The flimsy wood of the door frame shattered with ease, these cheap council flats weren’t built to last and the builders had obviously been cutting costs to keep their profits high.
It was obvious that no-one was home. Who could stand that stench of rotting flesh or the multitude of insects that were already buzzing around my face.
I told Stevie to keep his hands in his pockets so that no evidence was disturbed. Better than putting gloves on, touching things like door handles and taking away any valuable prints, besides the SOCO guys moaned if anything was disturbed. Although I didn’t think that would be a problem in this case.
At first glance, the apartment was a shambles, pizza boxes, dirty clothing and drug paraphernalia lying all over the place, a typical junkie hovel, nothing particularly memorable apart from the obvious.
The smell was so overwhelming that at first it wasn’t clear where the body was tucked away. No-one had seen the occupant in 6-8 weeks and like the best steaks, he’d had time to tenderise and mature on the bone.
On second glance into the bedroom, the full-height cupboard door was slightly ajar and the odd blue-bottle was taking its turn to escape for a breath of fresher air.
Should I open the cupboard or give Stevie the honours?
It was his first time at a death scene, so the pleasure was all his.
I told him to put on his gloves and open the door with his pencil from the bottom so as to minimise interfering with any evidence.
Stevie slowly opened the door and there hanging from the rail of the wardrobe was the very late Kevin McLeod.
You could smell it from 100 yards outside the three story apartment block.
No wonder the neighbours were complaining.
It was two weeks after Christmas and they had thought it was due to the increased volume of refuse and lack of collection over the festive period.
But now the rubbish had been collected and the smell lingered, so they called it in.
Even my probationer Stevie knew what it was the moment we parked up outside the dilapidated council block.
Stevie pressed the button on the secure entry. The caller a Mrs Armstrong lived in Flat 2/2, directly below the flat we were about to visit.
It’s not hard to guess why the smell would be worst in her place.
I’d already noticed the curtains twitching when we parked the car and she answered the buzzer within moments, opening the door to the building without the need for introductions.
I could hear her unlocking her door as we walked up the stairs. Two mortice locks and a Yale.
Stevie had checked the history of the block and there had been a number of break-ins over the years. Mrs Armstrong had been broken into twice.
Kevin McLeod, the occupant of the flat we were about to visit was suspected. He had a habit that he funded by a petty crime and a list as long as you’re arm.
But suspicion isn’t proof and who knows if it was Kevin shitting on his own doorstep or some other junkie acquaintance.
The door was open by the time we reached the last turn on the stairs. Mrs Armstrong, 60 and looks it, cigarette in hand, standing arms crossed, ready to greet us.
“About fucking time” she spat the words at us.
Maybe the community policing officer should have made more of an effort charming this old boiler.
I’ll try and remember to bring that up at the next community policing team meeting.
Stevie did the formalities, not that Mrs Armstrong was interested in our names, ranks or badge numbers.
“I don’t give a fuck son, but you too aren’t going to clean up this mess with stupid wee car of yours.”
I left Stevie to explain that we were just the initial response team and if there was a need to call for backup then we would have more resources on the scene as necessary.
I allowed myself a brief smile at Mrs Armstrong’s retort to Stevie’s by the book explanation of police procedure.
“What-fucking-ever son, just get that wee bastard out of here.”
No love lost there then.
I gave the door the cursory police style knock, three rapid thumps, a three second pause and then and another three thumps, already knowing that it was a pointless exercise and there might be a body here but nobody was home.
Stevie arrived with a quizzed look on his face. This was his first attendance at a death scene and he was keen to know the procedure on the drive over.
I stepped back from the door.
“Have a look through the letter box”. I told him.
He bent his knees slowly, placed one hand on the letterbox and used the other to push the metal flap of the letterbox inwards.
I took a step back, I knew what was coming next.
The sickeningly sweet pungent aroma of death was carried on the air by a micro swarm of flys and bluebottles.
Stevie jumped to his feet and was three steps down from the landing in an instant, bent double, one hand on the wall holding himself up, the other over his mouth as he retched through his fingers.
I gave him a minute to compose himself then shoulder charged the door.
Does she think she that she can steal from me and get away with it?
Really?
I mean, we aren’t talking a trivial amount here, a full 6 figures is not to be sniffed st.
That was my retirement fund.
So how do you think I feel?
A fool and his money?
Too right I do.
I trusted her, helped her out in her time of need and this is the payback.
The point being there is no payback.
Not from her.
A gift she says, a fucking gift?
Who gifts six figure sums to ex-lovers?
Yeah maybe fucking Rockerfeller, but not any ordinary working pleb.
Not fucking me.
Look at her sitting there smugly, brazenly, holding hands with her new dick and lying her ass off.
He’s got a smirk on his face.
