Wentworth

Wentworth - A Short Crime Story

WENTWORTH

By Mark Burke

Wentworth planted his feet squarely, arched his back until it made a small crack, and surveyed the crime scene. It was a small lounge in a London terraced house; grey carpets and cream walls. Sprawled in front of him lay the young couple, stiffening even as the small clock on the mantel-piece ticked on. They were in their twenties, both chubby and dressed in tracksuits. The blood splatters tracked far across the carpet and climbed halfway up the opposite wall. Arterial spray, noted Wentworth, and little other blood. His grey eyes narrowed and focused on the hands of both victims. Little sign of a struggle; the murderer had been fast and strong and had hit his targets first try. He was either a lucky first timer or had done this before. Maybe he knew the victims and had relaxed them, lulled their guard. Either way, the bastard was experienced or a real natural. A slight shiver suddenly ran down his spine; he had a slightly nasty feeling about this one, but at the same time that familiar excitement he got when hunting skilled prey. The shiver subsided and he flexed his arms, straightened and tensed them until his elbows cracked. In the dingy little living room the blood seemed more than it really was, seemed to crowd in on his senses. Wentworth focused his attention back on the victims and noted with disdain the stretch-marks on the woman's exposed white hip. Early twenties maybe, and already ruined with booze and probably drugs. The chirp of a police radio behind him brought him out of his musings. The uniform framed the doorway behind him, almost as big as Wentworth and with an expectant look in his eyes. He clutched his notebook in front of him protectively. 'Jean and Michael Ericson. Neighbours say they were well known dealers.' Wentworth grunted with satisfaction at this; his suspicions were already being confirmed. He had heard of similar murders this year in other Boroughs.

'Think it was a deal gone wrong?' uniform asked. Wentworth ignored him. Uniform got the hint and left.

Outside, the police lights blinked silently in the cold dark winter dark. Yellow tape cordoned off each end of the street. A small crowd had gathered at each end of the road. Wentworth stopped purposely on the pavement, an imposing figure in a long black trench coat. He stared hard at the crowds and memorised the details of each figure. A middle-aged woman with bobbed brown hair, flanked by a small girl and boy. Lots of teenagers. One of the hooded young men shrank back. Wentworth drove his gaze home, turned and focused on the now retreating figure. The youth suddenly turned and bolted and Wentworth yelled at the uniforms. 'On him !' In the darkness ahead he made out a scuffle and realised the young men had run straight into an officer coming down the street.

Back at the station the youth looked small in the interrogation room, a small peering face lost in a baggy sweater obviously worn to make him look bigger. Wentworth stood in the corner of the room and waited until the antagonism of the youth wore off. People usually had attitude for about two hours, after which time they generally started begging for the bathroom or a drink. Wentworth simply leaned against the wall and stared, waiting for the youth's curiosity to overcome his anger. Eventually it came.

' Ear, who the fuck are you anyway ?'. Inside the hood, Billy's pale freckled skin twisted into a sneer, and his blue eyes narrowed but still trembled slightly.

Wentworth turned away slightly and allowed himself a small smile. He sensed he had a talker here, someone whose buttons could be pushed. He swung himself down on the seat opposite the youth and looked straight into his face; pleased to see what he assumed was the usual sneer of the youth now tempered with a mild curiosity.

'I'm the man who can get you out of here Billy. Any idea who killed the Ericsons ?'

Suddenly the Super burst in and gestured Wentworth out. Billy grinned nervously.

'Looks like you're out of here now copper!'

Wentworth ignored him and stepped into the hallway. Two suits stood behind the Super and Wentworth did not like the look of them one bit. Powerfully built with short haircuts, they sized him up like military men did. Assessing potential competition.

Super looked awkward. 'Wentworth, you're off this case now.'

Wentworth turned his stony face to the suits.

'Stepping on someone's toes am I?'

They ignored him and stepped past into the cell.

'Super, wh---'

'Not now Chris!' the Super hissed and pushed him back. Wentworth blinked in surprise and quickly swallowed the rage that leapt into his throat. Instead he searched the Super's face and saw only embarrassment, perhaps a trace of humiliation. Realising he would get nowhere right now, he stepped back and turned on his feet.

Later in the cafe opposite the station, Wentworth saw the men emerge with the youth and bundle him into a black Mercedes. He stepped out of the cafe and slid into his own car, a few swift movements putting him just a few cars back. They turned onto the A12 and soon peeled off for the M11. So they were leaving London then.

They were not long on the M11 before the Mercedes turned off for Hertfordshire. Wentworth grew slightly nervous. He was a city man, and ill at ease in the blackness of these night forests. There was less traffic now and he was afraid of being made. He was pretty sure the two suits would be adept at spotting a tail. When he saw the car turn off for a dirt track, he had no choice but to drive past and double back. At the side of the road he killed the car and ran back to catch sight of his prey before they disappeared. The car's headlights could be seen heading to a farmhouse at the top of a slight hill. Wentworth took a deep breath and began jogging up the path.

When he was near the house, he took a knee and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The farmhouse was small and brick, and a large barn stood to the side. It was from here that he heard voices. The door was slightly ajar and yellow light spilled out. As Wentworth snuck forward in a crouch, he began to make out the youth on his knees whilst three men stood around him. Two were the suits, and the third looked older, much older. It was then that he sensed a presence behind him and spun quickly, only to be smashed in the temples. He fell quickly into darkness.

When he came to he was in the barn. Unlike the youth, who was now crumpled in a lifeless heap next to him, Wentworth was propped up on a bale of hay. His hands were free, but he felt a powerful grip on his shoulder. He looked ahead into the smiling face of the older man.

'Detective, I am sorry about that. I would say that you shouldn't be poking about in other people's business.. but then, ha...' The man grinned, and Wentworth saw he was a charmer and used to being obeyed. His grey hair was longer than his mens' but Wentworth recognised the style, the accent, the physical stance; so they were special forces. He allowed himself a sideways glance and saw the youth crumpled up on the floor. The old man smirked apologetically.

'Detective, we have a business proposition for you. You see, today we had no choice but to sweep in and sort this one out ourselves. One of our men made quite a mess, and I'm afraid he is far too valuable to languish in a jail cell here in old Blighty. We are finding that a lot of our ... assets... are getting themselves into trouble whilst on leave. Quite frankly Chris, some of them are going off the deep end, but until we have more trained I need the ones we have.' He grinned again, in a 'you understand - one professional to another way'.

The old man cleared his throat, and now stiffened with some resolve.

'Now look here Wentworth, I know who you are. Your reputation precedes you. I know you're not interested in money. But what I have to offer you is a chance to help your country and clean up your streets at the same time. My men need ....'recreation' whilst on leave but need to keep their... 'skills' ....honed. Some of them are getting binned for six months on PTSD, but I need them back and I need them kept sharp. You on the other hand Chris, you know half of the time who are the dealers are, who causes half the crime in your area, but you can't touch them. We can. I can set the targets with your intel, and you can help clean up and cover our backs. I can even start helping you against those Albanians, the ones you can't touch because your bosses have them covered.'

Wentworth sat for a moment, clearing his head. Fifteen years on the streets had convinced him the war on drugs was lost and the law was largely toothless. He looked the General in the eye and said