For Evil to Flourish. Dubya Ph.D Lorimer
be a garage or workshop. His hands were tied behind his back, and a rope attached to his ankles had been passed over a metal roof beam, and used to pull him up until he was left suspended upside down about two metres off the ground, the end of the rope then being secured to a workbench. Unlike Patterson, who after an initial struggle had been relatively frightened and subdued, Hill was kicking and writhing, screaming abuse and defiance at his captors.
'My god, he's practically feral!' thought Ann to herself, while noting that his captors seemed content to wait for him to tire himself out or run out of breath.
'They obviously don't care about the noise he's making,' she said to Ian, 'Must be a location they don't have to worry about people hearing them.'
Eventually Hill calmed down a little and his captors started to ask him questions. Again it was the members of the gang dressed as The Queen and Margaret Thatcher who spoke, still talking in character. Every question, however, was answered with a torrent of abuse. They were asking him about drugs mostly, who he supplied, who supplied him and his family, when was the next shipment due. They also asked who the Hills had working for them on the police force, and on the council, and he was asked about what help and information they received from politicians, especially James Wellington, a personal friend of Darren's father, Sammy Hill. Invariably the questions would spark a fresh stream of obscenities concerning what he thought of his captors, and what he would do to them when he got free.
'Bit of a toilet mouth, young Darren.' commented Ann.
'That's putting it mildly, laughed Ian, I think I've learned a few new words myself this morning!'
'He doesn't look as if he's going to talk,' said Ann. 'He must think they're going to wimp out, just frighten him the way they did with Patterson.'
'Keep watching,' advised Ian.
Mrs Thatcher casually stepped across to where the end of the rope was tied to the workbench, pulled out a knife, and started to gently saw at the rope. Hill was watching, realising that if the rope was cut through he would plummet head first onto the concrete floor.
'You wouldn't dare, you bunch of pricks, you wouldn't bloody dare,' he roared.'
The Queen spoke, sounding quite cheerful,
'Aren’t you worried, young man, that a drop from that height might break your neck,not to mention ruin your looks, such as they are?'
'I'm telling you fuck all, I know you're too chicken shit to do it, You know you're all fucking dead men!'
Mrs Thatcher had stopped slicing at the rope, and looked at The Queen who shrugged and said,
'Doesn't look like it's going to work, Margaret, we seem to be wasting our time.'
'Should we go for plan 'B' your majesty?'
'I think we must Margaret.'
The man in the Margaret Thatcher mask picked up an oil can, and trickled some oil onto the rope, before speaking,
'Do check we haven't left anything before we go.' she said to the others, who duly looked around before preparing to leave.
'Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Hill, but frankly you were a bit of a disappointment, however, if you do think of anything to say, it had better be quick.' And with that she set light to the oil on the rope. The Queen, Mrs Thatcher and Prince Charles started to walk away, leaving Tony Blair to continue filming.
Ann found herself holding her breath as the flames spread, eating into the rope. Darren Hill was screaming at them to stop, but the only response was for The Queen to call back,
'Not hearing anything new, young man!'
'There's heroin coming in from Dover tomorrow,' he suddenly screamed, 'I swear to God, it's on a Parker & Baldwin truck, put that bloody fire out!'
'You still haven't told us if your family has anyone on the take in the police or the council?'
'I don't know, nobody tells me, put the fire out.......'
It was too late, the rope suddenly burned through and Hill started dropping head first towards the concrete floor, a high pitched scream came from him that chilled Ann's blood, she shut her eyes, unable to look. Only when she realised that Ian was laughing did she look again.
'How did that happen?' she said, staring at the screen. Hill was still suspended upside down, but now his head was only half a metre from the floor.
'They had a second rope tied to his ankles, anchored it to the roof beam without Hill knowing. That made sure he wouldn't actually hit the ground. Bet he got a hell of a fright, though!'
'He's not the only one, I thought for a second I was going to chuck up my breakfast!' said Ann, still looking a bit queasy. 'Our vigilante friends seemed to get a bit of amusement out of it though.'
'They certainly appear to have a sick sense of humour, that's for sure.' agreed Ian.
'Do you think there's any truth in that story about the heroin on a truck from Dover?'
'Soon as I heard it, I got onto the Borders agency, turns out they had an anonymous tip-off at around midnight last night, and they have people looking for it, both on the ferries, and the main routes from the port. Obviously, the Hills will know we're looking, but they might not have had a chance to get rid of it yet.'
'Problem is, unless the Borders Agency find something, we can't touch Hill. He'll claim it was a story to stop them from torturing him.'
'On the other hand,' said Ian, 'If they do find something it will be a win for the vigilantes.'
Ann eyed him suspiciously.
'I hope you're not coming out in support of these people, Ian, you know we're going to have to try all the harder to track them down after this little caper!'
'Don't worry boss, I know my job, but be honest, you must get a tiny bit fed up sometimes with the way we sometimes seem to be fighting the bad guys with one hand tied behind our backs.'
Ann was still eyeing him up,
'I'm just wondering if I should put Brian in charge of tracking down these clowns and find something else for you. Sitting at a desk analysing overtime expenditure for the last eighteen months perhaps?' He held up his hands in mock surrender,
'Aw, come on boss, you know me better than that, You don't seriously believe I would give this case any less than one hundred per cent?' He was wearing his most endearing smile, a slightly soppy puppy dog look that Ann always found hard to resist.
'Just remember, I'll have my beady eye on you, don't you dare let me down.' She wagged a finger, and teased him, 'Just ask yourself, What Would Jesus Do?'
Ian Hopkins was a regular churchgoer, a rarity in these secular times when it seemed that anyone believing in something greater than the 'gods' of lucre, or television, or football was perceived as being some kind of weirdo, and it wasn't unusual for his fellow officers to jokingly refer to the WWJD question.
Ann considered Ian to be the most un-weird police officer she knew, and didn't doubt for a moment that he would be totally committed to the case. Ian and Ann had worked together for a few years now, and she considered him a friend as much as a colleague. One of the most dedicated officers she knew, he was also undoubtedly the best detective she had ever encountered. She was aware that some people in the station felt that he deserved to be in her job, but she knew he hadn't even bothered to apply for it, having little time for the paper-pushing, infighting and office politics associated with stepping up the managerial ladder. He was much happier with the practical aspect of detective work, which better suited his patient, methodical, and generally laid-back attitude to life.
Recently she had called at his home, and had been spotted by his wife, April, as she walked up the path. Opening the door before Ann could ring the bell, April beckoned her inside while holding a finger to her lips. Leading her through to the rear, she carefully opened the kitchen door for Ann to have a look inside. Ian was sitting back in a