Burning Bacon: Part One of The Dennis Bolam Chronicles Page 3

  “Give it your best shot, Trevor! I’ll have you for assaulting a police officer as well! I should take those cuffs off ya just to see if your wrists are as limp as your old mans!”

  That was it, Trevor tried to kick Dennis in the nuts but Bolam was too long in the tooth to get taken in by such a basic move and he grabbed Trevor by the ankle immediately making Trevor wobble about on one leg. “Sit dahn before I break your leg!” and with that Dennis used Trevor’s own leg as a tool to shove him back into his seat.

  Trevor was out of breath and shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Why’d you rape that girl and vandalise the shop?”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t hurt any girl at the club and I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Bolam shoved his hand into the plant pot and pulled out a fistful of soil.

  “So help me, if I don’t get a confession out of you in the next ten seconds you’ll be blowing this out of your snout for a month and getting daddy to wipe it for you! Why did ya do it?!”

  “Why are you asking me why did I do it when you’ve already decided that I did?” Trevor looked as if he had given up, the fight in him was gone.

  Dennis Bolam had ground down yet another suspect.

  Dennis looked at Trevor a moment and then reached into his jacket pocket. From it he pulled out a chicken tikka slice and began eating it. He ate half and then folded the plastic wrapper over it, carefully ensuring no pastry or sauce was exposed that could potentially mess his jacket up and he stuck it back in his pocket. Then he lit a Rothmans.

  “If you didn’t do it, Trevor, then who did because this town isn’t exactly run amok with ginger sex fiend racists! You should have dyed your hair before you went on your crime spree!”

  “I didn’t go on a bloody crime spree! What is wrong with you? Why don’t you listen!?”

  “It’s not my job to listen, it’s my job to bang people up! If I wanted to listen I’d be a psychiatrist and holding yours and daddy’s hands in therapy while you both had a good cry!”

  Trevor shook his head.

  “If it wasn’t you then Trevor, then who was it?”

  “I don’t know, why don’t you look at the security tapes from the club? And doesn’t this shop wherever it is have CCTV?”

  Bolam took a deep drag on his cigarette. He hated to admit it so he didn’t but Trevor had a point. Maybe the tapes would throw up a culprit or at least a clue or two.

  “Do you know a girl called Karly Pitts?” asked Bolam, now a lot calmer and sounding more like an enquiring uncle.

  “No, I don’t.” said an exasperated Trevor, although he thought he might.

  “Who was yous there with, at the Filthy Carrot?”

  “At where -? What -? I was with my mate, Thumper. We had a couple of drinks, you know, try and pull a bird or something. But I wasn’t having any luck and was tired as I had been at work until 9 that night so I went home.”

  “Who the fuck is Thumper?! And you worked until 9? Hang on…What time did you get to the club?”

  “Just after 10 I think, why?”

  Dennis picked up the plant pot and with both hands smashed it to the floor.

  “Never you mind! I ask the questions around here!”

  Dennis flung open the door of the interview room and said to Nigel the policeman who was on vigil, “We’ll hold him for a bit longer!”

  As Bolam blasted past the Superintendent Lightfoots office, Lightfoot called out to him.

  “Bolam!”

  Bolam put his head around the door. “What! I’m busy?”

  “Well? Did he confess?” asked Lightfoot sipping tea from a mug with the Queen’s face on it.

  “Not yet. There’s been a surprise development and I’m on it. Grant’s gonna meet me.”

  “What sort of development, Dennis?”

  “CCTV tapes, guv!”

  “Good work, Dennis. I don’t want to know how this came about, you know I don’t approve of your methods but I know you get results. Just give me someone to put behind bars. You’ve got 24 hours!”

  “You might wanna get one of the girls to put a broom abaht in there.” Said Bolam indicating the interrogation room over his shoulder with his thumb. “It got messy, know what I mean?”

  Lightfoot shook his head yet couldn’t help a small smile. He expected nothing less from Detective Dennis Bolam.

  “I’ll send one of the girls in. And I’ll blindfold Trevor myself. We can’t have someone like him looking down their cleavage or up their short skirts while they sweep.”

