Prologue You’d think coppers would make good criminals, wouldn’t you? The old saying, “it takes a thief to catch a thief,” and all that bollocks. Well, there have been too many coppers who have ‘gone to the dark side’ during their careers but it’s surprising how pretty fucking inept most of them were. The main failings seem to be brought on by arrogance, they don’t cover their tracks like they have seen others do so many times. It’s all down to a belief that they are somehow above the law. They aren’t and never will be. I for one will not sit back and watch the good name of so many decent men and women dragged through
the
dirt
for
bent
masquerading as officers of the law. *** THE BIG HOUSE CALLING
bastards
I am up to my neck in some real serious shit at the moment. About a month ago, the ACC ‘Crime’ dropped a real hum dinger on me, talk about stress? Fuck me, I don't know whether I am coming or going. Anyway, I had the call direct from him. “Terry get your arse up here a bit sharpish, the shit has hit the fan...big time...and I need a bloke with a pair of balls, who can keep his trap shut.” Okay, I confess, he didn't quite come over like that, but that was the gist of the conversation.The ACC, Alan Chambers, is an upand-comer, only been in our force about a twelve months. Came from Merseyside, a real Scouser. Born and bred in Toxteth, you could say he slipped through the net, and took the straight and narrow route.First time I met him was in a CID Conference, liked him, talked my
language, a real copper’s copper. Anyway, I pop up to the ‘Big House’ and wait to be given the nod to enter his office. “Sit down, Ter,” he said amiably. I do as I’m told and wait. The Assistant Chief Constable’s flicking through his iPhone. I grin as I get this odd image of him watching some kind of porn on his device. I get daft ideas like this from timeto-time. “Did you have any dealings with a Retired D.I. by the name of Chris Coulter?” He finally asks. “Seems he spent most of his time on Division and the last four or five on the on the Drug Squad. He retired a few months ago.” “Do I know him? Too fucking Royal, sir. Sharp bastard, played his cards close to his chest, always had my doubts about him.” “Well it looks like you weren't far off the
mark. Had a complaint about him, alleging all sorts of corruption, protection and one of rape.” Didn’t surprise me. “Sounds about right,” I say, then realize it’s not what the ACC wants to hear. “Sorry boss!” The ACC shakes his head and holds his hands in the air, inviting me to continue. “Who's the complainant?” “Not one, Terry, two. Both career criminals, and both put away by Coulter years ago for drugs and burglary. Say they were fitted up.” “Any names, boss?” The ACC checks his phone again; so it wasn’t porn he was looking at. “Alan Dillon and Godfrey Peters?” “Fuck me, boss. I’ve done the pair of them, years ago. Raves from the graves.” “I know, Ter.’ You’re the only one they
will talk to, they say they trust you and that you’re straight as a die and will sort it for them.” “Boss, this pair are small potatoes but, there again, they’ve got all the contacts, and done a fair bit of bird. Have they given times, dates or anything?” “No, Ter,’ like I said, that’ll be down to you. I’ve got nothing else.I don’t need to tell you that this is very delicate Ter’? It’s even more so now because Coulter is getting a lot of press due to the fact that he’s now a local councillor and he’s flying the old ‘crime reduction’ flag.Bit ironic, but if things pan-out he can fucking fly it in the nick with any other old lags he's fitted up.” “Have I got a free hand boss? You know the way I work. How many men can you give me?” “Only one, Ter,’ and that's it. You report
direct to me. I’ve spoken to Ron, he wont interfere. Best of luck, update me every two weeks, no phone calls, in person.” I take the hint. Meeting over. I shake his hand and leave. Once outside, I look to the heavens and sigh. Fuck, you are killing me and my marriage. *** BACKGROUND ON D.I. CHRIS COULTER. I spend a few hours trawling through the personnel files with my pal, Dai. I should say that I get Dai to trawl through the files and read them to me. Privilege of rank...I’m not bloody stupid. Dai begins to read his notes. “Coulter joined the job in 1982 as a cadet. He was from quite a wealthy family, his parents had their own furniture removal business, so he never wanted for anything, unlike me, I had to fight
for every fucking thing. Perhaps that's why, I don't suffer fools? “He
joined
the
regular
Force
in
December 1984 and after his initial training got a posting to Cardiff Central. During his probationary period, he made a bit of a name for himself as a good ‘thief taker,’ Commended on ten occasions in the first two years, which is pretty good by anybody’s standards. I don't think I had one commendation in my first three years? “After his probation, he was attached to the Plain-clothes squad down the Docks, mainly dealing with druggies and the ‘brasses.’ Again, he fitted in well to this type of work and was destined for a career in crime, in more ways than one, if these allegations are to be believed. “Two years later, he requested a transfer back to his home town of Bridgend. This was granted and in fact coincided with
him being promoted to Sergeant.He took up his new position, but after a few months, he was made a Detective Sergeant on the Drug squad East, covering nearly half the Force. He was there for about five years and had some cracking results and earned a reputation Force wide.He was qualified to Inspector, then for some reason went back on Division as a D.S...” That raised my eyebrows. Dai saw my expression. “I found that a bit strange, too, because up until then he was on an upward curve regarding promotion. In fact he trawled the division for the next ten years, still reeling in the commendations, but no promotion. It was as if he was serving a penance?” “Remind me to dig deeper into that blip,” I say. “Must be a reason?” Dai nods and continues. “In 2003, he was eventually promoted to Inspector and
spends the next couple of years in the Operations Room...” “I bet that pissed him off,” I said. “No commendations forthcoming in there.” “I think he used to write his own,” Dai laughed. I made a cat-claw shape with my hand and the sound of a cat. “Oh we’re catty jealous bastards.” “From there he was made the D.I. in Bridgend,” Dai said. “A post he held for the next six years, then on to the Drug Squad where he finished his service.” “All in all, not a bad career,” I said, knowing Coulter personally. He’s one smooth operator and if what’s alleged is true, he's going to be very difficult to bring to book.But hey, we’ll give it our best...between cat-napping.
