Ugly truth, p.28
Ugly Truth, page 28
***
Campbell felt dirty as she stood in the dock. It was only when the judge demanded she look up, that she knew she couldn’t actually face anyone. So sick and ashamed, she stared ahead, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with those in the courtroom. Her senses were working overtime, and she could smell her own body odour. As she continued to focus on the Royal Coat of Arms above the judge’s head, she felt her blood vessels throb and pulsate in her neck and beat rhythmically in her ears.
‘Valerie Campbell . . .’
Campbell suddenly snapped out of her daze and stared at the judge.
‘Yes or no?’ he bellowed.
She slowly blinked to focus; however, her body was alive with prickles, and the drumming was getting worse, to the extent she thought that at any moment she would faint. Taking a deep breath, she gambled on what the question was. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, fervently hoping she’d given him the right answer.
Judge Whitely was a heavily wrinkled and sour-faced man, with thinning white hair, grey and dull eyes, and wide nostrils. His deep, husky voice didn’t match his frail appearance.
Campbell had known the judge for years. She had a great deal of respect for him and hoped he had for her. But today, the contented smile and approving glances were absent and replaced with disgust. She could see it in his eyes – in the way he scrutinised her when he looked her way. What made matters worse, though, was the fact that he belonged to the same gentlemen’s club her father had attended for many years.
For a second, she could see the judge’s mouth moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, although whatever it was, it was making him even angrier. He wore the same expression as her father when he’d humiliated her that day he’d found her in the family home.
Suddenly, the gavel came down, and the sharp noise brought her to her senses, just as two officers clutched her arm to take her to the holding cell. She didn’t look to the gallery – for her own sanity – not wishing to give any of her ex-colleagues the satisfaction of her downfall. No doubt they would be sitting there all mocking her, as they had done for years.
Momentarily, the floor seemed to come towards her as she swooned, but, after another deep breath, she held her balance.
One of the officers gripping her arm whispered coldly into her ear, ‘Remand in prison. Now you’re fucked.’ He sniggered. ‘Ol’ Whitely thinks you give us people a bad name. He didn’t even put in place provisions for your safety. You must have really got his goat. Word travels fast when it’s a copper in stir, you bent bastard.’
Campbell felt sick and grappled to hold the vomit down that had been building up in her throat. Ignoring the torment from the officer, while she walked as best she could towards the holding cell, she wondered if there was anything on her person she could use to take her own life. Anything would be better than serving even a single day in prison.
***
It was an hour before the officers returned to take her to the sweatbox, her ride for the next couple of hours all the way to her new home until the final court case. Flashes of past villains she’d brought to justice rattled around her brain. She recalled their pleas, and how she, in turn, had smirked or laughed in their faces. Those women she’d tormented when they’d begged her, crying for their children, were nothing but scum as far as she was concerned. She’d sneered and even sarcastically waved as they’d left the court ready to be taken away in the transport van. It was a vehicle that lacked room and air, where the prisoners were trapped sitting in an upright position with nothing but terrifying thoughts of what lay ahead for them. Now it was her turn to endure the same pain and dread to which she’d subjected so many of these women. But what was worse was that this time she would be forced to face them as an equal.
As the doors opened and she was escorted to the van, she saw a crowd gathered. Reporters flashing their cameras made her dip her head as the officers escorted her to her transport. She hadn’t contemplated the media involvement; it was the last thing on her mind. Her father would be so ashamed if he saw her photo in the newspapers. No doubt if they’d captured a good-enough picture, it would be plastered on the front page.
Relieved that she was inside the van and away from the flashing lights, Campbell was reminded once more she was now a jailbird. As the door to one of the confined areas opened, she was roughly pushed inside. Before she’d even taken a seat, the door was locked. Everywhere was white polymer. The seat was moulded to the wall. There were no seat belts, in case prisoners tried to hang themselves, so all Campbell was left with was a seat that was wide enough for her to slide along at each turn and a tiny window to see the sights all the way to jail.
The sounds of rattling chains and a few deep voices were followed by the rumble of the van starting up. It jolted as it left the court and shot Campbell from her seat. There was nothing to hold on to either. Then it came to a stop, and she felt the vehicle reverse.
As the side door to the van opened, she could hear a commotion taking place. It sounded like a woman screaming and hollering and then the side of the vehicle being kicked. Campbell felt fearful. She no longer had the police force on her side and would have to face this prisoner and her foul language once she reached the nick, if not before.
‘Get inside and shut your mouth,’ bellowed an officer.
‘Go fuck yaself!’ a woman shouted back, as she climbed into the sweatbox.
For a moment, there was silence until the vehicle started up again. Then, to Campbell’s horror, the woman’s ranting began again – this time aimed at her.
‘Oi, Mizzz Campbell,’ the woman hollered. ‘How’s it feel to be wearing handcuffs? It ain’t like a Gucci bangle, is it, love?’
Campbell could hear the almost hysterical laugh from the next box along. Closing her eyes, she tried to switch off, but the female prisoner was now banging on the wall. ‘Bet ya don’t remember me, do you, old vinegar tits? Well, you soon will.’
