Burning Bacon: Part One of The Dennis Bolam Chronicles Page 4

  With a ring-a-ring-a-ring the door was flung open and Bolam and London trounced in. The two detectives looked about themselves at the cornucopia of filth available. Magazines, VHS tapes, DVD’s, sex toys, sexy outfits, novelty items and lingerie. From behind the counter a dodgy looking middle aged man wearing a Manga t-shirt greeted the two detectives.

  “Good morning.”

  Bolam looked at the proprietor in silence, sizing him up. Grant London was already at the back of the store looking through DVDs.

  “Is it?” Bolam finally replied. He slowly moved along one of the displays in the middle of the shop which had a collection of sex toys hanging from it.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” asked the salesman.

  “Actually, I am.” Replied Bolam. Bolam walked over to the counter and stood before it. In a flash he had pulled the salesman half over the counter and had him in a headlock. “I’m looking for a dick! Where’s Trevor?” Bolam menaced. Grant London began making his way back from the back of the shop with a DVD in his hand.

  “Who are you?” cried the shop worker, struggling within Bolam’s grip. “Who’s Trevor? I don’t know any Trevors!”

  “Don’t lie to me, I know he works here!” barked Bolam and he tightened his grip around the mans neck.

  “How much is this?” asked Grant London, holding up high the Next-door Amateur MILFs Vol 9 MILF eXplosion “UNCUT!” in HD raw and real! DVD so that the man could see it.

  “19.99” spluttered the shop owner.

  “Where’s Trevor!” shouted Bolam again and he dragged the man completely over the counter and span him around in the process. The salesman’s legs hit the sex toy display stand and knocked a load of dildos and cock rings onto the floor.

  “I don’t know any Trevors! For the last time! Who are you?”

  Grant London held his police ID right in front of the mans face as he squirmed in Bolam’s grip.

  “If Trevor don’t work ‘ere then ‘ave you ‘ad a ginger weirdo come in and start sniffing panties or anything like that?”

  “No! I get a lot of people in here but no gingers! Except him!” and the salesman nodded and smiled with glee at his joke toward Grant London. Bolam tightened his grip. London’s face became a blank expression. He pocketed the MILFs DVD and grabbed a huge rubber fist and forearm that was hanging on the wall. He turned it over in his hands once and then spun around and slammed it across the shop owners face.

  “GAARRRMMMPPFFF!” cried the man as the big vibrating fist and arm toy ricocheted off of his head.

  “He’s not ginger, he’s strawberry blonde” said Bolam, “and you mention his hair again and that fist-arm is getting kicked where the sun don’t shine and you’ll need an ambulance to tow it out!”

  And with that Bolam released his grip and pushed the man to the ground amidst the vibrators and rings.

  “Please!” begged the salesman. “I don’t know any Trevors, it’s just me and my wife work here and my mate, Kevin.”

  Bolam and London looked at each other.

  “Alright.” Said Bolam pointing fiercely at the man. “But you better be telling the truth because you don’t want us coming back ‘ere, trust me!”

  As Bolam and London opened the door to leave, London looked over his shoulder at the sales man who was sat on the floor rubbing his aching head and wiping blood from his mouth. “I want my money back if this ain’t any good.” And he tugged at his pocket containing the sex DVD. He laughed and shook his head as did Bolam and they both looked at each other and laughed together knowing that London had not in fact paid for the DVD at all therefore nor did he have a receipt for it and that were he to ever come back and ask for his money back, money he had never given in the first place, he would effectively be getting twenty quid for nothing and that the sex shop owner would be the one to lose out. The door closed on the scene and the sex shop proprietor was left baffled as to what had just occurred but left in no doubt that Detective Bolam and Detective London were detectives and not detectives to mess with.

  Back in the car Bolam turned to London: “Let me see that!”