Chapter 1 THE BODY November is never a good month for clement weather in Wales and this one is no exception. A cold mist seems to permeate every stich of my clothing, right down to my soul. The streets haven’t had a chance to dry for weeks and my mood matches the weather as I answer the call. “Just to let you know, boss. There’s a body been found down Newton Dunes, not far from the gravel pits.” “Be there in ten,” I grumble. I can fucking do without this, I think, especially after a heavy night on the piss and the enquiry into a possible corrupt D.I. I finish my rapidly cooling cup of black coffee and sit back in my chair for a moment. My office is small and full of shit. Tan and brown coloured folders are stacked by the
dozen on my desk and in toppling piles on the floor around every wall. I promise myself that I’ll sort the place out soon but to be honest I know I’m lying to myself. Truth is, I was happier amongst the mess. I never could do ‘tidy.’ My mind is somehow more organised when I’m in the centre of chaos. I drop the plastic cup of coffee dregs into the already full wastebasket and watch it as it bounces on last night’s empty pizza box and drop onto the carpet-tiled floor. I lean over, pull my jacket from the coat stand my wife bought me a year ago after she had got fed up with ironing my jacket, and slipped my arms inside as I sat. I sighed and wondered what I would do for our anniversary. Twenty-six years wasn’t a special anniversary in the grand scheme of things but it was pretty special for us, considering what Molly had put up with over the years. I have to get her something special. Perhaps I’ll take to the Celtic Manor for a meal and a stay-over? I
pulled the drawer open on my desk and look at the open bank statement sitting at the top of more files. I squint at the balance on our account. Perhaps I won’t take her to the Celtic Manor after all? I drive my pool car, a three-year-old Ford Focus, down to Newton, a small, quiet village in itself, but which is adjacent to the biggest and liveliest caravan site in Europe. It’s a pretty place, if you ignore the inevitable crap that springs up around any holiday attraction. Two PC’s from traffic are waiting for me and they take me across the dunes in their nice clean 4x4. The grey sky is obviously no fan of traffic coppers either and dumps a torrent of rain that quickly makes a mess of their shiny car. I grin from my back seat at the moans from the black rats up front. Five minutes of bouncing around like one of the Coney Beach rides gets me to the
scene. They’re all there, the whole shooting match. S.O.C., the Police Surgeon, a couple of Community Support Officers and even the uniform Superintendent, mind you, why he’s there I have no idea. He’s a Bramshill boy, waste of fucking space, wouldn’t know a murder from a pisser. “What we got?” I ask anyone who can provide an answer. An old boy of twenty-five years service is dressed in a white coverall and doing his best to look efficient. “Male, early thirties, blonde hair...hippy looking...oh aye, got a few track marks. He’s been wrapped up in polythene, done up tight as a drum. Obviously been buried, but not deep enough. The tide has done the business for us.” The Police Surgeon is reading the S.O.C. notes and keeping a wary eye on me. He knows me too well.
“What you think, Doc?” Doctor Hugo Faulkner clucked his tongue and handed the notes back to the old sweat. “Hard to say, Terry. He’s well preserved. I think he’s been there for a while.” I’m intrigued and confused. How could it be well preserved after being dead for some time? It’s common knowledge that bodies decay. Seems we have a contradiction? “Bag it and tag it, then down to the morgue so we can get a better look. We’ll know more after the P.M.” Oh, by the way, my name is Terry McGuire and I’m the D.I. and I’ve now got to clear up this shit storm.
Chapter 2 THE P.M. To the morgue it is then. It’s a whitewashed brick shithouse of a place at the back of the local hospital. I confer with the old Prof, a cracking bloke, been the Home Office Pathologist so long I swear he performed the autopsy on the Cain and Able case. Never seen a bloke like him use a scalpel and saw, a true artist at work. We have a bit of a con flab, prior to the slicing and dicing and then it's down to business. Now I have never been any good at the old P.M. In fact, I find that clean, clinical smell a little unnerving, especially when there's one on the slab. To keep it on a level playing field, I snort a bit of Vic, purely medicinal of course. The polythene, nylon rope and all the
clothing from the victim has already been removed by the S.O.C.O. and is on the way to the Lab. The Prof then starts getting to work. First order of business, a cursory examination. “Definitely got a murder here, Terry my old son...” “No shit, Sherlock?” The Prof’ raises an eyebrow and snorts. “Look at the chest. At least three stab wounds, up close and personal, I would say...” “Hardly going to be a long distance stabbing, now is it?” This comment is a two eyebrow raise from the Prof’. “You going to be a smart-arse all the way through or just for this bit?” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ll know more after I’ve opened him up,” the Prof’ continues. “I’ll do a full tox’ as
well, bearing in mind the track marks. A big user, I would say.” “Any idea of time of death Prof?” “Ter, this bloke’s been put on ice. I reckon...somewhere like five to ten years.” “Fuck me, Prof. You catching a dose of smart-arse too? You telling me, he's been stabbed three times and then kept refrigerated for years like a bag of frozen peas? Fuck me that’s a first.”
Chapter 3 THE BRIEFING. Early evening in the CID office at Bridgend nick. The smell of coffee from the coffee machine I bought for the team fills the briefing room as I stroll in to speak to my team. My right hand man, D.S. Dai Williams, a career detective and brilliant investigator, has assembled my team. I like Dai. He never takes any prisoners and doesn't give a monkey’s about anyone, criminal or senior officer alike. When I say ‘he doesn’t take any prisoners’ I’m alluding to his attitude rather than arrests. Dai is actually a prolific body-taker. One of the best. His only weakness is the ladies, married twice, divorced twice, say no more.His problem is he’s too good looking, not that I’d ever tell him that, of course. But it’s true. Wherever he
went he’d have some woman in close proximity. He was the original babe magnet and he was eternally on the pull. “Right ladies and gentleman,” I say. “This is what we’ve got. A body in a bag, buried in the dunes over by the gravel pits. Stabbed three times in the chest. However, I don’t think he was killed there,” I stop and look at my team scribbling notes in their books. “Why is our glorious leader thinking this, I hear you ask? I’ll tell you why. It looks as if he was fucking kept on ice for at least five to ten years before he was buried, and no, I don’t want any fucking ‘Frozen’ jokes...” One of the young DC’s, Roger bailey, a smart arse with a quick wit, couldn’t miss the chance. “I think we should just ‘Let it Go,’ boss.” I stifle a grin. I guess I asked for it. “It looks like this bloke was a serious user too, so I want you to get out there, speak to your narks
and let’s find out who this guy is. I’ll have more info’ tomorrow, after the results from the lab and PM. As from now, this is a murder enquiry. Dai will task you all later. This guy must have been missed over the years. Tomorrow will make things a little clearer. Now, you can all fuck off and do the business for me, thank you.”
Chapter 3. SECOND BRIEFING. “Settle down, ladies and gents. I would like to
introduce you to
Home Office
Pathologist Mr Bernard Powell. Doc Powell will fill us all in on the Post Mortem results, Cause of Death etc. Over to you Doc.” I sit on a chair off to the side so that the good doctor has the limelight. “Well, first off the bat...the cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the chest, three to be precise, severing the aorta and puncturing the heart twice. The only other
injury was to the victim’s face, he'd been battered post mortem, in fact you couldn't recognise him. In my opinion the murder weapon is a double serrated blade of about six inches long. Time of death?” The doctor looked up at his audience, as if someone had asked the question. “I would estimate to be about five years since. The body has been well preserved by freezing and probably only recently been moved to where it was discovered.” He scanned his notes. “Toxicology wise, there is nothing. However, there is no doubt this man was an intravenous drug user, judging by the needle track marks.” He took a sip from a plastic cup of coffee and wiped a spill from his tie before continuing. “No defensive wounds, like I said, up close and personal. As far as dental identification is concerned, I have never seen a mouth in such bad condition, no fillings, indeed, no dental work at all, in fact he had a mouth like a sewer. I don't think there is
anything I can add up to this point...” he turned a page in his notes and flipped back to the cover sheet, “...oh sorry, did I mention all his fingertips had been burnt away? By acid, I would say.” The doctor waits for questions. I remain seated. “What about age, Doc?” “Early thirties, Terry, I would guess.” “Any other questions for the Doc?” I ask. The room remains silent, so I stand. “Thank you for that, Doc. At least we have a bit of a profile, perhaps the S.O.C.Os can throw a bit more light on the matter?” D.S. Glyn Walcott steps forward from the front row of seats and the doctor ducks into his chair. Glyn is a seasoned Scene of Crime man, nearing retirement. He’s worked on many murders across the Force and it’s fair to say that Glyn’s meticulous to the point of
boredom. “What you got for us Glyn?” I ask. He clears his throat. “This is it, in a nutshell boss. The polythene is Industrial, mass-produced, normally used in caravan manufacturing and it’s been cut with a serrated knife. As far as clothing goes, its quite high end, all designer, Abercrombie top, Adidas bottoms and Nike trainers. No pants or socks. Fingerprints, no joy there, didn't lift a mark off anything, as for the fingers...it’s like the Doc’ said. Tattoo wise... ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ across both knuckles, quite common really. I don't think we can help any further.” “Ok, thank you Doc, thank you Glyn. I’m very grateful,” I say genuinely. “Right team, get yourselves a cup of coffee, be back here in ten.”