They know that they have me at an advantage.
It’s hard to prove a negative.
It was a gift.
No it wasn’t.
Yes it was.
Repeat.
Things were running along nicely until this dick came on the scene. We had an agreement and progress was being made.
Now that counts for nothing. So they say.
Not with me it doesn’t. My word is my fucking bond. Good or bad.
Do they think that they are going to steal from me and get away with it.
No fucking chance.
They’ve took advantage of my good nature and the fact that I still cared about her and abused my trust.
Yes I should have made it legal. But I trusted her.
Now do you see were trust gets you?
Trust fucking no one.
There’s a life lesson for you.
Not with your heart and definitely not with your money.
Do they think that they can get away with this?
My lawyer says that I should have came to him sooner, That I should have made a formal agreement at the time.
Yeah fucking yeah. Tell me what I don’t know.
I already feel stupid.
A fool and his money.
But here’s the thing,
Do they think that they can steal from me and get away with it?
That just isn’t going to happen.
Even if legally they win, morally they have stolen from me and there has to be retribution.
My pride won’t allow it any other way.
Anything else would be weak.
Even if I win today, they have attempted to steal from me and for that there has been retribution.
Win or lose. They die.
It’s just a matter of when, where and how.
We already know the why.
I’ve already gone to the mattresses, shut myself off, cut ties with the people I care about. I don’t want them involved in this if it goes wrong.
If they ever read this, then I hope they know why. It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I need to sort this.
I work and go home, live a quiet life.
On the face of it.
But that’s not me.
That’s when I’m at my most dangerous.
I’m planning and stalking. This can’t go wrong. There can’t be comeback or consequences. It has to be planned.
Last week, I watched him kiss her goodbye from a street away. Followed him to his work. Later I followed him home.
Then drove away.
Thus can’t be obvious. If something happened to either of them today where is the first place that they are going to look?
Patience is a virtue.
Patience and planning make the difference between spending those retirement years with your grandchildren or Big Bob the axe murderer.
Patience.
No warning shots, no threats, nothing to give yourself away. Nothing to let them see you coming.
You’re a wolf. Be a wolf.
Patient, relentless, ruthless.
Stalk your prey, stay silent until you move in for the kill with power, aggression and surprise.
She’s dead.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
—
4am and wide awake.
Wrote this, made tea, played piano.
Teaching myself Half The World Away by Oasis. Such a great song.
I love the sentiment of checking out of the planet cos you just can’t stand it. But not feeling down and at the end asking the listener not to feel down.
I’d imagine that it would make a good funeral song, leaving the planet in your old age because you can’t stand it, but not being down about it and telling your loved ones not be down either.
No I won’t feel down.
Don’t feel down …
6am and still awake but eyes feeling heavy.
The worst thing is when the alarm kicks in at 645, I’ll not be able to keep my eyes open.
I’m Scottish but a proud citizen of the UK and I have many English friends.
People are people and in my experience there are good and bad everywhere and it’s not wise to generalise.
But there’s always a few who let the side down and spoil it for everyone else who then gets tarred with the same brush.
Take these idiotic Leceister City fans in Madrid last night, singing about Gibraltar being theirs and not part of Spain.
Legally they are correct, morally Gibraltar is part of mainland Spain.
But why mention this when you are over to support your team play a game of football?
No wonder people prejudge and don’t like the English as a nation.
As I said, I have no problem with English people. These football hooligans are arse holes who should be locked up and banned.
They do not represent England as a nation where most people are welcoming and civilised in my experience.
My only gripe about the ignorance of English is that as an English speaker we have a presumption that everyone else can speak our language.
Right now, tucked away in a remote island of Spain surrounded by Spanish, German, French and many other nationalities, I’m amazed by how many of these people can converse almost fluently in English but I have no ability to speak in their language except for the basic pleasantries of Hello, Goodbye, Please, Thank You etc
It’s a failing Not just personally but on our education system.
It’s not as if the Givernment haven’t tried. French or a similar language is mandatory in primary schools and in the first two years of secondary until pupils choose their subjects.
The schools even try to arrange it so that you have no option but to take one language or other in your subject choices.
As a kid, I did French and like most others I hated it and didn’t see the need for it. .When choosing my subjects it was French or German and having already did French for a few years and no German whatsoever it was a moot choice.
Add in to the bargain that aged 14 i had a crush on JoanB and took the class so that I could be near her, not that anything ever happened apart from scoring an average C in the final exam.
My heart just wasn’t in it.
That’s the thing, as a nation we can try and force other languages down our kids throats but children are resistant unless they see a tangible benefit.
For most Scottish kids, French is a complete waste of time. Hardly anyone goes there on holiday as there are so many alternatives that offer better value.
However a fortnight in a Spanish resort every year where you don’t have to speak Spanish except the pleasantries is not conducive to learning the language.