  London handed him the “Next-door Amateur MILFs Vol 9 MILF eXplosion “UNCUT!” in HD raw and real” DVD. With one hand on the wheel, a cigarette in his mouth, a home-made chicken tikka slice in his lap and a bottle of J&B Whisky between his legs, Bolam looked the DVD over, reading the details and looking at the 30 to 50-something year old women pictured on the cover who would be seen up to all sorts of sex and perversions when played. “You’ve got a keener eye for pornography than you have police work!” said Bolam and both men looked at each other and laughed and laughed. Bolam’s jaunty side was certainly coming out now!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Despite their amusing sojourn at the sex shop, Bolam and London knew they had wasted valuable time by chasing up a duff lead. “Yeah,” said Bolam, matter of factly, as he drove off, “sometimes you just get bad intel. You have to suss it out and stop wasting time. That’s your detective skills, kiddo, working out what to roll with and what to cast aside.” Grant didn’t say much as he felt subdued knowing that he hadn’t been able to spot that they’d followed up bad intel. But he also felt more confident, because Bolam had obviously been through all this himself and had also been swayed by a bum lead in his time.

  “We’d better get back to the ID parade,” said Bolam, gruffly. He picked up one of the homemade chicken tikka slices, looked at it, grimaced, and threw it over the back seat.

  “I think I’ll stick to Asid’s in the future,” he snarled, quietly.

  “You not like them, Guv?” queried London, in a slow paced way. “But you was eating them earlier.”

  “Any port in a storm, young ‘un, any port in a storm,” grappled Bolam, his head shaking and nodding as if to confirm this and also to give Grant London the impression that this phrase had a double meaning, in other words that he (Grant) did in fact get his oats with all sorts of women when he wanted to get laid, including those that weren’t much to look at. So he what he actually meant by ‘any port in a storm’ was that Grant would have sex with munters, and he would eat anything if he was hungry, which was quite clever because he’d encapsulated both meanings in one sentence.

  “Let’s get back to that ID parade then,” Bolam said.

  “Oh, um, yes,” said Grant. He was not looking forward to it as he suspected he might have to be one of the suspects. “’Oo will be in it, then?” he asked, gingerly.

  “We’ve got that scumbag Monument, along with two other regulars from the Funky Parrott. Also Nigel, you know that vigilant PC. He is PC Russo, by the way.”

  “He’s a bit of a cocky prick, that one,” volunteered London.

  “Yes, but vigilant,” ascertained Dennis Bolam. He sucked in some nicotine from a Rothman, and blew it out through his nose; once more, Grant London was reminded of the volcanic range of emotions within the mind of the fiery maverick who was Dennis Bolam.

  They jumped out back at the station and Dennis was annoyed to see that he had squashed chicken tikka on the sole of his mahogany coloured brogues. He scraped it on the kerb, and ground out the butt of the Rothman.

  “Time to line up for the ID parade,” he said, as they walked in. “And don’t forget, London, try to look a bit like a rapist to throw Kylie Pitts off the scent. We’ve got to make sure she’s chosen the right man; don’t want her picking out Trevor Monument just because he looks like a sex offender. The last thing I want to do is bang up the wrong man.”

  The words ‘again’ hung, unspoken, in the air. For only twenty years ago Dennis Bolam had put a man called Lewis Standish away for a thirty stretch even though he was later proved to be innocent. Word on the streets was that Standish was looking for Dennis, but was biding his time. He was a bit upset that he had wasted nineteen years of his life sharing tiny cell with a man called Ruthless Mike, and being buggered senseless in the showers by the Aryan brotherhood. It was said that he was still sore, and sore at Bolam because of it.
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  But Grant London was impressed by the moral values of his partner. It hadn’t been his fault about Standish. Everyone else had thought that it could have been him too, probably.

  In Chief Superintendent Lightfoot’s office they found him drinking tea from a china cup with a saucer, this time with one of those tea bags that have a little string thing that hangs out of the cup. As he surveyed them, Lightfoot picked up the string and dipped the bag in and out of the cup. The cup had a picture of Kate Middleton and Prince George on it.

  “Can you get them cups with a picture of Pippa Middleton’s arse on?” snickered Grant London. Clearly his libido was on the rise again despite him having emptied his seed into Eileen Monument several times the night before.

  Beside Lightfoot stood Sandra, the WPC with the large breasts who stirred the ardour of both Bolam and London. She was dressed more like a joke policewoman on a Carry On film than a real WPC, something about which she was often getting in trouble about from her superiors but not that much because the men liked it really.