Chapter 3. TASKING. Good police work sometimes depends upon stating the bleeding obvious and repeating it until it sticks and triggers something in someone. So I don’t break from tradition and remind everyone of the facts we have. “Right, this is what we've got so far. Time of death about five years ago, so we’ll say...take it to be from January 1st 2011. A white male, aged thirty to thirty-five years, blonde hair, Intravenous clothing,
drug but
user,
doesn't
wears take
high-end care
of
himself...possibly got form, going by the tattoos. We strike out on fingerprint and dental identification, by the looks of it.Bearing in mind the proximity of where the body was discovered to the caravan site and the polythene, is there a connection there we can follow? As for the freezing? Fuck me, that could
have been done anywhere. “Dai, sort out the teams, house-tohouse, missing persons, you know the drill. Next briefing same time tomorrow, unless something turns up before. “No problem boss, leave it to me,” Dai says. I’m thiry-six hours into the enquiry and I have got fuck all to show for it, no clue as to who this poor bastard is. I could do with a swift half at the minute.My mind is racing, is he just a user, a supplier, someone, somewhere must have missed him? Was he fairground worker, a transient from the valleys? Fuck knows. Why kill a bloke, batter him, fucking freeze him, then bury him years later? Doesn't make sense. I ring a mate of mine on the drug squad, Cliff Ambrose, he started in the job with me over twenty years ago, rose up the ranks
pretty quickly, now a D.C.I. “Hi, Cliff, how you doing? I got a fucking ripper on at the moment, butt. Bloke found buried down the gravels in Newton, stabbed repeatedly. Been kept on ice for a few years by the looks of it. Think he may have been involved in drugs, but can’t identify him.” Cliff’s gruff voice, from a lifetime of smoking thirty a day until he was a born again non-smoker, grunted down the line. “How can I help?” “I wonder if you could have a word with the squad?” I continued, “particularly the old sweats. You never know,I’m talking five years ago.” “Five years?” “Seems so. Someone must have a big freezer,” I say. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Me too,” I admit. “I’ll have a word with the lads,” Cliff says. “See if someone slipped off the radar about that time.” “Cheers mate.” I was confident that Cliff’s boys would know anyone local that met the criteria. Knowing the users was always good for getting to know the dealers.
Chapter 5. DEAD ENDS AND A BREAKTHROUGH. Extended investigations were always bad news. It’s week six, and because of budget restraints
plus
all
the
other
fucking
bureaucracy, I have had to trim the team down to the bare bones. Only Dai and cocky DC Bailey are doing anything with it. They keep me updated on a daily basis. I know Dai is frustrated because all our leads have turned to rat-shit. We’re no nearer to identifying the poor bastard than we were at the outset, let alone catching the bastard who killed him. I seem to spend most of my time checking through the information we have over and over again, looking for anything that might give us a lead, when out of the blue, my mate, Cliff from the Drug squad gives me a bell, asking how it’s going, I bring him up to speed, in the hope he might reciprocate with some
snippet of information that might kick start things again, but he didn't seem all that concerned. I hide my disappointment and we arrange to meet one night for a sherbet or two. I replace the handset just as Dai bursts into the office, he's like a fucking jumping bean, or an excited Labrador puppy. “I may have a lead,” he says. “Dai, cool down now, what you got?” “I think I’ve found out who he is.” I jump up from my seat. “Who is he, Dai? Fucking tell me.” “I think he's from the Rhondda and used to live in a caravan on Trecco. A bloke called Reggie Hughes. He fits the bill, but it's all second-hand...” “What you fucking mean, second hand?” Dai’s excited expression begins to lose
its enthusiasm. “Well, I was over Trecco last night and I met a young lady. We got talking and I just happened to mention the case. She said, ‘have you spoken to my dad? He used to be on security at the camp, he knew everyone.’ So, I rang the bloke direct, he's in Spain at the moment, back later today. He dropped the name Reggie Hughes. I’ve been through the databases and there’s a Reggie, but his last bit of form is more than ten years ago. He hasn't been reported missing though.” “Okay,” I say. “What time you meeting this bloke?” “Six o'clock in the Dirty Duck.” “Dai, I hope to fuck you are right.”
Chapter 6 The Meeting. The Dirty Duck, a pub renowned throughout South Wales, is busy as fuck, especially on weekends, well you'd expect it to be with three and a half thousand caravans on site.The licensee, a cracking bloke, gives us a nod and before our arses hit the lounge chairs there’s a couple of pints in front of us.We haven't been in there five minutes, when a tall, tanned athletic bloke, with a thick black moustache, comes and sits down next to us. He shakes our hands. He reminds me of Tom Selleck off that Magnum P.I. series. I look out the window just in case he’s left his Ferrari outside. Then I remember the Dirty Duck is in a pedestrian only area. “Which one of you did I speak to last night?” Magnum asks.
“Me,” says Dai. “Look, I don't really want to get involved, but this is all I know,” Magnum looks around furtively before continuing. “Reggie just left the site one day, no warning or anything. I knew him because I had to warn him off a few times. He was selling dope on the site. Funny thing is, the caravan he used to live in was torched around about the same time as he left. I haven't seen ‘im since. I finished here a couple of years ago.” “Do you know where he's from, family, anything,” Dai asks. Magnum shakes his head. “No, just up the Rhondda.” “Will you make a statement?” Dai asks. “Fuck no. I don’t want to get involved.” There was no point pushing him. Few people ever wanted to get involved when drugs and murder were involved. I slip him a twenty
and, with my tongue firmly in my cheek, I thank him for his ‘public spirit.’ As we move to go, he says, as an aside, “I think he was narking to the drug squad, they were always around.” I look at Dai and we say nothing, just leave. As we sit in the car, I know we’re on the same page. “Dai, I hope to fuck this is not what I think...” Dai looks at me and just raises his eyebrow.
Chapter 8. THE WAY FORWARD. We get back to my Office and I open the bottom draw of my desk. “Dai, I need a fucking drink, butt. I don't like where this is taking us.” My nice bottle of malt is half full, or is it half empty? With the new turn of events, it’s looking pretty empty. I pour us a glass each. We both sit in silence for a few minutes, just nodding our heads, could we really be thinking that the Police, our colleagues were involved in this murder? “How do we play it boss, all guns blazing or on the QT?” I hold up my empty hand. “Hang on now, Dai. Let's think it through. Is it Reggie? If it is, why kill him like they did? Is it gang related? Because I have no fucking idea.Have you got his last known address?”