Campbell racked her brains in trying to work out if she recognised the voice, but because she’d arrested so many South London women, they all seemed to merge into one. Then, as if she’d suffered an electric shock, the words ‘vinegar tits’ hit home. She held down the gasp and sat almost motionless, holding her breath. It was Ava Ball, the thickset, fiery woman who’d knocked out PC Falon when he’d forced her to sit down.
‘Let me give you a reminder, Mizzz Campbell. It was five years ago in Catford. I was running for me life from that bastard ol’ man of mine, when you stopped me. D’ya remember, now? I was a fucking kid with two babies and a black eye. But you didn’t want me, did ya? You were after me fella, and when you couldn’t catch him, ya did me for fucking supplying. I know you placed his gear into those fucking sandwich bags. They were me babies’ packed lunches. Ya then had me fucking prints and the DNA evidence and set me right up.’
Campbell froze to the chair; she remembered it well. And yes, she had slipped the bags of cocaine inside the sandwich bags. But she’d assumed at the time that the sandwich bags would have her partner’s prints on them, until she realised – too late – they were for the kids. After all, the eldest only looked to be about three years old. Not in a million years would she have guessed that the children were of school age.
‘You fucking promised me . . .’ cried out the desperate woman. ‘You promised me you’d get me to a safe house with me kids, if I grassed on him and all his runners.’
The information at the time was like gold dust, since Campbell had managed to nab the husband a week later when she pulled him over to find a set of scales, a grand in notes, and half a kilo of cocaine in the boot of his car.
Silently, Campbell listened to the woman’s vitriol that was laced with expletives whenever she had the time to draw breath. The expressed hatred did not bode well for her own safety when they reached the prison.
‘I gave you what you wanted and what the fuck did you do, eh?’ Ava Ball paused before she screamed so loud that it felt to Campbell as though a tornado had ripped through the door.
‘You fucked me over, you cunt! You lied. You fucking lied to me. I lost me kids. Me fella had me bashed up when I got out of the jail, and all for what, eh? You had him banged to rights and his dealer, but, oh no! You had to have me an’ all. I served a longer bird than he did. I was whiter than white before you had me in the nick, but now look what you’ve done. Me kids don’t even know who I am anymore, and I’m back inside again, all ’cos I couldn’t feed meself and stole from the local shop. Well, Mizzz Campbell, I’ve waited a fucking long time for this, so as God is my witness, I will make you pay. And I don’t care if they lock me away forever. At least, I’ll be able to sleep at night. But you won’t, ol’ vinegar tits, will ya? I’ll fucking see to that!’
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Campbell’s shirt. Her hands shook, and her head hurt. This was pure purgatory. But she knew that this was only the start of a very long journey . . . and it probably wouldn’t end well.
***
Mary laid the table for Cyril, Frank, and Blakey, while Cyril sat in his chair by the fire.
‘Why don’t you at least have a bloody shave? Look at you. I know you’re grieving. We all are. But, come on, love. The others need you to be strong.’
Getting up from his chair, Cyril silently wandered over to the bar.
Mary turned to face him. ‘And that, Cyril, won’t help matters. Look, the lads will be here in a minute. I’ve got roast beef on the go and . . .’ She paused, not knowing what else to say.
Cyril stopped what he was doing and returned the bottle unopened onto the cabinet.
‘You’re right, Mags, but you know what? I just feel like doing nothing right now except getting fucking trashed.’
‘Look, right now, you’re the only one who can hold this family and the firm together. Everyone is walking around in a trance. You need to focus and so do the others.’
Sighing heavily, Cyril gave her a sad, weary smile.
That’s when Mary noticed how downtrodden he was.
‘If Kelly was here now, I know what she’d say. “Get your arse into gear and put your energy into the others who need you, like Malik and Sassy.” She would, Cyril, and you know it.’
‘It’s the fucking not knowing that’s doing my nut in.’ He sighed again and looked out of the window. ‘They’re here.’ He frowned and looked more closely. ‘And Sampson by the look of things . . . I guess you’d better dish him up a plate an’ all. I wanna know what Campbell told him.’
‘I hope he tortured the evil cow,’ spat Mary, before she left the room to open the front door.
Frank and Blakey removed their thick coats and hung them on the coat stand before making their way into the dining room. Sampson looked frozen and somewhat bedraggled as he stood in the hallway.
‘Crikey, I don’t know who looks worse, you or Cyril. Come in. I’ll dish up a bit o’ dinner. What d’ya say?’
Sampson was not only tired but also very hungry, and so the offer of a meal was a pleasant surprise and one he wouldn’t turn down, as long as Cyril didn’t mind. ‘If it’s okay, I could eat a scabby horse right now.’
Mary raised her brow. ‘I don’t cook scabby horses, but will a nice joint of beef do you?’
