| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted November 3, 2022 | Chapters: |
1 -2- 3... 
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Bentley and Chaplain catch the case
A chapter in the book The Beast
The Beast Ch.2
by Fleedleflump
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
DI Bentley slumped down in the first available chair and looked for something to spit gum into. It’d been in his mouth for nearly an hour and had less flavour than a supermarket bagel. The desk was typical fayre in the yard these days - utilitarian, with a couple of (unreliable) cables on it and, if you were lucky, a monitor. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he plucked the gum from his teeth and ground it onto the underside of the desk.
“You’re a pig, Bentley,” said DS Chaplain, perching herself on the desk, as far from the gum as she could manage. Her mop of dyed red hair contrasted with a grey pant suit and white shirt. The grin on her face, though, was far sloppier than her dress sense.
“Where the fuck did you spring from, Sergeant?”
“Hey, don’t get crabby just because I caught you in the act. Face it, Bentley. I’m young, and fast, and you're old … and slow.”
“Hah!” Bentley said as he dug for his laptop in his bag. “Sam Elliott - Blue Jean Cop. You won’t beat me on straight-to-video eighties movies.”
She shrugged. “Like I said, you’re old-”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You know you shouldn’t talk to the boss like that, right?”
“What are you going to do - spank me?”
Bentley flipped open his laptop and plugged in the cable from the desk. There was probably a forty percent chance it was working. When the screen lit up, he hammered in his password and waited for the various windows to pop up and vanish.
Chaplain rocked on the desk. “Not into a bit of spanky, boss?”
He smiled wryly. “Not into getting disciplined when somebody overhears my answer. Now, stop trying to get me into trouble and get us some drinks, would you?” He let the smile turn into a grin. “There’s a good girl.”
She hopped off the desk, managing to land on one of his feet. “Ah, sorry Bentley! You want your usual Horlicks?” She wandered away from the desk.
“Nah,” he answered as his emails opened on the laptop. “Tastes like a cup of hot cum.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Chaplain as she disappeared from view. Bentley bit back on the comeback - she’d timed her exit perfectly.
“One zero to you, Sergeant,” he muttered, tabbing through email subject lines. It was the usual bullshit - upcoming seminar on physical handling of suspects (sorry, ‘customers’), a note about joiners and leavers in the department, a reminder to complete the six-monthly data protection training. Then something caught his eye.
RE: Case Ref 378429 - New Activity
“Fuck me sideways,” he muttered. A sense of weight settled in his stomach as memories flitted through his mind like a slideshow on fast forward. Shiny plastic, frenzied but accurate knife work, carefully sorted parts, and a murder weapon secreted somewhere about the scene.
“Well, it’s a step up from spanking,” said Chaplain, plonking two steaming mugs down on the desk. “Did life just get interesting?”
“Jesus! How do you always manage to sneak up on me?”
“Maybe you need a hearing aid.” She was still smiling, but the seriousness in her eyes told him she was in business mode. “What’s the case?”
Bentley pointed at the screen. “The worst customer I’ve ever had to deal with. Well, I say ‘deal with’ but I never met him, more’s the pity.”
“Why so sure it’s a ‘him’ - did you find, you know, Horlicks at the scene?”
“Scenes plural. And no - there wasn’t any DNA evidence, but still.” He glanced Chaplain’s way. “He cuts off all the bits and bobs from the victims and puts them in sandwich bags. Even their, you know.” He gestured to his lap. “Foldy bits. So, err, yeah it definitely felt sexual at the time.” He opened the crime database on his laptop and brought up the relevant scene photographs.
For the first time, Chaplain’s face held no hint of humour as she leaned forward to squint at the screen over his shoulder. “You should never underestimate a woman’s depravity, boss. Hadn’t you heard? We’re all equal now. We fart, and everything. When are these photos from, then?”
Bently took a moment to reply, mulling the thought that he could be wrong about the killer’s gender. “Few years back. I was a DS at the time, running leads. We wondered why he - sorry, they - just stopped.”
“Stint inside?”
“We may be about to find out - there’s a briefing in a few minutes. Want to tag along?”
Chaplain smiled. “Hells to the yeah.” She laughed when she saw him wince. “Yes, I said that. Come on - let’s get there early and get decent seats.”
He slurped his drink as they moved. "Bloody hell, Chaplain - did you piss in this? Is that supposed to be tea?"
"My aim's not that good," she said with a chuckle. "It's proper copper's tea - made with yesterday's teabag in a mug so stained it should be cancelled for blacking up."
"I don't remember that training module at Hendon," replied Bentley as they left the office and headed down the corridor to Briefing Room 2.
*****
Two constables walked through the briefing room, handing out packs in plastic folders to the ten or so attendees. Bentley thumbed at the wallet and sniffed at the wad of paper within, enjoying the smell of recently-printed pages. If someone felt the need to print things out, this was a serious matter, indeed.
