by Neil Mach
‘He did?’ Sergeant Moyes was astonished.
Hopie wrote down the last words spoken by Sarge and added an exclamation mark at the end of his comment. Then she regarded the senior officers at the table with a look of clear amusement.
The administrative inspector unclogged his gullet noisily and said, ‘What’s this all about? Did you say a gypsy is somehow involved?’
Sergeant Moyes realized everyone examined his face so they obviously expected him to offer ab explanation.
‘Er?’
‘Aren’t we able to handle a complaint ourselves?’ asked the crotchety-faced Detective Inspector. He sat with his hands on his head and his legs spread wide. ‘Must we call in a private detective to help? And, worse still, a gypsy? I’ve never heard anything like it in my twenty years on the Force. It’s a bloody disgrace…’
‘Explain then, will you Matthew, why we needed a gypsy for this...’ said the Chief. He eyed Sergeant Moyes as if was the guiltiest person in the world.
‘Um, yes. This is a high-level decision— I hasten to add that before I continue — we decided we ought to hand this problem to an external adjudicator who might be able to — once all facts had been taken into consideration et cetera — who might be able to offer a set of fresh eyes...’
‘And this fresh-eyed adjudicator is a gypsy? Is that the only type of character you could get hold of at short notice?’ The Ops Inspector seemed enraged by the answer and looked fixedly at Sergeant Moyes.
‘Well, the term ‘gypsy’ is a bit strong. The guy’s a wandering fella, you know. A traveler, or an itinerant as you might say. But I wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s a gypsy. I admit he’s an unconventional choice. For example, he’s got a nose piercing...
‘Nose piercing?’ the admin inspector virtually fell out of his chair in shock. ‘This is preposterous.’
‘Now, now gentleman,’ said the Chief, attempting to placate the other senior officers before they turned utterly disagreeable. ‘I realize you feel suspicious or even nervous about this idea, but I think Matt Moyes is imaginative in this approach. I congratulate him for his blue-sky thinking.’
‘Congratulate him?’ sputtered the detective inspector. ‘We should lock him up under the Mental Health Act. That’s what we should do. Then throw away the key. This outrage...’
‘I wish some of you were as resourceful as Sergeant Moyes and possessed the same kind problem-solving instinct he does...’ The Chief smiled kindly towards the Sarge.
‘I hate all that kind of bullsh —’
The Chief cut the detective inspector off. ‘It’s an unorthodox approach, I agree, but if it gets results, I think it’s worth the effort. So, Matthew, will you get back to our travelling gentleman, offer him our complete support, and ask him to continue his investigations?’ The Chief leant across the meeting table to accentuate the last word, ‘I stress he must continue with all his investigations. Yeah? He should keep us up-to-date with progress.’
‘Well, I do not like it one bit,’ pronounced the operations inspector, with a distorted twist on a sour face. ‘I want it recorded in the minutes that I strongly oppose this bizarre approach to problem-solving. I think Sergeant Moyes has lost his touch. He doesn’t understand the realities of policing. We must keep this confidential. I shudder to think of the consequences if this ever leaked out.’
‘Quite so, Osbert,’ agreed the Chief. ‘Sergeant Moyes ground-breaking idea must not go beyond these four walls, is that understood? Just record the fact that Inspector Parsley objected,’ Hopie nodded to indicate she understood, then logged the objection.
‘Anything else?’
Nobody had anything else sensible to offer, so the Chief rose to leave. The others left their seats once he’d walked out of the room. Each gave Matt Moyes a most distasteful look. The Sergeant collected his papers and went to whisper with Inspector Parsley, ‘It’s not my fault,’ he breathed. ‘It got thrown on top of me... I had nothing to do with any of this until the whole lot got dumped on me last week...’
‘Who is to blame, then Matt?’ asked Inspector Parsley.
‘I don’t like to say...’
‘How convenient. It’s handy for you that this problem has been solved by this interloper. Luckily, it’s all over before it began. I don’t know why the Chief entertains your wild notions, but he does. He must have a soft spot for you or something. Everyone else thinks you’re a big fat useless idiot and I can’t blame them. This time you’ve gone too far. Even the Lodge grand-master can’t extricate you from the shit-house bucket you’ve landed yourself into matey…’
‘If I got rid of the pesky gypsy detective once and for all would I regain your confidence in my ability, sir? And will this affect my Lodge membership?’
