Cold Blood
By Dean Meehan, age 15

As the area was sealed off with crime scene tape, the night was filled with the sound of wailing sirens and screams of various onlookers as red and blue lights flashed repeatedly.

Broken glass littered the street corner. Dark red blood was splattered over the pavement, nearby parked cars and the wall of the corner shop. A uniformed PC took his position in front of the blue tape.

A silver car screeched to a halt metres away on the double yellow lines. The driver's door opened and a man stepped out onto the road. He was wearing a perfectly ironed suit underneath an opened mustard-coloured trench coat. He marched through the crowd of people who were eager to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate victim - he looked at them unsure why they wanted to get in his way. He approached the PC on guard in front of the tape, flashed his warrant card and proceeded to duck underneath.

"What have we got?" the man said abruptly.

A small man wearing a blue forensics coat looked up at him from collecting samples of blood and glass and questioned,
"Who are you?"
"Detective Inspector James Davidson, " came the steady reply. "Doctor Evans I presume."

The doctor gave a quick nod, slipped the phial containing the blood sample into a clear plastic bag and beckoned for Davidson to follow him. They walked briskly, the doctor taking the lead. Although Davidson was dedicated to his work, he hated not being in control, it just wasn't in his nature.

James Davidson was a name well renowned amongst police forces across the country for being a fast track officer, reaching the rank of Inspector in a relatively short space of time. This brought much jealousy amongst his more "mature" colleagues who had to accept their rank of Constable or Sergeant. His work and success rates however could not be ignored or argued.

The doctor uncovered the victim's body. Davidson knelt down beside the man - it was clear from a mere glance that he had been killed in a shooting. He turned his head to look up at the doctor.
"How did it happen? Drive by?"
"Yes."
"Premeditated?"
"You're the detective - you tell me Inspector."

Davidson chose to ignore the doctor's comment. "Close range?"
"Supposedly."
"Elaborate."
"The CCTV footage from up there near to where he was standing will give us a better indication once we get access to it."

Davidson ensured that he made note of these details before turning away without further discussion with Doctor Evans to two of his colleagues standing and talking with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Chris, Paul," Davidson called, "I want you to gather witness statements. There are plenty of potential key witnesses - I want to know who saw what." He then turned on his heel and marched off in the opposite direction having delegated the evening's responsibilities to DS Vickers and DC Hall.

Chris Vickers was a man of forty-two, an "old-school" copper. He had been none too pleased at being assigned the job of babysitting the newly made up DC Paul Hall following his transfer to the Murder Investigation Team. He wanted to be out working on solving murders not being forced to hold Hall's hand. No one had offered him advice that he was expected to give when he arrived in the Met. Things had changed drastically over twenty-four years but Vickers was one officer not prepared to bow down to James Davidson. Vickers had had to work his fingers to the bone to make Sergeant then this young specimen soars to heights that he had been striving for his entire career. That indignity, in his mind, had left him questioning whether or not to request a transfer back to a station.

"Come on kid," Vickers said as he discarded his cup. "I would hate for Davidson to think I was trying to undermine him by not jumping when he says so." Hall dropped his cup as Vickers had done, never mind it still being half full and followed his reluctant partner.

Davidson was sitting in his car, staring through the windscreen at a point on the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Vickers being shadowed by Hall and a small smirk emerged on his face. He had noticed a number of vehicles arriving, holding the vultures known as the press. Davidson thought to himself: that was bloody quick; the man's been dead less than an hour.

He didn't want to answer any question from those voracious journalists. He didn't want to suggest when they could come back to bother him for more information. He had been a copper for eight years but his tolerance levels were as low as ever. Many had questioned why he wanted to join the Met in the first place but the answer was simple: he was on a mission.

When he was sixteen, his parents were murdered.

The reason many construed him as being arrogant, ungrateful and downright rude at times was because he was continually plagued with the prospect of failing to gain justice for his parents and it was this that spurred him on.

As morning broke, the members of Davidson's team were filing into the office. A stark handful had been allowed sleep the previous evening what with Davidson issuing orders for collection of witness statements and CCTV footage and camping out at the mortuary for results of the post-mortem - just one of the perks of being a part of the MIT. The groans and yawns of each member of the team were present at every briefing when a new case was taken on. It was part of Davidson's master-idea that the earlier the investigative work begins the earlier a conviction can be made.