At the front, statue-like behind the lectern, was Commander Shepherd. She stood taller than six feet, with stark blond hair and a carefully made up face. In a party dress outside a nightclub, she’d look like the beautiful one who pulled guys for her less conventionally attractive friends. At the lectern, in her uniform and a deadly serious expression, she was the picture of sobriety and competence.
Chaplain leaned in to Bentley’s ear and whispered, “Bimbo.”
He shook his head. “Don’t underestimate her,” he breathed back.
“DI Bentley,” said Shepherd - not loudly, but the general sussurus of whispers through the room halted instantly.
“Ma’am,” he said, snapping to attention, fully expecting to be told off for talking in class.
She pierced him with a gaze. “If your Sergeant is staying, she should know this will be a marriage-killer case. Secrets, long hours, potential danger - all that good stuff. And Bentley - every action she takes will be counted one of yours, understood?”
Bentley matched Shepherd’s gaze and nodded. “Chaplain knows the score, Ma’am. This will be a good development opportunity.”
“Good. Constable, please close the door.” She looked around those assembled to make sure they were all paying attention. “You’re all here because your commanding officers and line managers trust you implicitly, but they do not know what you’ll be working on. From this point, nothing you hear in this room is shared with anyone not in attendance. Some of you will know more about this than others, depending on your past experience.”
She held up one of the packets. “This material is too sensitive to email widely, so we’ve had these packs prepared. Do not let them out of your sights. You keep this with you and do not divulge its existence. Make notes on the blank pages at the back. No emails. No texts. No database updates. We’re going medieval on this one. Make phone calls if you must, but only to arrange face-to-face meetings or in dire emergencies.”
There was a general shuffling of feet in the room but nobody said anything. Bentley did a quick glance around but didn’t recognise most of the other attendees. This was an unprecedented situation, and apparently required an unusual group.
“What you have,” continued Shepherd, “is all the key information relating to a series of killings spanning two years, ending approximately seven years ago - or so we thought. You’ll all remember that the press went apeshit over this case - called the killer The Bagman, because originality is dead, and dogged our every step. Frankly, we never had a chance. What fewer of you know is that we never even found a viable suspect, and that means we don’t know why they stopped.”
“On pages eight to eleven, you’ll find information about the new victim.” She held up a hand. “Don’t look now - you can catch up after the briefing.” She waited a moment and looked at every person in the room again, confirming she had complete attention. “The same is not happening this time. I want to keep the media out of it for as long as possible. The constables who handed out your packs found the body, so they are your support and feet on the ground.”
She paused for a moment and the lines in her face etched an image of responsibility. “I’m not putting uniform in danger when I can't give them all the information, and tapping SO19 would be too high profile, so.” She gestured at two tall guys. “Ellis and Finch are on loan from the VIP protection unit. If you get even a whiff of danger, get them on scene. They are your backup.”
She gestured to a lady sitting next to Bentley. “Jane Johnson is from the Ministry of Justice. She’ll be our liaison if we need any custodial or Probation information. Harris Brown,” she indicated a man in a tweed jacket, “is your man for all things pathology and coroner relations.”
Bentley glanced around again. That only left two people he didn't recognise and one he certainly did.
“Rose and Preston,” continued Shepherd, indicating the two he didn’t know, “are on loan from Criminal Psychology. I guess you could call them profilers. Hopefully they can help. And you all know Assistant Commissioner Blakestock. If I’m unavailable for any reason, you go to him and nobody else. Nobody.”
“Finally,” she said, turning her attention to Bentley. “DI Bentley, this is your case. The incident rooms here at the yard are too high profile, but I’ve secured you a room in the back of an old, unused station where you won’t be disturbed. Everyone I’ve introduced is everyone you have at your disposal. Since you saw fit to bring her along, DS Chaplain is on the team, but this goes no further, understand?”
“I do,” said Bentley, nodding, “but I’m a little baffled. This killer’s a bad case, and no mistake. We all hoped he’d gone away for good, even if we didn’t know why. But all this,” he gestured around the room, “cloak and dagger stuff seems a little over the top.”
Shepherd smiled but there was no mirth in it. “It won’t once you’re up to speed. Read your pack, Inspector, and you’ll understand. In lieu of that, any other questions?”
“Just one, Ma’am. When I worked on this before, DI McHale was the lead. Shouldn’t this be her case?”
“DI McHale is unavailable.”
Bentley blinked, caught off guard. “Did she take early retirement? I’m sure I swapped some emails with her a few weeks ago.”
“No, Detective Inspector, she didn’t take early retirement.” Shepherd closed her eyes momentarily and let out a long breath. “DI McHale is the new victim.” She met his gaze pointedly. “Not only that, she was found in pieces, wrapped neatly in plastic, in a stationery cupboard in this building.”