Dai takes a gulp of my malt. “Yes. Porth, up the Rhondda.” I nod slowly, thinking hard. “Okay, we’ll get up there in the morning and crack on, but we’ll have to be very discreet. Only you and I know about the drug squad involvement with him, lets keep it that way.” The following morning, Dai and I make our way to Porth. We drive up the valley, a desolate shit-hole of a place, shops boarded up, but once the pride of Wales.Everything’s as grey as the rain clouds. It’s like a scene from that book by Edgar Rice Burroughs, ‘The Land that Time Forgot,’ but with a different kind of dinosaur. We pull up outside a nicely painted terraced house. Dai checks the slate number affixed to the wall next to the front door. “This is it, No 9.” I knock the door and a pretty young
woman, aged about thirty-five, with short, bobbed blonde hair, greets us. I can see her do a double take at Dai. Another fair maiden falling instantly for his lucky genes. I identify ourselves and she duly invites us in. “Mrs Hughes, we are making enquiries regarding Reggie Hughes. Are you related?” I ask. “Yes. I was married to him for a few years, but haven't seen him for about seven. He doesn't live here and I want nothing to do with him. He left me in the lurch with a young baby to bring up alone. As far as I’m concerned he's dead. The last I heard, he was working on the fairground in Porthcawl.” “Well, Mrs Hughes, we believe he is dead.” She just looks at me without any expression I can read and says, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
After about an hour, and having obtained all the antecedent history we can, Dai takes a statement from her. “Is there anyone who would be able to formerly identify him, apart from you, Mrs Hughes?” Dai asks. “His mam and dad have passed away...I suppose I’m the only one the bastard has.” “Okay,” Dai says.
“I’ll make the
necessary arrangements, perhaps tomorrow about ten? I’ll fix up the transport for you, is that ok?” “Yes, that's no problem.” Dai then drive’s me slowly back down the valley until we reach civilisation.
Chapter 9. THE IDENTIFICATION I tasked cocky DC Bailey with the job of collecting Mrs Hughes and conveying her to the mortuary at the Hospital. That would upset her more than viewing the body, I guessed. I could sense an attraction towards our Dai and it was something I wasn’t wishing to encourage. I didn’t have to ask Dai if he felt the same because I knew Dai was attracted to anything that wasn’t male. Dai and me are already at the mortuary, getting the body prepared for a viewing. In fairness, the resident technicians hadn't done a bad job on Reggie, considering what the poor fucker had been through, even his face looked half decent, although a little bit contorted. You would never have guessed he'd met such a violent death.
Mrs Hughes duly arrives and, in fairness, is quite calm and relaxed and smiles warmly when she sees Dai. I accompany her into the viewing room and ask the milliondollar question, “Is that your husband, Reggie Hughes?” She stares at him for a few seconds, turns, looks at me with a tear in her eye and says, “Yes, that's him.” “Did Reggie have any tattoos?” She nods. “’Love’ and ‘hate’ on his knuckles.” I pull his arms out from under the sheet. “Are these the tattoos?” “Yes. I did them for him with a needle and blue ink many years ago.” “Thank you, Mrs Hughes.” I instruct the DC Bailey to take a statement of identification and convey the lady
home.All in all, not a bad days work, but the shit storm is to follow.
Chapter 9 CLOUDS ARE GATHERING I’m just about to leave the office to have an early night, I know tomorrow is going to be a roller coaster, when the phone rings. It’s my old mate Cliff from the drug squad. “You on for that drink,” he asks. “Sure, time and place?” “No time like the present,” he says. “See you at seven in the Castle.” I hang up and then my mind starts racing. I’ve seen him two or three times in twenty-odd years and now he’s ringing me? Fuck me, is Cliff involved in this shit? No he can't be, I keep saying to myself.Anyway, I clear my head, make my way to the charge room and cadge a lift into town off one of the uniform lads. Now, Cliff is your typical drug squad
officer. Always had the long hair, stubble, dressed the part and loved being in the company of the vermin who peddled shit to the kids on the street. I often wondered if he was in fact a user himself? So full of crap, you wouldn't believe it, but he got results. Very well thought of and a brilliant undercover officer. On promotion, he headed up the Force Drug Squad and, by fuck, they were getting the results. I order a pint and sit in the corner of the snug, the open fire is welcome and the place has a lovely warm atmosphere. I haven’t seen Cliff in years. When he walks in I’m surprised that he hasn't altered, still has the swagger, still full of himself and still looking like the vermin he deals with. He gets his own pint; he earns more than me, and sits opposite. For the next hour we chew the fat, laugh at past indiscretions, wondering how we actually managed to stay in the job.Then like a bolt out
of the blue, it comes. “Any progress with the ‘ice man cometh’ case, Tel.” What’s going on, I wonder, just professional interest? I smell a rat. “No, no further on, Cliff. Winding it right down, no leads, nothing, just dead ends.” “File it Tel, put it on ice,” he laughs at his own joke. “Move on, butt.” I think about what he’s saying and nod my head. We sink a few more pints and later go our separate ways. By this time my head is spinning, I have a terrible gut feeling that my old mate Cliff is up to his neck in this pile of shit. But how do I prove it? I get home around one-thirty in the morning and Molly is fast asleep. It took her over ten years to get used to my being absent most nights and she suffered from exhaustion for a while. Being a copper’s wife is not easy.
Being the wife of a detective is even worse. Most marriages end in divorce. It takes a special kind of woman to stick it out with a detective. My Molly is one of those special women. She knows I’m not like Dai. God knows I’m not in the same league as him when it comes to women. I’m a smidge over six foot tall and still at my fighting weight of twelve and a half stone. I don’t keep myself fit but I guess I’ve been blessed with a fast metabolism? I’ve still got most of my hair, though it’s beginning to wave me goodbye. I’ve recently shaved off the moustache that I had when I first met Molly, and she wasn’t happy I’d removed it, so it’s beginning to make a comeback. I crack open a can of beer and sit in front of the telly and set it to subtitles so I can watch something in silence and not disturb my Molly. It’s the usual load of shite. I remember there being only three or four channels. Now we must have over a hundred and they’re all a
waste of time and money. Absolute bollocks. I flick through a few of the options then switch it off. I sit quietly in the dark, can in hand, and try to think about anything other than the ‘Frozen’ case. As is usual, I fail miserably. Images of poor Reggie lying in the dunes, plastic wrapped and having spent five years in a freezer, keep flashing through my mind. Links to the Drug Squad were to be expected where druggies were concerned. It’s a bit like pasties being linked to bakers or dogs being linked to vets. But something about Cliff bothers me. Intuition? Twenty-odd years of dealing with scum develops a sixth sense, perhaps? Whatever it was, it won’t be ignored.
Chapter 10. Press Release – The Way forward. Although, slightly hung over, I’m at my desk by seven a.m. What should I do?
What’s the way
forward? My first priority is to let my DCI know what I've got and what my suspicions are. He will be the third to know, and in my mind, that’s two too many.I give him a bell and arrange to meet him at HQ, solely because I know the next step would be the ACC ‘Crime.’ Now my DCI, Ron Evans, is old school, has over thirty years in and been a detective for most of his service. Ron plays everything with a straight bat and talks even straighter. I brought him up to speed on the Reggie Harris enquiry.
His reaction? “Fuck me, Terry. Do you realise what you’re alleging? A senior officer involved in murder and probably corruption going back years? You better be fucking spot on, or we’re both for the chop.” “Chief, I’m sure. I’ll stake my life on it, but how do we take it forward from here?” “Look, you go and prepare a press release on the murder, make it national. I’m going upstairs. Fuck, this will get their juices flowing. Leave it to me, I’ll speak to you later.” I get hold of the Force Press Liaison Officer and script the release, the usual shit....’anybody with any info, please contact, blaa, blaa, blaa.’