‘Possibly. Though I think it’s a shitstink that won’t be easily washed away…’
‘Really sir... I must protest. This is not my fault at all. I am wrongly blamed here. I have been stitched up like a fool.’
‘Then you had better un-stitch yourself sharpish, mate.’
*
On their stroll back to the office, Sergeant Moyes frowned, then ran his hand through his worn-out hair. Hopie could smell dampness from his shirt. ‘That didn’t go well did it, Hopie. Not well at all.’
She gave a soft mmm of agreement.
‘We will have to get something conclusive on Mister Moon Dog. Something that convinces the Boss, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that our Mister Dog is an incompetent, inadequate amateur and we shouldn’t use his services. We need something that proves that calling-in a private gumshoe is nothing more than a tenpenny gimmick and is futile.’
‘But I thought the Chief said Moondog was getting somewhere?’ Hopie narrowed her eyes as she spoke to the Sarge.
‘He’s a dead loss, our Mister Moon Dog... we need the Boss to see that before it’s too late.’
‘But I thought Moondog made significant progress? I even wrote it down in the minutes…’
‘I will have to find something specific on the gypsy boy, something that shows him in a bad light. Something the Chief can’t ignore. Some fact that will make him wash his hands of everything and absolve me of any responsibility for this bloody disaster…’
‘But the Chief said Moondog established a clear motive…’
They reached the door to the office. ‘Have you listened to a word I have been saying, young Hopie?’
‘Of course, I have Sarge.’
‘Good. And don’t forget what the Chief said: This is strictly confidential. Not to go beyond the walls...’ Sergeant Moyes looked along the corridor keenly. Hopie tugged an earlobe before the Sergeant spoke again: ‘I might need your help on this one, young lady...’
‘My help?’
‘Would you be willing to meet Mister Moon Dog one more time? Just for me. As a personal favour. I wouldn’t dare ask, but I’m on a sticky wicket here…’
‘Sticky wicket?’
‘You know, in the dog-house. Up to my neck in poo.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Would you help?’
‘Meet Moondog, you mean?’
‘Yes, would you meet him and get something?’
‘Get something? Like what?’
Sergeant Moyes moved closer, to whisper in her ear. ‘Get his fingerprints?’
Hopie grabbed the Sergeant’s arm and let out a strangled whimper. ‘But he came here to help us. The Chief said we should treat him as a member of our extended police family...’
‘Look, I wouldn’t ask— but this is very important. If you trust Mister Moon Dog like you say you do, and you believed, then you should be willing to help…’
‘Help? By stealing his fingerprints. It’s a violation, isn’t it? Doesn’t he have protection under Human Rights?’
‘We’re doing this for him, don’t you see?’
Hopie sighed, ‘Are we?’
‘Of course. Because when the dabs come back clean, we’ll declare him an honourable fellow and an upstanding person a
nd everything will turn out fine.’
‘I thought you said he was a dead loss, useless, and incompetent...’
‘Those are just words. Wouldn’t you like to prove me wrong? Wouldn’t you like to prove he’s not the nefarious rogue I think he is? Wouldn’t you like to prove once-and-for-all that he doesn’t have any questionable antecedent history?’
‘I suppose…’
‘Good. I knew you’d see sense... Let me know when you’re ready to see him again, and I’ll tell you how to get the prints...’
‘Very well.’
‘Keep this on the low-level, though, between you and me, okay?’
‘Right.’’
‘But it has to be done within the next few days.’
Hopie had to restrain herself from smiling when she entered their office.
Sarah-Jane gave them both stern look that seemed to mean, where have you been half the morning?
Sergeant Moyes filed his papers in a cabinet then confronted the girls. ‘Coffee?’ he shouted.
‘One moment,’ muttered Sarah-Jane. ‘I’m still writing...’