  “Good thinking. Chief.”

  Bolam’s head disappeared and he could be heard marching down the corridor with authority. After the slamming of a door, the faint rustle of the plastic wrapping of a chicken Tikka Slice could be heard hitting the tiled floor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nine o’clock in the morning, no breakfast, not even a shot of JB in his coffee. Dennis Bolam was not in a good mood. The Rover Finesse screeched to a halt outside Asid’s Eight-til-Late convenience store. He parked diagonally like people do in towns in America where they have wider roads, but Dennis didn’t care that the roads in England aren’t wide enough for this, and that the Finesse was hanging out all over the road. He was hungry, and parking properly would have shown that he cared about procedures and rules which of course he didn’t. Also, it showed people that he was in a hurry, which was important when you only had 24 hours to solve a crime.

  “Morning, Asid,” croaked Dennis, wearily, as he pushed open the door of the shop in a jaded way. He swaggered over to the counter. “40 Rothmans and a bottle of my usual,” he said, “and 3 Chicken tikkas.”

  “Oh no bless me,” said Asid, wringing his hands together in a distressed way, not in the way he would if he was looking forward to taking Bolam’s money, which he wasn’t, because he genuinely liked his ‘Detective Dennis’. “Oh no cor blimey and bless my cotton socks,” Asid said, sounding like something out of the 1970s sitcom about a multiracial English class in a college, the one with Barry Evans in it called Mind Your Language. “We couldn’t get any chicken tikka slices from the supplier yesterday. But we have plenty of cheese and onion.”

  “Whaaat?” Dennis’s face fell. “This day’s getting worse! Never mind, Asid, I’ll take 2 cheese and onion.”

  Disconsolately, he munched on a cheese and onion pastry slice while he and Asid looked at the CCTV footage. As the cheesy potato mixture went round and round his mouth he despaired of seeing anything that would help him solve the racist rapist crime.

  But then suddenly Dennis Bolam saw something that made him drop the remains of pasty number one.

  “Well, that sneaky little scumbag!!!” he said. For there, on the CCTV, was, in his full glory, Trevor Monument. Trevor Monument daubing all sorts of racist stuff on the shutters that can’t be written here or they won’t publish the book. So! All those denials, even in the face of intense interrogation, and it was Monument all the time!

  “He ain’t no different from his father Kenneth, with his numbers racket and illegal stills!” vouchsafed Bolam, shaking his head and wiping flaky pastry crumbs from his lapels which also had a Police Federation badge on them. Dennis had forgotten the badge was on there, if he had remembered he would have taken it off because wearing a badge like that would make people think he cared about conforming to Federation rules. He remembered the time when he’d busted Kenneth Monument down in that smoky jazz club where all that bathtub hooch was being consumed. Hang on – hadn’t Trevor been sitting in his pram, just through the back?

  He’d learnt how to fool the strong arm of the law at his father’s knee!

  “Thanks Asid” he smiled, acceptingly, patting his old friend on the silken shoulder. He shook his head with a little lopsided grin on his face, which showed that he was amused with his own gaffe, though still regretting it. Except it wasn’t really a gaffe because he hadn’t seen the tapes until now. Then he remembered he had only got cheese and onion pasties and felt sudde
nly mournful, a bit flat, like when you think you’ve got a bottle of wine in the fridge but then you find your room mate has drunk it.

  “Anytheeng I can do to help my old friend Detective Dennis,” said Asid. Noticing his friend’s facial expression of fatigue and disappointment he gave the weary Bolam a flimsy stripped plastic carrier bag and patted his wrist as he put it on it.

  Inside, he’d put a packet of puff pastry and a tin of chicken tikka.

  With a last mournful yet sort of resigned expression, Dennis lifted his arm to wave goodbye and wandered back to the Rover Finesse. Just as he was driving away, though, a thought occurred to him.

  Oh no! He’d left sidekick Grant London at the Monument’s house, to ‘help Eileen with the laundry’! What if she had got to him, and given that toe rag son of hers an alibi?