Chapter 11. THE BREAK. Later in the day, I call Dai to my office, same old routine, a glass of malt and discuss progress, or lack of. “Anything from the Press release, Dai?” “Nothing much, boss. The usual crank calls, nothing that will take us any further forward.” Dai looks worried. “What's your take on it now, boss?” “My take, Dai? Fuck, I’m so confused. Cliff is smelly and if he’s involved in this murder what’s it all about, and why keep the body fucking frozen, surely he could have got rid before now? Dai snorts. “You know what he's like, he’s an arrogant bastard. Who knows what he was thinking? That's if he really is involved?” “Let me tell you, Dai, I’m pretty sure
he's involved, make no bones about it. I don't want to believe it, but we owe it to Reggie. That's no way for a bloke to die, even if he was a scumbag drug supplier. No there’s more to this and others are probably involved, too. Let's crack on in the morning with Cliff's timeline, perhaps we can tie it down.” I just put the malt away and the phone rings, “Boss? There's a woman on the phone from Ireland, says she has info on the Reggie Hughes case.” “Put her through,” I tell the metallic voice on the switchboard. I wait for the connection.
“DI
Terry
Mcguire,
who's
speaking?” A worried sounding woman identifies herself as Anne Evans. “I was ex job, but had to quit in 2011, after having a breakdown,” she tells me. “I’d
been part of Cliff’s elite squad back in the day. I saw the press release and knew Reggie. I could write a book about him.”I don’t want her to go any further on the phone, so she gives me her contact number and I ring her straight back to confirm. I make arrangements to meet her in the Ashling Hotel in Dublin at two p.m. tomorrow. I hang up the phone and speak to Dai. “This could be it, butt. Do some background with Personal Records on Anne Evans, first thing in the morning. I’ll take an early flight to Dublin. Keep me updated. Fuck me, a trip to Dublin. It must be my birthday.
Chapter 12 DCI CLIFF AMBROSE. I get a call from Ron later. He tells me the ACC has given the go ahead for a full background check on Cliff, and I have full access to his and any other records, going way back to when we joined together. I only hope that I will find something in the file that will point me in the right direction. The
time
period
I’m
particularly
interested in was from the 1st January 2011 to the present.I must say Cliff has a pretty impressive record, no wonder he flew up the ranks.Commendations for this, commendations for that, secondments here, secondments there. Undercover work all over the country, this bloke was a one-man crime busting machine. But still an arrogant twat. I then pick up on a date in 2010. Cliff
was a DS and, together with four DC’s, he was used for covert surveillance throughout South Wales. Their remit was to gather intelligence on major drug suppliers, by any means necessary. Money for informants was no object. I also found that one of the targets was a little shit called Johnny Rose from Porthcawl. I knew Johnny; he was a top drug supplier, a mean, sly son of a bitch. However, he got killed in a road accident a couple of years back. A few other things
cropped
up,
that
could
seem
insignificant, but what the hell? Cliff had divorced about ten years ago and now lives alone in a large isolated Victorian house on the outskirts of Bridgend.The squad was disbanded mid-2011, again due to budget and financial restraints.Cliff got promoted to DI and was then seconded to Scotland Yard for the next four years. Cliff continued to build a reputation up in the smoke, second to none as the European Drugs Coordinator, travelling all
over Europe, liaising with all major Police forces.When he returned to South Wales, he was again promoted to his present position. I close the file and sit back, thinking that Cliff looks like he had become a right twat. All I need now was that one break, so I could really go to town on the bastard.
Chapter 13. Anne Evans. I arrive at Dublin airport, and I make my way to the Ashling Hotel by taxi. On the way, my phone is knocking up the charges as Dai is filling me in on Anne’s antecedents. “By all accounts a good, honest, hard working officer, who eventually ended up on the drug squad,” he says, “however, she left the job due to stress, had a bit of a breakdown.” The taxi drops me off outside the front door to the hotel. It’s a decent looking place.
Close to the Heuston rail station and the zoo, I guessed it was popular with visitors to the fair city. From the outside it looks like it was built in the seventies? The ground floor external walls are clad in dark, granite tiles and the upper floors windows are set in n expensive, light-coloured tile. The large glass doors open and a concierge steps out to greet me. “Good day to ya, sir.” I brought an overnight bag, just in case I have to stay longer than I want to, and I lug my holdall out of the trunk and keep it away from the eager tip-seeker. “I can manage,” I say. The smartly dressed man smiles. “From Wales?” “Bridgend.” “Are you staying with us, Mr...?” “McGuire, Terry McGuire.” “McGuire? Good Irish name, may I add?”
I’ve got to hand it to him, he knows how to chat a tip out of a stone. “My dad was from Roscommon,” I admit. I wasn’t going to divulge my occupation. Although Ireland is a magical place coppers from the UK still kept their job a secret out there. It was a hangover from the days
of
the
troubles.
British
coppers
represented the hated British establishment and it was best not to take a chance by announcing I was an Inspector, too. “Just meeting someone,” I explained. The man nodded and stepped aside. “Welcome to the Ashling Hotel, sir.” I walk through the door with a brass sign declaring it as the ‘Iveagh Bar’ of the hotel, a warm and welcoming place. I can image sitting next to the bar and the wall-sunk fire and drinking copious amounts of Guinness and Bushmills. There’s a family sitting in a large, comfortable looking settee and my eyes are
drawn to a petite brunette, sitting alone in a corner, facing the entrance door. She smiles and I know immediately that it’s Anne. She rises to meet me and I shake her tiny hand, lost in my meaty mitt. There’s a slight tremble, she seems nervous. I introduce myself, “Do you want a drink?” I ask. “No thank you, I already have one.” I sit down beside her and beckon the waiter. Since I’m in Ireland, I may as well indulge, “A double Bushmills please.” The waiter nods, smiles and leaves us alone. We chat about the weather and Dublin and the friendly Irish people then my drink arrives and I have to cut to the chase. “Anne, you obviously know about the enquiry, what can you tell me?” She nods. “Well, I first met Reggie, when I joined the surveillance team run by Cliff
Ambrose. Reggie was one of his narks, they went back years. Most of Reggie's info was on Johnny Rose, he used to get well paid for it too. Reggie lived in a caravan just up from Rhych Point on Trecco, but we'd normally meet him over the dunes by the gravels.” Another piece in the jigsaw. “You mean the gravel pits?” “Yes, over in Newton. I really enjoyed the work, but one day Cliff approached me in the locker room and handed me an envelope. ‘This is for you,’ he said. I opened it and it was stuffed full of tenners. ‘There's two hundred there Anne, that's your share,’ he said to me. I was flabbergasted, ‘what's it for?’ I asked. ‘It's from Reggie, his last info’ was worth two grand, that's a grand for Reggie and two hundred each for us,’ he told me. I thrust the envelope back in his hand and just ran out of the locker room. I was crying and felt sick to my
stomach. I didn't know what to do. I went straight home. I couldn't sleep, believing my partners were corrupt. I rang in sick the following day and stayed off for a fortnight, I couldn't face them.” Her hand shook a little more as she took a sip of her drink. “I believe that incident started my depression and breakdown. I had no one to turn to in the squad; they were a law unto themselves. “A few days later, I related the incident to an old DS friend of mine, he advised me to report it, but how could I, who would they believe? So, I never did. I only went back for another week, but they all gave me the cold shoulder. I came off the squad then, in fact I never worked again. It broke my heart and my mind. I went on long-term sick and finished six months later. I only had ten years in.” I felt sorry for her. I knew coppers could
close ranks and make things awkward for others not singing from the same hymn sheet. “When was this, Anne and who were the other three detectives?” “It was early January 2011. The three were DC’s Ken Stevens, Alan Green and Peter James. I would think they’ve all finished now?” “Did you know what happened to Reggie?” “No, I didn't, I swear, only that his van was torched when I was off for that fortnight.” “Do you think Cliff and the others are involved in Reggie's murder, Anne?” “I wouldn't put it past them. They’re all bent as butcher’s hooks.” “Would you make a statement, Anne, accounting for all of this?” “ Of course. Perhaps it will give me some closure? I feel relieved now that I’ve spoken to
you, Terry. Thank you for listening to me. I didn’t think anyone ever would.” I shake my head sadly. “No, thank you, Anne. Now where’s that waiter? I need two doubles after that.” I use the job-financed taxi to take Anne home. She lives just outside Dublin on a smallholding with her sister and brother-inlaw. Life, post-job, seems good for her and I believe it will get even better now. I take a full detailed statement from her, kiss her on the cheek and thank her. I fly straight back to Cardiff airport, and I’m literally as high as a kite. I’ve got them all now, the corrupt murdering bastards.
