Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

The WPC with Ramsay, Farnes, shepherded the victim into the lounge away from her partner, who now appeared, bare-footed, in the kitchen doorway. ‘I ain’t done fucking nothing,’ he said, shaking his head, the words oozing drink. He was tall with a thick head of messy brown hair and an out-of-proportion beer belly. Aged about thirty-five, and dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. We’d been warned he was violent, particularly when drunk. Apparently, the police had been called here plenty of times before.

‘Come on now, Brian,’ said Ramsay, who seemed to know him. ‘I think it’s best you come with us.’ The words were spoken calmly, almost soothingly. Ramsay was understandably eager to avoid a scene. I was too, since I’d have to get involved if he didn’t come quietly.

His response, however, was predictable. ‘Fuck off. I’m all right. I didn’t touch her. She’s fucking lying again.’

Brian came forward, trying to get into the room where his partner was. Ramsay stood in the way and put his hands up to stop him. ‘She’s made a complaint, Brian. Now we’ve got to follow up on it. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off. Get out my way.’

‘Look, don’t make this hard on everyone, Brian. Let’s just go nice and quiet now.’

Brian lunged forward and I did my best to grab him in a bearhug from behind while Berrin managed to get him round the neck. Ramsay produced some handcuffs from out of nowhere and the three of us wrestled him towards the front door. Two more recently arrived uniforms came in and helped with what was no easy extraction. Brian cursed and screamed, then fell over, trying to lash out with his arms. I grabbed one, one of the uniforms grabbed another, and Ramsay forced on the cuffs.

‘What are you fucking doing to me, you cunts! Leave me alone! Bastards!’

I looked up and saw the kid on the stairs still watching the whole thing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see your dad wrestling with a load of police officers. The man reeked of sweat and his hair was greasy. I had my knee in his back and I felt this sudden urge to grab him by the back of his greasy mane and slam his head into the floor.

‘I’ll fucking kill you, you bastards! You’re dead! You know that? Dead!’

We pulled him to his feet and he snorted loudly, filling his mouth with phlegm.

‘All right, get rid of that spit,’ demanded one of the uniforms in his line of fire. ‘Get rid of it now.’

‘Come on now, Brian, let’s be having you,’ continued Ramsay, persisting with his softly-softly approach.

Brian gobbed something thick and horrible onto his carpet, deciding against sending it into one of the arresting officers’ faces and risking a charge of assault, and continued with his pointless invective. We got him outside on the pavement and, while one of the uniforms got the doors of the van open, he had a final angry struggle, just to show he wasn’t coming quietly, and tried to kick Berrin who dodged out of the way. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back.

‘Fuck off, you fucking wanker!’ he shouted, and lashed out again with a bare foot, this time in my direction.

I stepped aside, then stepped back and stamped hard on his other foot, grinding the heel of my shoe in. Brian howled in pain and I felt a momentary burst of satisfaction.

‘Did you see what he fucking did, the cunt? Did you fucking see?’

I turned away as he was manhandled into the back of the van and cursed myself for losing control. I’d forgotten what these lowlife domestics were like, and how irritating drunks could be. Still, that was no excuse for rising to the bait. As much as anyone, I knew the possible long-term consequences of a two-second loss of control.

‘Nice one, Sarge,’ said Berrin, giving me a pat on the back.

Another patrol car had arrived now and two more officers went into the house. The van containing the prisoner remained where it was while Ramsay and the other two officers chatted among themselves, ignoring the steady rain that beat down from the night sky.

I didn’t say anything. I was pissed off. It struck me as ridiculous that Berrin and I should be sent out on worthless exercises like this that did nothing to bolster morale or understanding, while every effort possible was being made to squeeze the life out of the Matthews murder squad. Capper and Hunsdon had now gone over to the aggravated burglary inquiry involving the pregnant woman, and I’d even had difficulty holding on to Berrin. Knox had lost interest in the case. Particularly now there was no evidence to back up his theory of a Matthews/Iversson partnership. Maybe if the Crimewatch mugshot helped to flush out Iversson, things would change, but for the moment Matthews’s murder was slipping down the endless list of priorities.

The sound of a baby crying came from inside and I walked back in. The kid on the stairs had gone, and the two officers who’d just arrived were talking in the doorway of the room where WPC Farnes had taken the victim, who was still sobbing and cursing. Since no one else seemed bothered about the crying baby, I mounted the stairs, wrinkling my nose against the smell, and walked onto the landing. I found a light switch, flicked it on, then went to the door where the crying was coming from.

The smell when I opened it was foul, fetid. I had to work hard to stop myself from gagging as I switched on the lights.

The room was a cramped mess of toys, boxes, tissues, all sorts. It was difficult to make out the floor in places. In the corner was a cot, and in the cot was a baby of no more than six months, naked except for a nappy and crying hysterically. The stench of shit was horrendous, and I saw that a lot of the tissues were stained brown with it.

I walked over to the cot, the smell getting worse with each step, and looked down at the crying infant. He or she had sores round the thighs where the nappy, which looked almost full to bursting, must have been chafing. I wanted to turn round and walk out of there, and I could have done, too — there was nothing to stop me. It wasn’t my business if this family, and I used the term loosely, couldn’t look after their own. But it wasn’t the kid’s fault either so, steeling myself against the smell, I leant down and picked it up. My hands immediately felt wet and slimy and I knew without looking that they were covered in shit. Grimacing, I turned the baby over and saw that the nappy had leaked and the stuff was all up the poor little kid’s back. No wonder it had been crying, having to lie helpless in its own waste. Nobody had changed this nappy for hours, possibly days.

‘Whatchoo doing with her?’ came a hostile voice from the doorway.

I turned to see the kid who’d watched us come in standing in the doorway. ‘Trying to change her,’ I said. ‘Find me some wipes or a tissue, will you?’ The kid didn’t move. ‘Look, do as I say. I’m trying to help her.’

As the kid rummaged through the crap on the floor, I laid the baby on her front and removed the nappy, using it to mop up the worst of the stuff that clung to her. I folded it up and put it on the floor, for want of a better place. ‘Here y’are,’ said the kid, handing me a half-used roll of toilet paper. Not quite what I had in mind, but at least it was clean.

‘Thanks,’ I said, continuing the grim process. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Wet some of these tissues as well, and see if you can find a cloth. If you do get one, put soap and water on it, and bring it in.’

‘Is she all right?’ asked the kid.

‘Yeah, she’s fine. I think she was feeling a bit neglected.’

The kid came back a few moments later with a cloth and two wet bundles of tissues. ‘Right, see that plastic bag over there?’ The kid nodded. ‘Put the dirty nappy in it, then bring it back here so I can chuck this stuff in it.’ The kid did as he was told, and I thought he’d probably make a good assistant.