  Foot down hard on the accelerator, cheese and onion pasty between his teeth, Bolam strained to look out of the rear window as he moved the car off down the road, screeching.

  “Faaaack this cheese and onion shit!” he growled, to himself, winding down the window and throwing the pastry out. Just for a second he glanced longingly at the contents of Asid’s gift bag, but that would have to wait.

  ***

  The door of the Monuments’ house on the Larchways Estate was open. Dennis ground out his cigarette with the toe of his slightly scuffed black slip ons, and walked in. The house smelled of chips, laundry liquid and generally like council houses or houses in the projects sometimes do. He charged up the stairs because he guessed that Grant London and Eileen Monument would still be ‘sorting the laundry’ up the stairs.

  The impatient Bolam threw open several doors before locating Grant and Eileen in the master bedroom. It had orange and brown patterned wallpaper and purple floral bedclothes, those sort of bri-nylon ones that people had in the 1970s if they couldn’t afford proper cotton ones. Grant was sitting there with just a sheet over him.

  “Oy!” said Eileen, who was wearing an off-white nylon slip, “What you doing barging in here, Bolam? Ain’t you got no respect?”

  “Not for people what break the law, I haven’t,” snarled Bolam, and with that he swept his hand across Eileen’s dressing table and all her make-up and little bottles fell to the floor, making a big clattering sound, like people always do in films and you think, I bet they wish they hadn’t done that because now they’ve got to clear it all up, except that Dennis wouldn’t have to because it was Eileen’s stuff.

  Eileen sat up, pulling the sheet up to her throat even though there was no need because she had her slip on so you couldn’t see anything anyway.

  “Don’t worry, I seen it all before,” grunted Dennis Bolam even though as he said it he had a quick think about it and couldn’t remember if he had ever known Eileen carnally or not.

  Billie Holiday played on the Vitrola and the smell of bathtub gin and cheap make-up was present in the room. It was a sleazy but quite a sexy atmosphere.

  “You a bad man, you get ma Kenneth banged up in that ole jailhouse, then you take away ma boy, an’ now you disrespect me too?” wept Eileen, folornly. “Ain’t you gonna let a girl have a li’l piece of comfort now an’ then? Somethin’ to warm her lonely bed ? Grant, honey, stay wit’ me!”

  But it was too late. Grant was already pulling on his buff coloured slacks and doing up the zipper and belt. The sun glinted through the curtains, lighting up the delicate hue of his naked skin. “Save it for the courts, Eileen,” he said, feeling a bit embarassed that he’d been caught out having relations with someone who was harbouring a criminal.

  “Yeah, shaaat it,” snarled Bolam, irreverently. They charged out of the house and into the car.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” said Grant London, taking Bolam’s Rothmans from the dashboard and lighting on. “Why don’t we do an identity parade? Get Kylie Potts in to say which of the gingers raped her!”

  “My thoughts exactly,” murmured Bolam, though actually he hadn’t thought of it until now. “And you can be in it!”

  “But I’m not ginger I’m strawberry blonde!” said Grant, and they both laughed at their in-joke, though Grant with a bit less mirth than Dennis as he feared he might really have to be in it.

  “We’re on the case,” said Dennis, yawning and looking in the car’s mirror above him. He ran his thumb and forefinger down the side of his mouth where it was a bit stubbly, to emphasis how weary he was, “But first, London, I gotta deal with what’s important. A detective needs fuel, and I gotta get myself a chicken tikka slice!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Back at the station, Dennis Bolam, followed by Grant London, marched down the main corridor and towards the interview room while chomping on a chicken tikka slice he had just made at home with the ingredients given to him by Asid. Grant London had helped in the kitchen with the making of them and had had one himself. At the flat the two detectives had had a couple of beers too while discussing the case and Bolam was now feeling more up to the task of crime fighting.

  Bolam strode toward the interview room and flung the door open when he got there. Trevor Monument was no longer sat at the table. There was just soil all over the table and floor and the remnants of a broken plant pot. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” barked Bolam.

  “Uniform must have let him go.” Said London.

  Bolam stormed into the Chief Superintendent Lightfoot’s office. “Where’s Trevor Monument?” Bolam shouted.

