Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘Is one of them Keith Teasdale?’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, his name is on the list. Today is Operation Muzzle. We’re going to make some arrests.’

When Ben Cooper walked back into the CID room, DS Dave Rennie was there, looking relaxed, like a man at home in front of the TV watching Coronation Street . He should have had his slippers on. Cooper saw that there was a stack of paper on Rennie’s desk, forms filled with scrawled handwriting in ballpoint pen. Some of the writing looked almost illiterate.

‘What’s all that lot, Sarge? Witness statements?’

‘Questionnaires,’ said Rennie. ‘I’ve got all these back already from the early and day shifts. I’ve just collected them from the box in the canteen.’

‘Oh, the vending machines.’ Cooper picked up a couple of sheets. ‘What sort of things are they saying, then?’

‘I haven’t looked at them yet. But I dare say they’ll go for it, generally. We gave them a multiple choice, look — hot food, sandwiches, snacks or drinks. All they had to do was choose which they’d use. It makes it look as though the vending machines are a foregone conclusion, but actually we’re using their responses as evidence to push the idea through. Clever, isn’t it?’

Cooper’s eyes widened as he read one of the questionnaires. ‘Amazing.’

Rennie nodded. ‘It’s surprising what management will come up with.’

‘Sarge, the person who filled in this questionnaire here says they’d like hot food, but hot women would be even better.’

Rennie sniffed. ‘Well, you know what it’s like, Ben. There are always some who have to take the piss, no matter what.’

‘And under “other suggestions” they’ve asked for condom machines and somewhere to dispose of their used hypodermic needles.’

‘I might have to take one or two out before I show them to the DCI in Admin,’ said Rennie.

‘Who wrote this one, then?’

‘They’re all anonymous, Ben.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘You know as well as I do, if people have to give their names, you don’t get anything from them. Coppers are dead suspicious of putting their names to something that looks official.’

Cooper looked at the questionnaire again. ‘Look how this one’s spelled “fruit-flavoured”.’

‘I can’t believe they’re so ignorant. What happened to the education system?’

‘And the handwriting’s appalling. A graphologist would have a field day with this. He’d probably say it was written by some homicidal psychopath.’

Rennie looked over Cooper’s shoulder and frowned. Then he began desperately flicking through the other questionnaires. Some of them were written in garish purple ink, some had obscene drawings scribbled in the margins. One had an insulting cartoon of the Chief Superintendent. Another had letters cut from newspaper headlines pasted on to it to form a message. It read: ‘You have ten minutes to evacuate the canteen before the steak and kidney pie explodes.’

‘Psychopath would describe just about everybody in this station,’ said Rennie sourly. ‘There isn’t a single one that’s been filled out properly.’

Cooper didn’t respond. He was staring at the questionnaire form in his hand. He was holding it so tightly that the paper crumpled and almost tore between his fingers.

‘Er, Sarge?’ he said. ‘Can I keep this one?’

Rennie shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. They’re no use to me at all.’

Todd Weenink was going to the cattle market, too. He wasn’t making any preparations, though, except to eat a quick sandwich. Bits of tomato had slipped out of the bread and dropped on to his desk. Ben Cooper tapped him on the shoulder and signalled with his eyes. Neither of them spoke until they were in the corridor.

‘What’s up, Ben?’

‘Come across the road. We’re going for a coffee.’

‘What if I don’t want one?’

Weenink tried to slow down, but Cooper gripped his elbow and kept moving. ‘You’re coming anyway,’ he said.

‘Ben, you’re getting a bit forceful all of a sudden. I’m not sure I like it, mate.’

‘We’ve got some talking to do.’

‘Oh, Christ. Do you never get sick of talking?’

May’s Cafe was off West Street, in a lane running steeply downhill to the Clappergate shopping centre. It was comfortable, without being too appealing to the tourists. A sign in the window said ‘Ristorante Italiano’, but it was hand-painted in a bit of white gloss left over from when the kitchen walls were last redecorated, and it didn’t look very convincing.

Cooper had been coming to May’s for years. He remembered the sign in the window first being painted — it was just after May and her boyfriend, Frank, had come back from a fortnight’s holiday in Rome. In that fortnight, May had discovered pasta. She arrived back in Edendale full of stories of the most wonderful fettuccine and funghini. A whole range of pasta dishes had made an appearance on the menu, scrawled in blue ballpoint that had faded with time. Now you could search for Italian influences and find only a word that might have been ‘tagliatelle’ written sideways in the margin next to the steak and chips. But if you wanted to be in May’s good books, you could still ask for pasta.

There was only a middle-aged couple in the cafe, drinking tea silently at a table near the counter. The woman had plastic carrier bags full of groceries from Somerfield’s; the man had a blank look, as if he wished he were far away. They stared briefly at the detectives, then looked away, embarrassed to be noticed.

Cooper ordered a couple of coffees — black and strong, the way May always made it.

‘That bit of trouble of yours, Todd. .’ he said.

‘I’d prefer it if you’d just keep your mouth shut, mate,’ said Weenink. ‘It’s an old story anyway. You’ve heard it all before.’

‘Did you fit somebody up?’

‘Just helped things along, Ben. Some would say it doesn’t matter if the suspect is guilty. We can’t have them getting away on some technicality, can we? You know what the courts are like — not to mention the bloody Criminal Preservation Society. You can see when a bloke is gearing up for a spell in Derby. So what’s the problem?’

May herself was behind the counter. She was a big woman, well into her fifties, with a face permanently pink from the heat of the kitchen and large, widespread breasts like upturned soup tureens that had been pushed down the front of her blue apron. Her hair was dyed a pale strawy colour today that reminded Cooper of something.

‘Todd, there are people round here who have it in for you. They’d take any chance. .’

Weenink threw out his arms. ‘Oh, tell me about it. That’s why you need your friends to stand by you. Of course, I’m relying on you to keep this to yourself, Ben. As long as we stick together, they haven’t got anything.’

‘But why do it, Todd?’

‘Why? Can’t you see they’re all laughing at us? I even got bollocked for abusing a prisoner the other week. I called him a Scotch pillock and got my arse chewed off by the Super for racism. But he was a Scotch pillock, Ben.’

‘I know it’s difficult.’

‘Difficult? Have you seen the guidelines for interviews? Confrontation and intimidation are out. Exaggerating the evidence, emphasizing the seriousness of the crime. All out. What a load of crap. What do they think we are? A bunch of nannies?’

‘It’s only being realistic. A confession obtained like that will get thrown out by the court.’

‘Yeah, great. So we have to say, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious, and we’ve hardly got anything on you, anyway.” That’ll make them confess, all right. I can see them rolling over on their backs and spilling their guts to help me out, just because I’m a really nice man.’