‘Don’t rush young lady. I’ll make the coffees this time. After all, we’re one big happy office, aren’t we? I pull my weight around the place, you know...’ The sergeant turned his broad back and plodded heftily towards the kettle. The first time he’d trudged in that direction for more than six months. If he’d turned around at that moment, he’d have seen widened mouths of amazement.
*
While preparing to enter Nan Pantan’s health food store in the High Street to grab the Chief his regular lunchtime sandwich — Jimmie bumped into her. She’d been waiting for the encounter, of course — she expected it to come any day. She supposed it would get confrontational. It’s probably why she’d put it out of her mind.
Officer Jimmie Lavery had cowered in the shadow of an adjacent doorway and prepared to spring out, with his police radio turned low. ‘What’s wrong with you, Hopie?’ he snapped, as he stepped into her path.
‘Huh?’ she slowed to give the policeman a sideways stare, then prepared to navigate around.
‘I’ve meant to catch up. What’s going on, babe?’
‘Nothing,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’m trying to get into the shop; you’re obstructing me, Jimmie.’ Hopie narrowed her eyes. But Jimmie squeezed her arm. ‘Get off me...’ she squirmed. ‘Let me go. And, for your information, I’m not your babe.’
‘I missed you, love. Where have you been?’
‘Stop calling me names...’
They were making a scene on the street. It looked as if the young Copper was involved in a lover’s tiff with his fiancé. Shoppers chose to make exaggerated deviations around them to avoid the quarrelling couple and made extra-sure they dodged eye contact with the young copper.
‘Maybe we should get in my patrol car for a chat? It’s parked down the road... To give us more privacy. ‘
‘I don’t want privacy. I don’t want a chat. I don’t want to get into any bloody car with you. Ever again. I don’t want you to come near me. Do you hear? Why don’t you leave me alone?’ Hopie clenched her jaw and glared.
‘Where were you at the weekend? I passed your house on Saturday — no lights on. You were out most of Sunday too.’
‘What’s it got to do with you, Jimmie Lavery? Why are you stalking me? It’s harassment. I ought to report it.’
‘Are you going to report me for doing my job? I passed by your house on Saturday —a couple of times, if you must know — in my patrol car. I noticed your lights were off. On Sunday, on my regular beat, I saw the curtains were closed. That’s not harassment is it? Its old-fashioned police work.’
‘Well done you…’ she said in a mocking tone. ‘I’ll vouch for you on the next promotion board. But, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to get to the shop. And you are bothering me.’
‘I’ll get lunch if you like. What do you want? My treat. It’s the least I can do. I’ll give you the money…’ Jimmie started to fidget into his trouser pocket to unearth cash.
Then he grabbed her wrist, but she released it with a twist of her elbow. ‘Get away from me. Get lost.’
‘What’s going on, Hopie? I’m worried. We need to talk things over, get things ironed out. You’ve not been yourself recently.’ The constable moved closer, so she found herself pressed against a shabby shop window. He rubbed one of her shoulders, and she could feel warm breath on her forehead. ‘I think I’m losing you, Hopie. That’s why I’m bothered…’
‘Just get off...’ She looked into his eyes. ‘You never had me in the first-place, you idiot. Don’t you get it, Jimmie? It’s just in your mind. There has never been anything between us. You must get over this childhood fixation. You’ve been infatuated all this time… and it’s got to stop. Now. Face the truth — start living your own life. Please, I beg you… leave me be.’
‘It’s that gypsy guy, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The one you met by the tree. I took you there for a meeting. The lads at the station are talking about him. They say he’s Jack-the-Lading it all around town. They say your guy’s a stud-muffin. Is he? Are you seeing him? Are you dating the gypsy?’
‘It has nothing to do with you, even if I was, Jimmie.’
‘So, you are then?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I thought as much. I’ve been thinking: What’s going on? Something’s happened between baby-girl and that gypsy scum — I knew it didn’t smell right.’ Jimmie began to grind his teeth. His complexion became bloodshot.
‘Let me go, Jimmie. Just let me go.’
‘You have not heard the last of this Hopie. I’ll prove your new guy is a no-hoper and a genuine bastard. You’ll come running back, you’ll see… with your little tail between your lambkin legs...’