  “Dennis, Uniform let him go.” Said Lightfoot, pouring tea from a huge urn which now ordained a tea table complete with Union Jack tablecloth next to his desk. He was a big fan of the royal family which was all part of his respect for the establishment. “No charges after 72 hours in custody, you know the rules.”

  “What have I told you about the rules, Chief? You’ve been behind that desk too bleedin’ long and gone soft! Trevor’s guilty as sin!”

  “Well where’s the proof?” Lightfoot was casually stirring his tea, unperturbed by Bolam’s angst and lack of respect for authority.

  “The proof’s all over the tapes!” screamed Bolam, so angry now that he threw the quarter remnant of his tikka slice against the wall in frustration. It splattered tikka up the wall before landing with a slap on the floor. Lightfoot momentarily stopped stirring his tea knowing that Bolam must be really angry to have discarded part of a chicken tikka slice in such a manner.

  “What tapes?” enquired Lightfoot.

  “The one at Asid’s Late-til-8! He’s clear as day spraying his muck all over the place and you and your liberal uniform Nancy boys let him go!”

  “We’ll have to bring him back in. Let’s hope he hasn’t gone into hiding.” Lightfoot sipped his tea and concern was now in his face.

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t struck again an’ all!” said Bolam, looking at Grant London, who was looking at the tikka mess on the wall. “Right, well haven’t got time for your little tea party, some of us have arrests to make!”

  Bolam and London stomped out of the office and begain making the way to the exit. On their way they passed Sandra, the uniform police lady with the large breasts. She was late for work and straightening out her uniform. She stopped walking and cocked a leg as she put her shoes on with one hand leaning on the wall. Then she straightened her skirt and not before she had accidentally given a glimpse of the suspenders and a flash of bare thigh beneath. Next, she began doing up the buttons of her police top, stopping half way and hoisting her boobs around , ensuring they were cupped correctly by her bra. Once her cleavage was exaggerated enough she did up just two more buttons, leaving just enough space for anyone to get a good look at her delightful cleavage. Bolam and London walked past her, having slowed their pace somewhat.

  “Morning boys!” said Sandra flirtatiously as they passed “I hope I’m not in trouble with the Chief Superintendent.” She added breathily. She arched her back, stretching it, with her hands on her hips. “I hope he’ll forgive me, you know how strict he can be.” Sandra had her back against the wall and both her
hands were at her head as her fingers ran their way through her hair. Bolam and London, who were watching, over their shoulders now, were now at the doorway out.

  “Phwoar!” letched Bolam. “I’d love to give her a going over in the interview room.”

  London and Bolam both laughed and made faces at each other to let each other know that they found Sandra sexy and that they had a man’s man urges toward her.

  Bolam’s Rover Finesse sped out of the car park of the police station in a squeal of burning rubber and a cloud of Rothmans smoke. “Where are we going, guv’?” asked London.

  “To the sex shop dahn the highstreet! Watching Sandra down the corridor has turned me right on and I wanna know if Trevor works selling dildos and crotchless panties. Remember he said he didn’t finish work until 9 that night of the Potts assault? I reckon he was handling knickers and vibrators all day and then lost his mind after a drink at the club!”

  Grant London shook his head with a wry smile on his face. Dennis Bolam’s computer like brain at assimilating facts and joining the dots of criminal minds never ceased to amaze him. “You’ve really been thinking about this one, haven’t you?” said Grant.

  “Can’t stop, Grant, nature of the game. Always on the clock and the badge is always in your pocket, know what I mean?”

  Grant smiled discreetly to himself. He knew exactly what Bolam meant. A few years ago he wouldn’t have understood but now, a hardened detective in his own right, he realised he was maturing into his role on the police force.

  Outside of XXXciteable Nites, the sex shop on the high street, Bolam’s red Rover Finesse sped past then in a howl of squealing rubber, swung around a full 180 degrees as smoke bellowed from the wheels, the engine revved hard and the car lunged forward back in the direction from which had came and then made another aggressive move and was parked diagonally right in front of the door.