  “Come on then Grant, let’s be having you,” she smirked saucily at Grant, taking his arm and whisking him into the ID parade room, making sure her hips bumped against his rhythmically as she did so, as if they were doing 1970s dance The Bump.

  There was a knock on the door. Bolam looked round, caught off his balance. There, looking morose and scared yet at the same time as if she was ready for anything, was Kylie Pitts who had been assaulted at the Funky Parrott last Saturday.

  “You ready luv,” said Bolam, gruffly. He hoped she wasn’t going to start crying all over him. Bolam may get results, but he wasn’t very good at the Community Policing bit which was why he was only a Detective and not a Sargeant.

  He led Kylie into the ID room. She was wearing a red coat and her hair looked as though it needed washing, probably because she was too traumatised by the assault to wash it, also of course she had only got out of hospital that morning so wouldn’t have had time.

  “I need to get through this and get back to work,” she said. “Since my dad left home it’s just been me and mum, and I’ve been workin’ two jobs. I get up at 7 every morning and work as a short order cook in the Larchways diner durin’ the day, then come night time I’m tending bar.” She looked up at Bolam appealingly and he thought that she was quite pretty so he could see why the bloke had singled her out for sex. Although of course he would never force himself on a woman, he didn’t need to because lots of women found him attractive because he was strong and all man.

  “Never mind luv, you’ll soon be back at work,” said Bolam, gruffly. He hoped she wouldn’t try to appeal to him because if she did he might start talking to her in a flirtatious way, and it would probably be no good because women who have been raped don’t usually want to have sex for a while.

  Through the one way glass they looked at the suspects.

  Trevor Monument looked defiant and a bit cross. Grant London was crinkling up his face in a lecherous way as if to say ‘show me your tits’ and making his hand do a sort of grabby thing as if he was trying to feel a girl’s crotch, and Dennis was pleased with him that he was trying to make himself look like a sex offender to keep Kylie guessing. The other two men from the Frosty Parrot (Bradley Mumford and Duane Melons) looked bewildered yet with a certain amount of savoir fare. The fifth suspect was PC Nigel Russo. He was looking smug, and kept taking out his note book to write notes, then putting his finger in the air as if to say “aha!” as if he’d thought of something really good to write. He had the air about him of a bestselling novelist or writing expert.

  But which one would Kylie pick? Would she choose Trevor Monument, the guilty one? Or nightclub goers Mumford and Melons? Or would she choose the self-satisfied yet vigilant PC Nigel Russo? Or (and Dennis Bolam was a bit worried about this) would she pick out his friend Grant London?

  And would Lewis Standish ever catch up with Dennis Bolam in an effort to reclaim those lost years?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Karly Potts was chewing her finger with anxiety as she looked up and down the line-up. She was shaking slightly, traumatised from her assault and knowing that one of the men she was looking at was the man that done it.

  “Well?” said Bolam, wanting it over with.

  Kylie Potts raised her hand and pointed at Grant London. “He looks familiar.” Bolam looked at her angrily. Suprintendent Lightfoot who was now in the room as well with a teapot in one of his hands put his other hand over his face in despair.

  “I know you’re all shook up and this ain’t easy – trust me, this job ain’t easy on us eeever – but that man you just pointed out isn’t him.”

  “But…” Karly looked overcome with angst and anxiety and other nervous issues as the assault upon her was still all too vivid in her mind and she was in shock and conscious of her hair although personal vanity was the the last thing on her mind since the heinous assault. “…he looked familiar was all and the man who did this to me was ginger after all.”

  “Listen sweetheart – “ spat Bolam, chicken tikka pieces leaving his mouth at quite a velocity, “- I know you’ve been through a lot but that man is not a fuckin’ ginger, he’s strawberry blonde!”

  Karly looked even more upset and her hand was trembling. Lightfoot sipped tea through the spout of the teapot, observing the torrid composure of his best detective.

