Sam shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Because?’
Ed grinned: ‘Cary Grant played ‘The Cat’ in the film ‘To Catch a Thief’ with Grace Kelly.’
Sam had wheeled herself back to the desk, silently mourning the 30 baffling seconds she would never get back.
‘Talk about being off the wall,’ she said now. ‘That’s off the whole reservation.’
Ed was still smiling.
‘The name stuck. He used it throughout his entire career.’
‘You’re well informed,’ Sam conceded.
‘I was in his class,’ Ed nodded. ‘It was me who christened him Cat.’
Sam shook her head.
‘And you know David Stirling?’ Ed wasn’t finished.
‘Who?’
‘The founder of the SAS,’ Ed beamed. ‘I’ve just remembered. His first name was Archibald.’
‘Fascinating,’ Sam was mentally scanning the desk for something to throw at him.
‘I know,’ Ed said. ‘Two Archibalds in one inquiry. Anyway back to Cat. That’s why the walk bothered me. I shared a dorm with him for ten weeks. Watched it day and night.’
Ed gave Sam a quick history of police training at RAF Dishforth in 1978.
Ten weeks living in a dormitory with every male member of your class: ate together, slept together, sat in class together, bulled shoes together, marched together, and you marched everywhere, Ed told her, to the sounds of a bawling retired Regimental Sergeant Major who had joined the police just to chew recruits’ arses.
‘Cat was Hampshire,’ Ed said. ‘You’re mates with each other when you’re there, but once you pass-out, marching in front of your parents, all white gloves and shiny buttons, that’s it. Everyone goes back to their own force.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Sam relieved sanity had returned.
Ed nodded at the memory.
‘Loved it. Some hated it but I loved it, and the more they shouted and balled the more I loved it.’
Ed smiled at the memory, a time when his personal road map had barely taken him a single pace, the future still waiting for his footsteps.
‘Bit different now, but I wouldn’t change it,’ Ed said. ‘Character building.’
Sam smiled. It was good to see Ed happy.
‘Did you see Cat again?’
‘Years later, he was on the Regional Crime Squad,’ Ed told her. ‘Doing a job up here. He got in touch out of the blue. Said he was a UC but didn’t talk about it for obvious reasons.’
Ed looked through the window behind Sam and gazed at the sky, his head replaying a military marching tune blasting out of the parade ground loudspeakers.
‘You still with us?’ Sam stared, waiting.
‘Sorry I was miles away…Anyway, next thing I’m reading in some police magazine he’d been given an award when he retired for all his work with paedophiles.’
Ed remembered thinking that was a career path he would have struggled to survive.
‘Dodgy work but fair play to him,’ Ed said. ‘I saw him once after he retired, asked him how he coped with it. He just said someone had to do it otherwise half the bastards would never be caught.’
Ed paused. He remembered asking Cat about his legends - job jargon for the personas he had used undercover.
They had been drinking whisky, Ed’s nose almost twitching at the memory of the malt and its smell.
‘He said he adopted a new legend for every job, obviously, but he always chose a first name beginning with ‘A,’ Ed remembered. ‘Reckoned he found it easier, you know, with his own name being Archibald.’
‘I get that,’ Sam said, still not sure where this was all going.
‘We could always ask Ray Reynolds about him.’
‘Why?’
‘Ray always said he didn’t want to work on his own patch so Devon and Cornwall was out for him,’ Ed explained. ‘He joined Hampshire just like Cat. They probably knew each other there and if we had undercover operatives working up here in Cat’s day, Ray Reynolds would have sanctioned it.’
Linda Pritchard, green Nike holdall in hand, walked into the toilets of the local department store, stepped into a cubicle and double-checked the lock on the door.
Her mother-in-law had eventually agreed to look after the children while she went to the gym but Linda had no intention of doing a workout.
And as she was a regular at the gym, the department store was a much safer option.