DI Bentley slumped down in the first available chair and looked for something to spit gum into. It’d been in his mouth for nearly an hour and had less flavour than a supermarket bagel. The desk was typical fayre in the yard these days - utilitarian, with a couple of (unreliable) cables on it and, if you were lucky, a monitor. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he plucked the gum from his teeth and ground it onto the underside of the desk.
“You’re a pig, Bentley,” said DS Chaplain, perching herself on the desk, as far from the gum as she could manage. Her mop of dyed red hair contrasted with a grey pant suit and white shirt. The grin on her face, though, was far sloppier than her dress sense.
“Where the fuck did you spring from, Sergeant?”
“Hey, don’t get crabby just because I caught you in the act. Face it, Bentley. I’m young, and fast, and you're old … and slow.”
“Hah!” Bentley said as he dug for his laptop in his bag. “Sam Elliott - Blue Jean Cop. You won’t beat me on straight-to-video eighties movies.”
She shrugged. “Like I said, you’re old-”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You know you shouldn’t talk to the boss like that, right?”
“What are you going to do - spank me?”
Bentley flipped open his laptop and plugged in the cable from the desk. There was probably a forty percent chance it was working. When the screen lit up, he hammered in his password and waited for the various windows to pop up and vanish.
Chaplain rocked on the desk. “Not into a bit of spanky, boss?”
He smiled wryly. “Not into getting disciplined when somebody overhears my answer. Now, stop trying to get me into trouble and get us some drinks, would you?” He let the smile turn into a grin. “There’s a good girl.”
She hopped off the desk, managing to land on one of his feet. “Ah, sorry Bentley! You want your usual Horlicks?” She wandered away from the desk.
“Nah,” he answered as his emails opened on the laptop. “Tastes like a cup of hot cum.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Chaplain as she disappeared from view. Bentley bit back on the comeback - she’d timed her exit perfectly.
“One zero to you, Sergeant,” he muttered, tabbing through email subject lines. It was the usual bullshit - upcoming seminar on physical handling of suspects (sorry, ‘customers’), a note about joiners and leavers in the department, a reminder to complete the six-monthly data protection training. Then something caught his eye.
RE: Case Ref 378429 - New Activity
“Fuck me sideways,” he muttered. A sense of weight settled in his stomach as memories flitted through his mind like a slideshow on fast forward. Shiny plastic, frenzied but accurate knife work, carefully sorted parts, and a murder weapon secreted somewhere about the scene.
“Well, it’s a step up from spanking,” said Chaplain, plonking two steaming mugs down on the desk. “Did life just get interesting?”
“Jesus! How do you always manage to sneak up on me?”
“Maybe you need a hearing aid.” She was still smiling, but the seriousness in her eyes told him she was in business mode. “What’s the case?”
Bentley pointed at the screen. “The worst customer I’ve ever had to deal with. Well, I say ‘deal with’ but I never met him, more’s the pity.”
“Why so sure it’s a ‘him’ - did you find, you know, Horlicks at the scene?”
“Scenes plural. And no - there wasn’t any DNA evidence, but still.” He glanced Chaplain’s way. “He cuts off all the bits and bobs from the victims and puts them in sandwich bags. Even their, you know.” He gestured to his lap. “Foldy bits. So, err, yeah it definitely felt sexual at the time.” He opened the crime database on his laptop and brought up the relevant scene photographs.
For the first time, Chaplain’s face held no hint of humour as she leaned forward to squint at the screen over his shoulder. “You should never underestimate a woman’s depravity, boss. Hadn’t you heard? We’re all equal now. We fart, and everything. When are these photos from, then?”
Bently took a moment to reply, mulling the thought that he could be wrong about the killer’s gender. “Few years back. I was a DS at the time, running leads. We wondered why he - sorry, they - just stopped.”
“Stint inside?”
“We may be about to find out - there’s a briefing in a few minutes. Want to tag along?”
Chaplain smiled. “Hells to the yeah.” She laughed when she saw him wince. “Yes, I said that. Come on - let’s get there early and get decent seats.”
He slurped his drink as they moved. "Bloody hell, Chaplain - did you piss in this? Is that supposed to be tea?"
"My aim's not that good," she said with a chuckle. "It's proper copper's tea - made with yesterday's teabag in a mug so stained it should be cancelled for blacking up."
"I don't remember that training module at Hendon," replied Bentley as they left the office and headed down the corridor to Briefing Room 2.
*****
Two constables walked through the briefing room, handing out packs in plastic folders to the ten or so attendees. Bentley thumbed at the wallet and sniffed at the wad of paper within, enjoying the smell of recently-printed pages. If someone felt the need to print things out, this was a serious matter, indeed.