What’s the solution?
With limited resources it’s about making the best of what we have.
I’d cut mandatory language education for the kids who aren’t interested. But offer better education with trips abroad where only the chosen language is spoken to the kids who are interested can immerse themselves in their language of choice. What about the football hooligans?
The ignorance of only speaking English and the attitude of the football hooligan are related in my opinion.
Being an English speaker does not make you a football hooligan.
But if you’re a British football hooligan it’s a safe bet that you don’t speak any other languages or have experienced other cultures.
It doesn’t really matter what team they support Leicester, Chelsea, England, Rangers or even my team Celtic.
Arseholes will continue being arseholes until they realise there is a consequence for their actions.
Last night the Spanish police went in heavy and made a few arrests. Not really enough to deter the problem.
For me, if you cross the line and are arrested, it’s an immediate 30 days in prison, maybe let you out after a fortnight if you behave yourself and promise to be a good boy.
A bit Draconian, but that’s the only language these people understand.
Try explaining that to the wife or your boss on your one phone call.
So you’ve read the last chapter and my advice about killing someone and how it’s most likely that you will be caught.
The cops aren’t dummies you know.
You’re average plod might be, but the investigating officers will be highly trained and experienced and they will have seen your like many times before.
They will gather evidence against you, interview you, let you go then rearrest you. They will play you, lead you on and manipulate you in any way to get a confession.
It’s not personal, it’s a process. They will follow their operational procedures when necessary but will use any means necessary to get the result they want.
They have specialists and a huge amount of resources to ensure that you are caught and imprisoned for the rest of your sad sorry life.
It’s hard to beat the system and let’s be honest, you’re not that smart.
And you still want to do it?
Really?
You must’ve been seriously wronged or you have one twisted mindset mister / sister.
I’ve been there, a long time ago, someone wronged me badly in a personal attack. They also stole a significant amount of money from me and naturally I wanted instant and gratuitous vengeance. Continue reading “Wolf – 9 – Patience”→
Well that kinda depends if you want to get caught or not.
Let’s imagine for a moment .. or as long as it takes to read this .. that you wanted to murder your ex wife or former partner.
Reason?
We aren’t talking reasons. .. that’s up to you .. let’s talk practicalities.
Statistically most murders of women are stabbings committed by their partner or former partner in the women’s home or partners home.
So in most cases Miss Scarlet does gets murdered by Mr Green in the Living Room with the dagger.
The implication of these statistics is that regardless if you consciously plan to murder or in a moment of passion react violently and kill your partner then no matter how you try and hide it, Inspector Cluedo will already have a good inkling that it was you and it’s just a matter of collating the evidence.
Do you remember all those old episodes of Colombo, still being broadcast on satellite channels?
Typically some woman is killed, usually in glamorous locations in unglamorous circumstances.
The inspector turns up like a bad smell in his grubby raincoat. He’s the little guy, the underrated underdog that nobody wants hanging around embarrassing them in their perfectly imperfect lifestyles.
He takes one look at the scene, It’s not obvious who killed the poor woman but Colombo knows a liar when he sees one.
In addition to JJ’s post, please find the translation of the book by the Portuguese lead investigating officer Goncalo Amaral. This is not available in English as an injunction was taken about by the McCanns preventing its publication in 2008.
However a Portuguese court overturned the injunction in 2015 allowing details to be published.
The most chilling facts are the police sniffer dogs found evidence of a cadaver in the apartment rented by the McCanns and that the cadaver was hidden behinf the sofa and in the McCanns rental car.
I’ve also included the interview details published in the Telegraph from Kate McCann where she refused to answer any questions on the disappearance or murder of her daughter.
Question 48 is particularly damning
48- Did you have any responsibility or intervention in your daughter’s disappearance?
In my opinion, her lack of response is clear sign of involvement or knowledge that she does not want to divulge.
Would you agree that any parent who had no involvement would respond accordingly and openly?
A beer, wine, vodka some other psycho-active substance?
Go on help yourself .. you know you want to.
Seriously, go on, kill yourself, it’s your life, do what you like.
Right .. enough kidology.
Did you happen to see the statistics published today for legal high deaths in Scotland. I’ve included a few links below for your perusal.
Last year there were 114 deaths from so called “legal highs” compared with only 4 in 2009.
A 30 fold increase obviously indicating the popularity and availability of these substances.
Big news .. huh?
Terrible isn’t it?
Those poor kids out there taking fuck-knows-what and dying as a result of it.
You think?
Well let me put this in context with some other stats that don’t quite make the headlines.
In the same period for 2014, there were 1,152 alcohol related deaths in Scotland, with 36,206 hospital stays of which 92% were related to emergency admissions.
DancingBhoy 