Chapter 14. PLAN OF ATTACK. I had already rung my boss, Ron, and brought him up to speed with the information that Anne had supplied. He, in turn, had arranged an urgent conference with the ACC ‘Crime’ and Crown Prosecution Service. I attend at the appointed time and lay out all the relevant evidence and information, all seems to be going well until the CPS solicitor, one Ronald Archer, throws a fucking big spanner in the works. That was nothing unusual with this lot of tossers. Unless you give them everything on a platter, they won’t go after a pisser. “Where's the evidence, Terry? All you have is an unstable ex-police officer who has suddenly come out of the woodwork. You have nothing concrete.Supposition and speculation,
it doesn't convict, I’m sorry. I don't think we could even do them for corruption on her say so.” I’m now tamping. “Oh fuck you, then. I’ll get the evidence, one way or another.” I gather up all my gear and storm out, closely followed by Dai. We go back to the nick and re group, planning our next strategy. The phone rings, it's Ron. “Ter,’ that was a bit unprofessional, wasn't it? Anyway, I have smoothed it all over. You carry on, do what you’ve got to do to put these bastards away.” It was good to have the backing of the boss. “Thanks, Chief.” I put the phone down. “What you reckon, Dai? Where do we go from here, butt?” “Boss, you know Cliff better than anyone. He's an arrogant son of a bitch, but maybe that could be his weakness.”
I’m intrigued. “What do you mean, Dai?” Dai paces to the window and stares through the grime stained casement. “Well, he’s shot up the ranks, his shit is chocolate. This bloke doesn't give a fuck about anyone.Let's just say we feed him a few worms and see if he bites. I think he alone killed Reggie and the three dickheads helped him dispose of the body and torched the van.” It's worth a shot. “I’ll give him a bell,” I agree. “I’ll arrange a sherbet or two, see what develops.In the meantime, get the financials of them all and their addresses. Could be we need to set up some surveillance after I’ve had a chat with him.Good shout Dai, I knew I can always rely on you, butt.”
CHAPTER 15. THE DRINK. “Just like the old days, Terry? Two old mates chewing the fat, that's what it's all about, we haven't got long left in the job, so let's make the most of it.You got any plans, Ter’? After retirement I mean?” “Not thought about it, to be honest, Cliff,” I say. “May stay on, go up another notch, see how it goes?” Cliff nods as he sinks half his pint. “I want to get my Crown, do a year or two, then fuck off into the sunset.” “Sunset, you? Fuck me.” “No, straight up. I’ve got a few properties, one in Portugal and one in Florida.” He then gives me a big wink. Arrogant twat. “Well I haven't really got a pot to piss in, truth be told Cliff, but me and the missus are
happy.” He snorts. “Best thing I did was get shot of the Mrs about ten years ago. Paid her off, kept the house, everything is cushty, as Del says.” He finishes his pint and holds out his hand to get another round. “By the way, how's Reggie the fish finger, case going? Lol” Yes he actually speaks like he’s on fucking Facebook or something. “Bit of progress,” I say, watching his eyes. “Had a day in Ireland, day before yesterday...” “Oh aye, bog snorkelling is it. Lol.” Arrogant bastard. “No, following a lead.” I finish my pint and slid the glass across the little round bar table. “Interviewed an ex WDC, a woman called Anne Evans. Never worked with her myself but she knew Reggie.” Well fuck me, Cliff is going to choke, he
starts coughing like fuck and then finds his composure. ”That went down the wrong way,” he says.
I bet it did. ‘Lol.’ “She was on your squad, so she told me?” “Aye,”
he
admits
dismissively.
“I
remember Anne. Bit neurotic. What she say for herself?” “Not a lot. Just that he was a nark for the squad, nothing more, bit of a waste of time.” “Oh aye, I remember Reggie, small time dealer, bottom feeder,” he stands to take the glasses to the bar. “How is Anne these days? Not a bad looker in her day, went off her head, so they told me. Just didn't turn up for work one day.Did she mention me or the other boys?”
“No, to be honest, she didn't make a lot of sense, I didn't even bother to take a statement off her.” I can see Cliff is a bit concerned, I had obviously hit a nerve, thus reinforcing my suspicions. “Look, Ter, it's getting late. Fancy a night-cap? Let's go to mine, see how the other half lives, eh?” I’m intrigued and agree, so Cliff takes the empties back to the bar and asks for a taxi.
CHAPTER 16. THE MANSION We travel about two miles out of town, drive up a secluded country lane and come to a stop outside two ornate black metal gates. Cliff presses his key fob and the gates open slowly. I notice CCTV Cameras everywhere. The taxi driver then trundles up the wide pebbled drive, stopping outside the front door. Security lights come on as Cliff pays the driver. The house is spectacular. “Fuck me, Cliff, this is nice, butt.” “All bought and paid for, Ter. No mortgage on this. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, games room, bar, the lot, butt,” he grins smugly. Fuck me, I really don’t know this bloke. If he's not bent I will eat my hat. “Stay the night, Tel? Crash out in the
guest bedroom. You can have a good look around in the morning. “ Aye, too fucking Royal I will. We have a few more shorts and then I crash out. Bright shaft of sun through the partially open curtains of the guest room wakes me and I have a head like a bucket. I get my stuff together, swill my face and spend a few minutes doing the necessary toiletries before I walk downstairs where Cliff is squeezing fresh orange juice. “Coffee?” he asks. “Aye go on, my head’s in the shed.” “Do you want a fry up?” I groan. “No thanks, butt. A piece of toast will do.” I sit on a kitchen stool beneath a white granite breakfast bar that must have cost the same as a small car. “Cliff, it's like
fucking Colditz here, butt. Cameras, alarms security lights...” “Yes, Tel. Had to be done, butt. I was up the Yard five days a week, only made it home on the weekends, my safe-haven, I call it.” He pops two rounds of bread into a toaster that looks like something from the fifties but I guess is a new and very expensive little number. “Look I have got to pop into the office for a couple of hours,” he says. “Will you be ok on your own ‘till I come back? We can go for a spot of lunch then.” I sets the timer on the toaster then turns with a grin. “I hope you've rung the Mrs and got your alibi all sorted?” The toaster pops and the arrogant bastard goes and gives me a free run of the house.I can't help myself. I start opening drawers, ‘skulking,’ I think it's called, not that he'd leave anything incriminating, he's too sharp for that.