Linda Pritchard went into the cubicle. Linda Avery emerged ten minutes later, feeling strange in a pink furry jacket, tight white vest top, blue skinny jeans and baby pink ankle boots with stilts for heels.
Clarke Kent might spin around in revolving doors or telephone boxes but Superman didn’t have to put on make-up.
Linda’s heavy black mascara, black eyeliner and bright pink lipstick, completed the metamorphous.
The look had always drawn the attention of men and she knew it still worked when she stepped onto the pavement, feeling their eyes, hitting what always lay at the heart of them.
Not that getting attention in the street mattered. Her mission was more focused, an attempt to reunite the travelling family she ran away from all those years ago. It was time. Everyone was getting older and besides, one of her nieces was getting married at the weekend.
She looked at her reflection in one of the windows. Linda Avery stared back but Linda Pritchard was only a costume change away.
Linda Avery had vanished the day she met Julius. She wasn’t coming back, not on a permanent basis.
Linda shook her head at the reflection, apologised as she bumped into an old lady pushing her wheeled shopping bag.
Linda and Julius had fed each other lies, both falling for the other’s deceit.
His were far worse, Linda always told herself.
Yes, she forgot to mention her traveller upbringing, the prostitution and the fact she never worked in a supermarket. She knew the lies weren’t small.
But he just wanted her to add a cloak of respectability to his sickening life, a cover so he could carry on with little boys.
Thank God he was dead. No new victims.
Some small child, somewhere near here, would never know what he had escaped. The thought made Linda feel stronger.
Fate. Karma.
Julius’ death certainly ticked those boxes.
Linda had no intention of leaving her children, no desire to abandon the Edwardian villa and certainly no wish to be back in the life of her childhood.
But she wanted to embrace her old world, not ignore it. She wanted to hug her parents, her sister and the nieces she had yet to meet. Whether she told them about her children, let alone introduce them, remained to be seen.
She took a taxi, knowing exactly where to go.
What she didn’t know was the reaction she would get when she arrived.
Her father had telephoned her a couple of weeks ago out of the blue and she was stunned. He had traced her number through someone in John Elgin’s Travellers Group, an individual who placed loyalty to the community above the confidentiality of personal information.
She had sobbed on the phone when she told him about Julius and young boys, and how she’d been dumped by Billy Skinner.
But a face to face reunion was different.
And he wasn’t expecting her.
She walked up the track, wondering if she knew the mothers of any of the children playing in the distance. She smiled. The girls she grew up with were probably grandmothers.
Fifty metres.
She stopped when she saw him.
He looked older but she knew it was him.
The cigarette fell from his lips, dropping in what seemed like slow motion to the dirt.
Neither moved.
This is it. Rejection or affirmation.
His smile broke out and she had her answer, her father’s 61-year-old legs carrying him as fast as they could to greet her.
She ran towards him.
They were like actors in a heart-tug
movie but the tears were real, not faked for the camera. He flung his arms around her, picked her up and swung her full circle, just like he did when she was a child.
Feet back on the floor, she took a step back. ‘Hello Dad.’
‘Oh Elizabeth.’
He threw his arms around her again.
She had never seen him cry. She doubted anyone had seen him cry. Men like him didn’t.
Not men like Declan Doherty.
Chapter Forty-Three
Luke and Mark Skinner stared, speechless, out of the windscreen as they headed up the road towards the pub.
The place was a boiling mix of yellow flames, acrid smoke and flashing blue lights.
Firefighters seemed everywhere, ladders high and water jets powering from thick hosepipes. The throb of the fire engines and tenders was a constant soundtrack. Police were diverting traffic and keeping the growing crowd behind the cordon; ambulances were stationary, on stand-by.
They parked as close as they could and got out of the car. The smell and the sting of smoke hit them and they rubbed their eyes. They saw firefighters pulling on breathing apparatus, preparing to go in.
‘Jesus,’ Mark said, as they walked towards the crowd at the cordon.
