raised his eyebrows—it could be done.

      “I got six months in jail and Edwards got promotion,” King concluded with a hint of irony.

      “Why did the chief inspector lie?” enquired Bliss, guessing the answer but preferring to hear it from King.

      “He must have been in Edwards’ little black book,” said King, his tone saying, “As if you didn’t know.”

      Detective Inspector Bliss was at a loss, his loyalty trapped between a disagreeable fellow officer, and a man who was only a convict because his conscience had been stabbed by a betrayer’s stiletto.

      “I would tell you about LeClarc, but I’m scared I’m going to get shit on again,” King said eventually, staring at the desk between them.

      “I wouldn’t do that to you Nosmo.”

      “I know you wouldn’t. At least I don’t think you would, but Edwards would.” Studying his hands for several moments he found an answer. “There’s no evidence I threw LeClarc overboard, and if 1 stick to my story about being paid to drive the car off the ship, they’ll have to let me go.” He searched Bliss’ face. “Am I right?”

      “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

      “C’mon Dave, you can do better than that.”

      “O.K., you’re probably right.”

      “But then you won’t find LeClarc or the others.”

      Bliss nearly leapt over the table. “You know where he is?”

      “Slow down Dave …”

      Bliss couldn’t control his excitement. “Are the others still alive?”

      King nodded slowly, letting his eyes speak for him.

      “Where are they?”

      “Not so fast. I’m saying nothing until you promise Edwards won’t know where the information came from.”

      It wasn’t a difficult decision. “O.K., I won’t tell Edwards.”

      King buried his face as if making one final attempt to keep his secret to himself, then opened his hands and let it all out. “I was the informer Dave,” he started, “I called Scotland Yard and told them about the plan to kidnap LeClarc.”

      “You knew?” breathed Bliss with incredulity.

      “Yeah. I discovered the plan was to kidnap him, but I wasn’t supposed to know, and I wasn’t involved … not in the kidnap anyway, I swear to you.” He sought re-assurance in Bliss’ face, but found only cynicism. “Motsom hired me to follow LeClarc and find out where he was going,” he continued. “I thought it was above board—straightforward surveillance. One of the girls from his office let slip about his trip to Holland and when I told Motsom he was chuffed— even gave me a bonus. I thought that was the end of the job, then he asked if I fancied a trip to Holland. I said, ’Sure. Why not. What do you want?’ ’Just follow him, make sure he gets on the ship safely,’ he said, and offered me five hundred quid plus expenses, so I took it. I’ve struggled ever since I got booted out of the force so I needed the money.”

      Bliss was confused. “So why the anonymous tip? Don’t tell me you’ve still got a conscience.”

      Still got a conscience? queried King to himself, stung by the implication he may have lost it. “Yes, I still have a conscience,” he wanted to scream, but didn’t, fearing Bliss would cast a sardonic eye. Why else would I have tipped off Scotland Yard? I owed them nothing— they owed me everything. They stood by and cheered as Edwards robbed me of my reputation; family; friends and liberty. But yes, I’ve still got a conscience.

      “Why anonymous, Dave?” he answered after a few seconds. “Because if I’d strolled into the Yard with this story I would have got the kid gloves and bum’s rush combined. ’Thank you, Sir,’ some snotty sergeant with two weeks service would have said, and filed my report in the nearest waste bin, mumbling, “Bloody informants.”

      Bliss nodded sympathetically, knowing there was respect in anonymity, that both sides treat informants as scum. Anyway, the proverbial, “anonymous tip,” could be more useful than a cold-blooded

Скачать книгу