DS Vickers had been sure to make his opinions on Davidson's ideas common knowledge amongst the team, much to the irritation of some and the enjoyment of others.

Davidson burst through the double swing doors at precisely seven o'clock.

He walked around the chairs occupied by members of the team and took his place in front of a white board all ready plastered with photographs and information gathered at the scene. Davidson took a marker pen and pointed to a photograph of a sunken-faced young man.

"Victim: Michael Politz, age: thirty-two, address: 42 Bramley Court, Iambic Estate. Bullet through the head and pronounced dead at the scene."

DC Hall grimaced slightly. He had been working with the team for just over three months but he still wasn't able to lose all emotion when working on a case unlike his more experienced colleagues. He was careful though to make sure Davidson hadn't seen him - he hated weakness amongst the team. It was that sort of attitude that amazed Hall. He looked up to DI Davidson with great admiration - he sought the talents that he had.

Hall realised that whilst he had been admiring him, he had forgotten to pay attention to what Davidson had been saying.
".As soon as possible Paul."
Hall looked around nervously at his colleagues.
"Yeah, sure Guv," he blurted out.

Davidson dismissed the team, gathering up his papers before heading for the door. Just before he made his exit he called back, "Chris - organise an appeal with the family, that sort of thing. I want to make the six o'clock news with this."

Vickers gave a long sigh before taking a seat at his desk. From an outsider's perspective his desk looked as though there was absolutely no order whatsoever. As he was settling down he threw Hall a lifeline.

"Davidson wanted you to watch through those tapes on your desk and find the registration number for a light blue Vauxhall Cavalier we believe to have been the vehicle involved in the attack."
"Thanks Sarge I owe you one," gushed Hall.
"I know you do," grumbled Vickers.

Vickers was rummaging through the papers on his desk. He found what he was looking for and laid the sheet out in front of himself, ironing out the creases with his hand. He took a pen and started to fill out his details; he wanted to make sure he had the paperwork drawn up when, not if, he tired of Davidson's regime. He folded up the page neatly and placed it back on his desk, then wrote "DCI Hutchins" on the front. Vickers then took up a witness statement and began to analyse it, making notes as he went along.

Davidson was in his office shuffling through further statements and details about the shooting. He had decided it wasn't necessary for the team to know he had a connection with Politz - he hadn't seen him for many years. The harsh reality was that it had been his blatant drug problems that most likely got him shot. It was a startling practice that dealers would take the lives of those that couldn't pay back what they owed. Davidson didn't however want to stick to just one line of enquiry - he wanted options until substantial evidence could be acquired.

There was a quick knock on the door and Hall's head appeared.
"Sorry to disturb you Guv, but I've checked the tapes and got an address for the owner of the Cavalier," he said eagerly.
"Good," said Davidson with hardly any sense that he thought Hall had done well. "I'll get a surveillance team together."

The team had commandeered the upstairs room of the house directly opposite the target's address. A video camera was set up on a tripod and there were two pairs of binoculars for the team to use at their discretion. Vickers had been given photo duty and thus far had only taken a practice shot. Apart from the odd mother with a pushchair or the representative of the local Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet shoving leaflets through letterboxes, the activity on the cul-de-sac was minimal.

Davidson had found this a great advantage to them. As there was only one way in and only one way out of the road it would be extremely simple to impede any attempted escape. He turned to the window, staring at the door opposite as if trying to burn a hole through it with his eyes.

Following several hours of un-compelling action, a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt and baggy trousers approached the door, slipping inside.
"Norman Stonebridge," suggested Vickers.
Davidson nodded.

Stonebridge didn't spend much time in the house. It appeared that he had simply returned to collect a bag. Stonebridge had his back turned to the officers as he locked up. Davidson kept his eyes fixated on the back of his head.
"Idiot forgot to put his hood back up," he sneered, but even he wasn't prepared for what was to come.

As Vickers snapped away, Davidson was looking down at Stonebridge's face intently. He was tempted to rush down into the street and confront him, but he knew that actions like that would compromise the investigation. The snapping stopped.
"Are you OK Guv?"

Davidson didn't respond.

He hadn't seen that face for over ten years and he was now contemplating how he would be able to arrest his own brother.

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