Luke was already thinking about revenge.
‘Whoever did this will wish they were going inside that building with nothing but a fucking hankie.’
He pushed his way through the crowd, Mark close behind.
Charlie Sneddon, a skinny, ginger, low-life with a reputation for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, didn’t disappoint.
‘Talk about watching your business go up in smoke.’
Luke didn’t break stride. His right hand shot towards Sneddon faster than a snake strike. The punch landed flush on the side of Sneddon’s jaw and he was unconscious before he hit the pavement.
‘Remind me to send someone round to see that little shit,’ Luke said, turning to Mark.
They stood and watched for a few minutes. Nobody spoke to them; nobody even looked their way, too scared of following Sneddon. They all knew his troubles had only just begun.
‘Let’s go,’ Luke said. ‘Nothing we can do here.’
Back in the car Mark asked: ‘Is it insured?’
Luke shook his head. ‘Nope. Dad didn’t believe in insurance. Our name was the insurance. He always said nobody would dare attack our property.’
‘Well they are now,’ Mark started the car and drove off. ‘And it can’t have been Harry or Stuart or Geoff or Mat. So who is it Luke?’
‘How the fuck do I know?’ Luke shouted, the palm of his right hand slamming into the dashboard.
This time Mark shouted back. ‘How the fuck do I know doesn’t cut it Luke!’
He took a breath and lowered his voice. ‘We need to find out. What did Tonks say apart from the pub’s on fire?’
Luke pressed his head against the headrest.
‘A gang of about thirty rushed in,’ Luke said. ‘He fought a few off, injured a couple before they dragged him out. Too many of them. They hit a few of the punters and dragged them out as well.’
‘Did they speak to each other?’ Mark asked.
‘Not that he can remember.’
Mark stopped at the lights and stared at his brother.
‘Does he know any of them?’
‘Says not.’
‘Recognise any of them again?’
‘Nope.’
Mark had just moved off on amber when Luke’s phone rang, the number withheld.
‘You might want to go to Pussycats,’ the slow-speaking voice said.
‘Who’s this?’ Luke snapped into the mobile.
Silence and the call was ended.
‘Pussycats quick as you can,’ Luke said, voice shaking, a wash of fury and fear across his face.
‘Jesus Luke.’
Mark yanked the wheel to his right, U-turned, ignored the blaring car horns and sped towards the industrial estate. The black smoke was already pluming high into the distant sky.
Again they parked as close as they could.
Same script, different location, the club already an orange inferno, windows fire blasted and flames winning the fight against the water jets.
Nobody was daft enough to do a Sneddon as they pushed through the crowd, but to one side a group of excited middle-aged women seemed to be shouting a chant in celebration.
‘What are they shouting?’ Luke said.
‘Leave it,’ Mark told him. ‘They’ll be the ones who protested years ago coming to gloat.’
Luke dipped his shoulder, turned his mouth down.
Mark, who had seen it all before, pulled him back by his collar. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said. ‘Attack a group of women? Really clever.’
Neither spotted John Elgin. He kept his head down, didn’t want to be seen, worried they would catch him laughing.
About time you got some grief
He had reserved his biggest laugh for the tape. No way had that survived.
‘I’ll ask again,’ Mark said getting into the car. ‘Who’s behind this?’
‘And I’ll tell you again, I don’t know.’
‘Well who has your mobile number?’
‘Plenty of people have that.’
‘That’s two places torched,’ Mark said.
‘I can fucking count!’ Luke right on the edge. ‘Just drive. I need to think, get lads at our other pubs.’
He scrolled through the contacts in his phone.
Had Mark been concentrating he would have seen the red pick-up with no number plates tailgating them, the big, green ex-army Bedford truck revving its engine, waiting to emerge from a left hand side street up ahead.
But he wasn’t concentrating.
His own red mist had descended and he was driving on auto-pilot, instincts blinded. He was angry with Luke, who never took him seriously, and shaken by the arson attacks.