I go outside and walk around the garden, it’s then I notice a new build on the back of the house. No windows, a steel door with a double padlock. He cannot be that stupid? I go back inside, and look for the keys, but can’t find them anywhere. I’m fucked, but intrigued by it all. I return to the back of the house and have another skulk, turning stones over, just incase he’s too arrogant to be careful. To my amazement I find the keys under a large garden ornament. I open the padlock and open the heavy door. I step into the dark interior and put the light on. It's jam packed full of stuff. There's a quad bike; a 650 Yamaha, grass strimmers, mowers and other gardening gear. The further in I go, I notice a large green tarp.’ I pull it back and reveal two large chest freezers. I open the first and it’s full of frozen stuff, legs of lamb, pork, beef and just about every other type of meat money can buy at a
premium. I let the lid drop and open the second. It's empty but still switched on. All it contains are freezer bags, and what appear to be long strands of blonde hair. I don’t know whether it’s the chill from the freezer or the realization that my old pal is a killer that sends shivers up my spine? I slam the lid, replace the tarp, lock it all up and replace the keys, just as I hear Cliff returning in his top of the range Mercedes 350. I try to act normal and compliment him on the house, then true to his word he treats me to lunch. Arrogant twat!
Chapter 17. I NEED WARRANTS. Monday morning. I have a conference with Ron and Dai. “How are the financials looking, Dai?” Ron asks glumly. I can see this is eating at him. It’s not easy to accept that one of your own is a killer. “Well, put it this way, the three dickheads used to spend more than they earned during their squad days. And, as for Cliff, well I think he should have been an investment banker. Where he's getting it all from? We have no idea.” They been at it, big time and are still at it,” I say. “Chief, I need four warrants, can we have another conference with the CPS?” Ron looks down and seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. “Fuck it,” he says,
finally. “ Let's do it. I’ll fix it for two p.m., and don't go off the deep end this time, Tel.” “Well make sure you get a good un from CPS this time,” I snipe. Two p.m. arrives and, fuck me, the CPS solicitor is Ray Archer. He’s dressed in his usual black leather overcoat, blue pinstripe suit. He looks like that fucking German from ‘Allo, Allo’...what's his name? Von Klomp?I lay my cards on the table and Ray starts tutting. Gone to rat shit again? I’m thinking. Then I throw my low-baller into the mix. “I’ve received information from a reliable source that the body of Reggie was, in fact, kept in a freezer at the home of DCI Ambrose. Archer comes back at me, “How reliable?” “One-hundred per cent,” I say slowly. “I can stake my life on it.”
Archer nods. “In that case, crack on DI McGuire, you have my authority to swear out warrants. Murder for Ambrose, Conspiracy to Murder for the other three. Well I’m like a dog with two dicks and I task Dai with arranging a special court so I can swear out the warrants. We are off and running.
Chapter 18. THE ARRESTS I
have
no
problem
getting
the
Warrants, the Magistrates Clerk, another one of the old school; Major J.L.Davies V.C., got them signed and wishes me happy hunting. He'd served in the Army and had won the VC on D day, taking out a German machine gun nest single handed. He knows what loyalty means and was clearly disturbed by the proceedings. "Inspector,� he says to me in private. “Put them away for a long time. They are a disgrace to the Force and their colleagues." I call another conference for five a.m. and assemble four teams, all hand picked Detectives and S.O.C. Officers from all over the Force. I give them the background to the operation and I lay it all on the line for them. The look of horror on their faces is to be
expected by I know they’ll do what’s right. “I want two doing the arrests and two doing the premises search. We’re looking for the following items,” I say. “A double-edge serrated
knife,
nylon
rope,
heavy
duty
polythene, any type of acid, bank statements, cash and probably drugs. This lot have been at it for years. Three have retired and one is still a serving Officer. Remember, they are to make no phone calls upon their arrests. Also, the cadaver dog will be attending at the home of DCI Ambrose. They all live within the Force Area, you have your packages, the strike will be at six a.m. and your prisoners will be taken to designated stations. Now get to it and bring me home the bacon.” Ron and I sit nervously in the command room whilst the teams go about their business. I’d like to go too but because of my connection with Cliff Ron insisted I stay well clear.
About six-fifteen a.m., the first call comes in. Stevens has been arrested. Then at short intervals, Green and James are arrested too and finally we get Ambrose. I turn to Ron. “That was the easy part, Chief, now the work begins. I want one of those fuckers to crack and blow it wide open. “
Chapter 18. THE INTERVIEWS I had already picked my Interviewers, teams of two, the best in the Force. I knew we would need the best because I had an idea they would all go ‘No Comment.’ Dai and I would do Ambrose. Prior to the interviews, at about four p.m., I called all the teams together. The searches had been completed. Large amounts of cash and drugs from the ex Detectives homes had been recovered. A good result, but Ambrose’s home
revealed the most.
Cash, drugs, what we
believed was the knife, pieces of polythene, acid, the blonde hairs and the cadaver dog heading straight to the freezer. All in all a cracking result, but I wanted more. I wanted Reggie’s killer, and I was going to get him. We start interviewing Ambrose at six p.m. After going through the formalities, bearing in mind the arrogant bastard didn't want a brief, I hit him with the first question. “Did you kill Reggie Hughes?” Leaning back on his chair, hands behind head, he says, “That's for you to prove, Tel. That's for you to prove.” I couldn’t believe it. This fucker was taking the piss for the benefit of the tape recording. I felt sick to my stomach, the enormity of the case suddenly hitting me. I had to hold it together. I wanted to lean across the table and smash the arrogant fuck in the face. “This is
what I think happened,” I said, calmly. “Reggie got the hump because you were ripping him off with the informants money. He confronted you in the caravan and you just stabbed him to death. Is that what happened, Cliff?” “Nice story, Tel, and that's all it is.” “We’ll see, Cliff. I’m sure your old buddies don't want to be done for murder, one of them will crack. Oh, by the way, as we speak, the knife is being DNA'd, bit silly keeping it, but there we are, you have always been an arrogant prick.” “Arrogant, yes, Tel, but not a loser like some.” I can see it in his eyes, he’s thinking, ‘what have they got?’ Interview terminated, for a while. I call another conference at ten p.m. All three other interviews went as expected. ‘No comment.’ So we were, no further on. To be
expected really, they know the score. I call a halt then tell the team all to go home get some kip and come back in the morning, fresh. Hopefully, I’ll have the DNA results on the knife and hair, also ‘cut comparisons’ on the polythene. Then we can really go to town.
Chapter 20. THEY'VE CRACKED I don't want to do another Interview with the suspects until I have the DNA results Ten a.m., the lab calls through to the office.