  Bolam continued, and pointed at Trevor Monument. “He’s a ginger! See the difference between them? One is a real fucking carrot top, but the other one’s hair has more subtle tones, kind of autumn hues mixed with fair bits. It’s less in yer fact ginge, ain’t it? It’s what you call strawberry blonde. On top of that, that first man you pointed at is a detective and been slogging his guts out trying to find justice for you. That man I just pointed out who clearly is a real ginger is a rapist.”

  “I was going to say that he looked familiar as well. I think he was at the club.”

  “When?” said Lightfoot, removing his lips from the teapot spout and dribbling some tea down his chin which he mopped delicately away with a paper towel which had a picture of the late Princess Diana on it.

  “Saturday night!” said Kylie, animatedly. “That’s him!”

  “Fuckin’ knew it!!” barked Bolam extremely loudly and clenching his fist and making a celebratory gesture much in the manner that a football player will after he has scored a goal, especially when it is near the end of a game and victory is almost unquestionable.

  “The Chief Super here will escort you out, Kylie, you’ve been incredibly strong and we couldn’t have done this without ya!” said Bolam, and Lightfoot glowed inside, seeing yet another layer of the cauldron of emotional depths that Bolam was and how he was quite enigmatic too. “And one of the girls will have a chat with you an’ all, probably Sandra, the sexy one.”

  Bolam was out of the room and into the room that had the men in it who were lined up. He walked past all of them and punched Trevor Monument in the face. Trevor fell over clutching his face and Bolam was down over him grabbing him by the scruff of his clothes. “I told you you’d be holding daddy’s hand soon enough, you slag!” and Dennis punched him again. Grant London was whooping and punching the air in joy at the fact that justice had been found for Karly Pitts and at Bolam’s violence. No one was in the room now except Bolam, Grant and Monument. Monument looked a bit worried about this.

  Bolam turned to the jeering and whooping London. “I wouldn’t get too excited, she nearly fingered you for it! All that rummaging about in your pants and cor!ing had her thinking it was you for a minute! You know your stuff though, Grant, I’ll give you that, not many coppers around here could pull off pretending to be a sex monster so well. Good work son!” and the two detectives high fived over a bleeding Trevor Monument while two uniform officers gave him a kick in on the floor before cuffing him and pepper spraying him as Bolam and London waked out of the room.

  Bolam and London were walking to Bolam’s Rover Finesse, Bolam eating a celebratory tikka slice a
nd having a swig of J&B when he stopped suddenly in his tracks. “What the fuck is this?” shouted Bolam. He ran to his car and looked at it more closely. In the dirt and filth that the car was covered with someone had written with their finger the word “PIG”.

  Bolam looked all around him incase he could see the perpetrator running away or hiding behind something, waiting to get their kicks seeing Bolam’s reaction. Bolam shoved the rest of the tikka slice in his mouth and ate it quickly. He washed it down with more J&B and then turned to London. “Who would do this, Guv?” asked London, wondering if Dennis would have any ideas as to a culprit.

  “I dunno, Grant. Trouble with this lark, you make enemies quicker than you make friends, know what I mean?” Grant nodded his head because he did know what Dennis meant. “Let’s think quick while we’re still hot off the Pitts case. Whoever wrote that on my car did it with their finger. Get SOCO out here and get one of them to dab it. That saucy one is in today, I saw her earlier, Tanya. And try not to screw her on the way out, eh?”

  “HAHA I can try but I can’t promise Dennis, you know me!” and with that Grant was shoving his hand down his trousers again.

  “Hang on.” Said Bolam, the cogs of his razor sharp mind whirring. He turned and looked at the word on his car again. He put his face right up to a finger track in the dust. “It can’t be…”

  “What is it, Dennis?” said Grant.

  Bolam said,“get SOCO out here now! Something looks familiar about this writing in dust with a finger tip. I’d know that calligraphy style anywhere! I think I know who might have done this but I thought he was still behind bars!! Come with me, we’ll call SOCO in to pull prints and you and me are gonna go and visit Asid!”

  “Right you are guv!” said Grant excitedly, in awe of how his detective partner worked.

  On the way to Asid’s, Grant London called the station and told them SOCO were needed in the car park to pull prints off of Bolam’s car and to make it snappy – nothing was more serious than a crime against one of their own.