The ex-army truck had been used for decades to collect washed up sea coal at Seaton Carew, to the south of Seaton St George, before the council banned vehicles from the beach. Now it was on a different mission, billowing diesel fumes as it began to roll.
The Skinners heard it before they saw it and by then it was feet away from impact with Luke’s passenger door.
Luke tried to throw himself sideways towards Mark but his seat belt held firm.
There was a deafening bang as the Bedford rammed the BMW side on, the air thick with the crunch of metal, glass and debris flying then crashing all around.
Behind, the pick-up had slewed across the road blocking it to oncoming traffic.
The Bedford pushed the BMW across the road as easily as a snowplough clearing a mid-winter dusting. Mark, coughing and fighting the wheel, hit down hard on the accelerator but got no traction.
The Bedford pushed the BMW against the red-bricked wall of a supermarket car park, inching forward until the wall collapsed. The Bedford backed up, hit the BMW again and finally roared away.
The pick-up followed, slowing as it passed, the faces inside laughing.
Mark was bleeding from a gash to the right side of his head where he had smashed into the driver’s window. The airbag had scorched his right wrist and singed the hairs on his forearm.
Luke, dazed, was struggling to move his left arm. Blood seeped through his left trouser leg, a shard of metal protruding from it.
He shuffled in his seat, leaned forward, and searched the footwell for the ringing mobile. The impact had thrown it from his hands. He found it, picked it up.
He blinked repeatedly trying to focus. Through blurry eyes he read the screen. Number withheld.
The caller was aggressive and abrupt.
‘Now fuck off altogether unless you want your mother to do a Joan of Arc.’
‘So tell me more about this Cat,’ Sam said, biting into a chicken wrap, the first thing she’d eaten all day.
‘Not a lot more to tell really.’
Ed was sitting, elbows resting on Sam’s des
k.
‘Hampshire. Went into CID. Worked as a DC with Ray Reynolds. He told me when we met up that time. He was never interested in promotion but said Ray wanted it from the off.’
Sam paced the office, her thoughts interrupted by the desk telephone.
‘Sam Parker.’
She listened.
‘Thanks for letting us know.’ She looked at Ed. ‘Pussycats is up in flames.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Ed said, sitting up straight. ‘Game on.’
She chewed another bite from the wrap, swallowed, and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Who’s taking the Skinners on Ed?’
‘God knows. But they’re hitting them where it hurts.’
Sam took a mouthful of sparkling water. ‘We’ve got enough on our plates without this shit. Everybody in this place will be trying to link the arsons to Billy Skinner’s death and pass it all onto us.’
Ed said: ‘No problem if they give us more men.’
Sam stared at him, raised her eyebrows.
‘You mean more officers.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Ed said.
‘I do, but there’s a way of saying it these days,’
Sam sat down, rubbed her eyes, felt the lack-of-sleep-grit scratching her eyeballs.
‘So this Cat…he knew Ray Reynolds, what else?’
Ed said he didn’t really know, he had hardly spoken to him since they’d left training, save the time Cat made contact.
‘He got that award and he must have been on a job up here when he got in touch,’ Ed said.
‘Wonder what that was?’ Sam took another bite of the wrap, Ed watching, feeling the hunger pangs.
‘Like you he did a bit a sailing,’ Ed told her. ‘Quite a lot really. At training school he seemed to be racing every weekend from what I can remember, even sailed to France one weekend I think. Brought up in Hamble-le-Rice. I remember thinking what a great name.’
Sam wiped her mouth and stood up.
‘Sailed the Solent then,’ she said. ‘Same neck of the woods that the Transit was stolen from and you said Pritchard’s abductor walked like Cat.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap of faith,’ Ed seeing it but not convinced.
‘What would Cat be doing up here dispensing vigilante justice? If he was going to do it, and it’s a massive if, why not in his own neck of the woods?’
Angels and Apostles Page 27