“You
have
positive
matches
on
everything, Terry. The blood on the knife and hairs from the freezer are Reggie’s. Polythene cuts match the knife, you got a result Ter.” I call the team together. “Disclose the fucking lot to those three bent bastards and tell them they’ll all be charged with the murder of Reggie, tell them that, nothing else, then leave them to fucking sweat. The clock is ticking boys, go and do the business.” Fuck me, within the hour, my teams are ringing. “You got them, boss. They’ll tell us everything, but they didn't do Reggie. It was
Ambrose, over the informant’s money. They torched the van and disposed of the body, all on the instructions of Ambrose. They were in too deep to tell him to fuck off.” “Brilliant. Get me a transcript from one of them and get it to me as soon as possible.” I get it the transcript off the interview with Stevens. I read it and then me and Dai are back in with Cliff. “Well, Cliff. The three of them cracked and have put the finger on you for Reggie. You are in deep shit, butt. I think you better get a brief.” “Listen, Tel, don't tell me what I need,” he fumed. “What deal have you offered the three pricks?” “That's' for me to know, and you to guess, you arrogant son of a bitch.” He finally looks worried. “What can you do for me, Tel, for old times sake?”
This is a new and unexpected turn. “What you offering Cliff?” He thinks for a moment. “Look, it was self defence. Reggie came at me with the knife, the boys were outside. Reggie was high as a kite, as normal. He lunged at me, we struggled on the floor. I took the knife off him and just let him have it.” “Let him have it? He was about 8 stone soaking wet, why stab him?” Cliff’s arrogance couldn’t be contained, not even when his life depended on it. “He was a bottom feeder, Tel,” he said, “lowest of the low. I had a nice scam going with him, ‘till he got fucking shirty. He deserved it, the little twat.” “How many times did you stab him?” He shrugged. “Three times. I think he'd gone after the first, to be honest?” “What happened then?”
“Well, there was a bit of blood, so I called
the
boys.
They
were
fucking
gobsmacked, ranting and raving like fucking headless chickens. “The polythene roll was there and the rope, so I just wrapped him up tight and then we put him in the van. I was going to bury him then and there on the dunes, but I didn't have a spade, so we took him up to my place and put him in my freezer. Before we left, I torched the van. It was on its axles in minutes. Have you seen one go up, Tel?” he grinned smugly. I’m shocked by the extent of his arrogance. “It’s all so matter of fact for you, Cliff. Have you no conscience?” “Look, Tel, I have dealt with druggies all over Europe, butt. Freezer, iced lakes, incineration, nobody gives a fuck about them...oh, sorry, you do,” he said in flippant way. “I knew you wouldn't let it go, like a
fucking dog with a bone.” “Yes, but why bury him now, after all this time?” “Selling up, butt. Had a cracking offer on the house. Time for Reggie to go, I thought. Fucking trouble is, didn't bury him deep enough, did I? Thought if anybody did find him the Police would think it was a gangland killing.” “What about all the money, all the trappings of wealth, what's all that about?” “Status, Tel,” Cliff sniffed. “You think it’s corrupt over here? Go to Europe, butt, and make your fortune. That's what I did and no one's the wiser, not even you, my friend.” I shake my head. “I’m no friend of yours.” Cliff shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to him. “What's the deal, Tel?”
I’m furious. “Fucking deal? About twenty-odd
years,
I
hope.
Interview
terminated. Dai, get this piece of shit out of my sight.”
Chapter 21. CHARGING. After all the Interviews are completed, I arrange for all four prisoners to be housed at Bridgend Bridewell to be formally charged. Prior to this, I confer with my old friend at the CPS, Ron Archer. Fair play the first thing he does is shake my hand. “Well done, Inspector. Now let's formulate some charges for the bastards. Abrose for Murder, Possesion and Conspiracy to supply Class A Drugs and money laundering.Stevens, Green and James for Possession and Conspiracy to supply Class A drugs, Perverting the course of justice.Do you agree with that?” “No problem,” I say. “I think Ambrose will plead self-defence with Reggie, so we’ll use those three other bastards for the prosecution. Let a Jury decide.”
“A job well done, Inspector. It's been a pleasure...oh, and by the way, that informant of yours? Give him a pat on the back from me,” he winks at the same time. Next stop, the Custody Suite. I charge Stevens, Green and James with various offences and they make no reply. I charge Ambrose in his cell because he decides to play silly buggers.After charging, he says, “I’m glad it was you, Tel. He then offers me his hand. I’m sickened. I just turn and slam the cell door. A Special Court is convened the next day. They are all remanded in custody for trial I take a walk through the shopping centre of Bridgend. I need a break from it all and idly stare at the electrical goods in one of the shops. The fancy toaster like the one Cliff had in his kitchen is on display. £110 for a fucking toaster? Twat!.
I eventually return to the station and gather all the team before we retire to the lounge bar of the Castle Hotel and I buy them all beer. I thank for all for a job well done. I hoped they’d never have to deal with anything like it again.
Chapter 22. THE TRIAL Three months on from the day I charged the four corrupt bastards, they all appear at Cardiff Crown Court for the plea. Stevens, Green and James all plead guilty to all charges. Abrose pleads not guilty. I look at him and he smiles at me - still fucking arrogant. The Judge, Justice Hopkins, adjourns the case for a wee, so that the trial of Ambrose can begin. A few days later, I receive a call from the Prison, Ambrose wants to see me. I pay him a visit him the following day. He’s dressed in prison order and looking pretty sorry for himself in the interview room. “What do you want, Cliff?”
“Will
you
say
a
few
words
in
mitigation? I have been advised to plead. That Hopkins is a fucker on sentencing, my brief says I may pull a 15 stretch on a plea?” “Whatever, Cliff, whatever,” I say. I just want it to end, to put it all behind me and move on. The day of the trial arrives and the four defendants are back in the dock. The charges are put to Ambrose and he pleads guilty. Before sentence, his brief calls me to the witness box. “I understand, Detective Inspector McGuire, you wish to say a few words about my client?” “Yes sir, I do,” I wait a moment to ensure the whole court is listening. “The man is a disgrace to the Police force, he has let his colleagues down and to be honest I detest him, he makes my skin crawl. Is that what you expected, Sir?”
The brief looks in shock and then sits down, speechless. Justice Hopkins then says, “Will you all please stand?” Then, in a severe voice only court judges seem to posses, he began his sentencing. “Stevens, Green and James, you have pleaded guilty and in view of the betrayal of you office and the public you were sworn to serve, I have no option other than to pass a substantial custodial sentence,” he paused for effect. “I sentence you all to eighteen years imprisonment. Officers take them down.” He waited for the court officers to remove the shell-shocked ex-coppers from the court before he addressed Ambrose. “As for you, Ambrose, it is quite obvious that you are devious, manipulative individual with no scruples. You have made vast amounts of money
from
your
criminal
activities,
culminating in the death of a human being. You will go to prison for life, and you will serve
a minimum of 26 years. Take him down. Ambrose finally cracks, but not as I would have expected. He laughs, raucous, guffaws of laughter that sent shivers down my spine as the court officers dragged him away to the cells. The Judge is clearly disturbed too. He gathers his composure then looks across at me in the witness box. “Detective Inspector McGuire, you and your team are a credit to the Police Force. To investigate colleagues cannot be easy. I commend you all and, by the way, I concur with you’re earlier comments about that ghastly man, Ambrose.Case closed.”
Chapter 23. The AFTERMATH I get promoted to Detective Chief Inspector, Regional Drug Squad and Dai, gets engaged again. Ron retires to tend his gardens. And Anne is free from the shackles of the past and is living life to the full. As for poor Reggie, he had a pauper’s burial and rests in a pauper's grave in Porthcawl cemetery. Apart from the bearers, only Dai and I attended the service and watched his remains lowered to his final resting place, five years late.