His eyes lit up. He hadn’t had roast beef in a month of Sundays. His missus had turned vegetarian and taken to Pilates, well, so she said. He had reason to believe she was having an affair, but he had neither the time nor the energy to check her out. Once this situation was sorted, he would either boot her out on her ear or take her away on a cruise.
As soon as he stepped into the dining room, three pairs of eyes eagerly awaited him.
‘Take a seat, Sampson, and I want the run-down on every question and every answer that bitch gave you. But, firstly, did she say anything about Kelly?’ quizzed Cyril.
Sampson pulled out a chair and sat at the end of the table opposite to Cyril. ‘No, Cyril. I’m sorry, mate, she has no idea. We had her in the cells for a week. She has so many charges against her, we obtained special permission to keep her longer, and we sure as hell took advantage of that. We interrogated her every fucking day. Christ, I’ve never seen her so sheepish. But I have to give it to her: she openly admitted to being guilty to all the charges. Even to the accusation of killing her own brother. It’s as if she was going to the electric chair and needed to confess her sins.’
‘And I take it, you did press for information about Kelly?’ urged Cyril.
‘Cyril, it was at the top of my agenda. I promised her a deal. Well, a few, in fact, just to have any information on Kelly, but the woman, I believe, genuinely didn’t know a thing. I had Jocelyn Boyce, a renowned psychologist, on the other side of the one-way mirror, watching Campbell’s every move. She confirmed that Campbell was almost certainly telling the truth. So, Kelly’s disappearance has nothing to do with Campbell. That, my friend, I can promise you.’
Cyril bowed his head. ‘I guessed as much. I dunno, I just had a feeling she had nothing to do with it.’
‘What did you charge her with at the finish?’ asked Frank.
Sampson had a grin on his face. ‘Everything under the sun. Aiding and abetting a murder, actual bodily harm, attempted murder, assault on a minor, and, of course, murder. That’s how we managed to have her in a holding cell for a week. But now she’s off to prison on remand.’ He stopped and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Blakey.
Sampson straightened up and replied. ‘Ava Ball was in the transport van. She’s one hard woman who was locked away at the hands of Campbell. I remember the case well. Campbell promised the poor woman a refuge for her and her children in exchange for information. Ava, the poor cow, sang like a canary, but she still got locked up. She’s threatened to kill Campbell because there’s nothing more dangerous than a woman who grieves for her children, and she certainly did that . . . for five fucking years.’
Sampson stopped talking when Mary walked in laden with plates. His mouth instantly began to water as the smell of roast beef wafted under his nose.
‘There you go,’ said Mary, as she placed a fully loaded oval plate before him and then handed Blakey his meal. She waddled out of the room to fetch Cyril’s and Frank’s.
‘It’s a shame Roy didn’t get to know that Campbell has been charged before he died.’
‘What?’ said Cyril.
‘Yes, the poor fellow. He died a few days ago but not before he gave us a full written statement,’ replied Sampson, as he stared at the steaming food on his plate.
‘Aw, what a shame. He was a good ’un was ol’ Roy.’
Sampson eagerly tucked in as soon as Cyril picked up his knife and fork. The beef melted in his mouth and warmed his stomach. He knew he’d been feeling hungry, but he didn’t realise just how famished he was.
Frank and Blakey watched as Sampson shovelled the food in, hardly stopping to draw breath.
Cyril, however, was pushing his food around his plate. He’d pinned all his hopes on Campbell at least knowing something about Kelly’s disappearance. His other concern was if Campbell started stirring up shit for his firm because she had a knack not only for lying but also for coercion.
‘Did Campbell try to take anyone down with her?’
Sampson used the napkin to wipe his mouth. ‘Well, at first, she was banging on about you and the firm and a few others, but as soon as we told her that her father had said he wanted the book thrown at her for murdering his son and attempting to murder him as well, she just confessed to everything.’
Cyril sat back, comfortable in the knowledge that at least Campbell wouldn’t cause them any further grief and thereby distress his family more than they were already. ‘What do we do now, Sampson? Do we register Kelly as a missing person or . . . ? I don’t know the process.’
Sampson was somewhat taken aback. He’d always known Cyril as the man in charge – the boss – but now he came across as just a resigned man. He sympathetically smiled.
‘I’ve done all that, Cyril. Our central database has all of her details, but so far, I’m sorry to tell you that the investigations have drawn a blank.’
‘How can you say that, Sampson? You don’t even have a photo of our Kelly.’
Again, Sampson returned a compassionate smile. ‘We do, Cyril. We have photos of her on file.’ He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘From when she was in prison.’
‘I don’t mean to be bloody-minded, Sampson, but a fucking charge sheet photo won’t have the Met ripping down doors to find her, will it!’ growled Blakey.
Sampson felt Blakey’s anger, just from his tone, and it brought home to him that he wasn’t dealing with an average family.
‘I’m sorry, but with Keffa dead and Kelly missing for over a week now, this isn’t a . . .’ He stopped and looked at the men. How could he tell them that the police were now treating Kelly’s disappearance as a murder inquiry?
Cyril got up from his chair. He needed that drink.