At the front, statue-like behind the lectern, was Commander Shepherd. She stood taller than six feet, with stark blond hair and a carefully made up face. In a party dress outside a nightclub, she’d look like the beautiful one who pulled guys for her less conventionally attractive friends. At the lectern, in her uniform and a deadly serious expression, she was the picture of sobriety and competence.
Chaplain leaned in to Bentley’s ear and whispered, “Bimbo.”
He shook his head. “Don’t underestimate her,” he breathed back.
“DI Bentley,” said Shepherd - not loudly, but the general sussurus of whispers through the room halted instantly.
“Ma’am,” he said, snapping to attention, fully expecting to be told off for talking in class.
She pierced him with a gaze. “If your Sergeant is staying, she should know this will be a marriage-killer case. Secrets, long hours, potential danger - all that good stuff. And Bentley - every action she takes will be counted one of yours, understood?”
Bentley matched Shepherd’s gaze and nodded. “Chaplain knows the score, Ma’am. This will be a good development opportunity.”
“Good. Constable, please close the door.” She looked around those assembled to make sure they were all paying attention. “You’re all here because your commanding officers and line managers trust you implicitly, but they do not know what you’ll be working on. From this point, nothing you hear in this room is shared with anyone not in attendance. Some of you will know more about this than others, depending on your past experience.”
She held up one of the packets. “This material is too sensitive to email widely, so we’ve had these packs prepared. Do not let them out of your sights. You keep this with you and do not divulge its existence. Make notes on the blank pages at the back. No emails. No texts. No database updates. We’re going medieval on this one. Make phone calls if you must, but only to arrange face-to-face meetings or in dire emergencies.”
There was a general shuffling of feet in the room but nobody said anything. Bentley did a quick glance around but didn’t recognise most of the other attendees. This was an unprecedented situation, and apparently required an unusual group.
“What you have,” continued Shepherd, “is all the key information relating to a series of killings spanning two years, ending approximately seven years ago - or so we thought. You’ll all remember that the press went apeshit over this case - called the killer The Bagman, because originality is dead, and dogged our every step. Frankly, we never had a chance. What fewer of you know is that we never even found a viable suspect, and that means we don’t know why they stopped.”
“On pages eight to eleven, you’ll find information about the new victim.” She held up a hand. “Don’t look now - you can catch up after the briefing.” She waited a moment and looked at every person in the room again, confirming she had complete attention. “The same is not happening this time. I want to keep the media out of it for as long as possible. The constables who handed out your packs found the body, so they are your support and feet on the ground.”
She paused for a moment and the lines in her face etched an image of responsibility. “I’m not putting uniform in danger when I can't give them all the information, and tapping SO19 would be too high profile, so.” She gestured at two tall guys. “Ellis and Finch are on loan from the VIP protection unit. If you get even a whiff of danger, get them on scene. They are your backup.”
She gestured to a lady sitting next to Bentley. “Jane Johnson is from the Ministry of Justice. She’ll be our liaison if we need any custodial or Probation information. Harris Brown,” she indicated a man in a tweed jacket, “is your man for all things pathology and coroner relations.”
Bentley glanced around again. That only left two people he didn't recognise and one he certainly did.
“Rose and Preston,” continued Shepherd, indicating the two he didn’t know, “are on loan from Criminal Psychology. I guess you could call them profilers. Hopefully they can help. And you all know Assistant Commissioner Blakestock. If I’m unavailable for any reason, you go to him and nobody else. Nobody.”
“Finally,” she said, turning her attention to Bentley. “DI Bentley, this is your case. The incident rooms here at the yard are too high profile, but I’ve secured you a room in the back of an old, unused station where you won’t be disturbed. Everyone I’ve introduced is everyone you have at your disposal. Since you saw fit to bring her along, DS Chaplain is on the team, but this goes no further, understand?”
“I do,” said Bentley, nodding, “but I’m a little baffled. This killer’s a bad case, and no mistake. We all hoped he’d gone away for good, even if we didn’t know why. But all this,” he gestured around the room, “cloak and dagger stuff seems a little over the top.”
Shepherd smiled but there was no mirth in it. “It won’t once you’re up to speed. Read your pack, Inspector, and you’ll understand. In lieu of that, any other questions?”
“Just one, Ma’am. When I worked on this before, DI McHale was the lead. Shouldn’t this be her case?”
“DI McHale is unavailable.”
Bentley blinked, caught off guard. “Did she take early retirement? I’m sure I swapped some emails with her a few weeks ago.”
“No, Detective Inspector, she didn’t take early retirement.” Shepherd closed her eyes momentarily and let out a long breath. “DI McHale is the new victim.” She met his gaze pointedly. “Not only that, she was found in pieces, wrapped neatly in plastic, in a stationery cupboard in this building.”
.
.
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I may not post a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.
I hope you enjoyed the read.
Mike
.
.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. .
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I may not post a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.
I hope you enjoyed the read.
Mike
.
.
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