Hopie made a bold side-step to disentangle herself from yet another unwanted embrace. When she walked away, to get to the shop, she shouted, ‘I would never run to you, Jimmie even if you were the last man on Earth. I hate you.’
A woman with a bulging shopping cart gave them a wide berth.
‘You’ll regret this, Hopie Sopgood,’ Jimmie Lavery shouted back. ‘You’ll regret this, I’ll show you…’
*
When Hopie arrived back at the police station, she delivered the Chief his lunchtime snack, and then she returned to her desk with an avocado wrap in her hand. Sergeant Moyes looked pleased to see her, and he came over, to talk. ‘Can I speak in private?’ he asked. She shrugged and rubbed her chin because it meant she’d have to leave her lunch. But the Sarge encouraged her to go outside into the passage.
Sarah-Jane gave a knowing wink as they left the room. Once outside, Hopie’s stomach growled so she rolled her eyes.
‘What is it?’ said the Sarge. ‘Are you okay?’
No, she wasn’t. She felt famished. All she wanted to do was scoff her lunch. She’d been upset by Jimmie too but didn’t want to go into it.
‘I need to talk,’ he continued. ‘I can’t explain things in there...’ he pointed to the office door.
‘Why can’t this be said in front of Sarah-Jane? She’s okay, isn’t she? I trust her. She’s a friend…’
‘It’s top secret, that’s all. Walls have ears and what-not. It’s about the gypsy...’
‘Right, yes, Moondog?’
‘That’s right, Mister Moon Dog. Sarah-Jane had a contact number for him. Do you remember? It was a number that his woman production assistant from London used when she contacted us once before... Guess what? I found the number from Sarah-Jane’s folder and I gave the old girl a ring. I told her, this production assistant woman thingy, that you’d like to meet Mister Moon Dog —that you’d like to meet him in a fancy restaurant...’
‘He does not do that — he won’t go anywhere with a CCTV.’
‘The old woman told me that, as it happens. So, I suggested Miss Stook’s Teahouse in Mountsorrel Lane. Where we met him last time, he seems to like the place. Bingo
, I checked, no security cameras.’
‘Hmm. I suppose it might do. But I’m curious. Why are you setting me up to see him?’
‘Excellent,’ said the Sarge, ignoring her question. ‘So, what about tomorrow afternoon. Can you do that?’
‘I suppose. But what is this all about?’
‘The woman agreed to give us the heads up if he agrees to a meeting,” continued the Sarge, still ignoring her query. ‘She’ll call us after ten. That gives you plenty of time to go home, tart yourself up… Then you can do the necessary...’
‘What do you mean tart myself?’ Hopie curled her fists.
‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just a turn of phrase. You want to look good for this guy, don’t you?’
‘He’s not that kind of fella. He takes people as he finds them...’
‘All blokes like a well-presented lady, don’t they? You look very decorative; didn’t you know that? When you make the effort that is…’
‘Thanks.’ Hopie frowned.
‘Now, when you get there, you will need to get him to drink from a glass. And after he’s used a glass, I want you to hide it away in your bag. Do you think you can do that? You’ll have to carry a large bag. To pop the glass into. Make sure you do not leave your own prints on the glass, hold it with a napkin when you plop it in.’
‘You want me to steal a glass from the property? ‘
‘Not steal it per se. You can give it back later. Heavens, Hopie why you are such a niminy-piminy sometimes? You are so moralistic. We only need to borrow the glass a few days. I will ask the Scenes of Crime team to brush it over and send the dabs for analysis. Then you can return the glass to the legitimate owner once it’s been done — do you agree with that course of action?’
‘What then?’
‘What do you mean, what then?’
‘What do I do about Moondog? Once I have lied to him and led him a-merry-dance? This puts me in a difficult position...’
‘Well, I’m sure he can cope. He’s sophisticated enough to understand rejection. If it’s that what worries you. I doubt he’s a delicate flower. So, towards the end of the meal, you might want to say to him, matter-of-factly, that you might not be able to see him anymore. My advice is to leave him dangling...’