by Mike Pannett
‘There is. I think you’d make a brilliant sergeant. I mean, look at some of the people you and I have seen promoted over the years. Some of them are fine and some—’ She pulled a face. I knew what she meant. ‘And when you think about the bad ones, you wonder how on earth they got where they are, am I right?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘And the good ones . . .’
‘Cocksy, for example?’
‘Yes, I’d rate him. But do you really think he brings anything to the job that you haven’t got?’
I looked at her and thought for a moment. ‘That’s not for me to say.’
‘I think it is, Mike. This is not the time for you to come over all modest,’ she said. She smiled and looked me right in the eye. ‘Come on, how do you rate yourself as a copper?’
‘Blimey.’ I had to think for a bit before answering. ‘Well, now that you’re asking I think I’m pretty bloody good at what I do. And I love the job.’
‘That’s more like it. And how about gelling with your fellow officers? Could you . . . lead them into battle, take the initiative, lead by example?’
‘Yeah, sure I could.’
‘And would you stop and consider your options, before going in all guns blazing?’
‘Of course. You have to get people onside, don’t you? All singing from the same hymn-sheet as they say. Y’know, what you were saying about good supervisors and bad ones – I’ve always reckoned it’s a matter of picking out the good characteristics and weeding out the bad. I mean, if you were modelling yourself on them.’
‘Right, so what I’m saying, Mike, is why don’t you set aside a couple of days and go through those books I gave you at Christmas – about the sergeants’ exams?’
I groaned. ‘I knew there was a catch. I hate studying. It reminds me of school. Remember what I always say? I left school with two qualifications: one in the study of motorcycles and—’
‘Yeah, I know – and one in girls.’ Ann sighed. ‘You have mentioned it once or twice. But this time, surely you can see there’s a payoff. There’s the increase in salary, and in your pension. I mean, how much longer do we want to keep renting this place?’
‘Keeper’s Cottage? I love it here, don’t you? I mean, it’s a great place to live. Character cottage with a bit of land, fantastic location. Secluded.’
‘Yes, I know all that. We both love it here. But it’s like pouring money down the drain isn’t it, paying rent month after month.’
‘Costs a hell of a lot to buy a place like this,’ I said. ‘To be honest, we’ve been spoiled living here, haven’t we? Any place we moved on to – that we could afford – it’d be a step down, wouldn’t it?’
‘Right, so why don’t we hit Algy boy with a proposal? Why don’t we ask him how much he wants for Keeper’s Cottage?’
‘D’you reckon he’d sell it?’
‘No idea. We’d need to ask him.’
‘Well, Ann, that sounds like a plan. One that calls for a celebration.’
‘We haven’t bought it yet!’
‘I know. But you’ve just agreed to get a mortgage with me. And that’s a statement of intent, isn’t it?’
‘Only one trouble, Mike.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You gave the last of the duty-free to Walter.’
Chapter 2
Sting in the Tail
‘So how’s the plans going then?’
‘What’s that you say, cock-bod?’ Soapy’s voice, emerging from the attic, was muffled, his tone just a little tetchy. Looking up through the tiny access, all I could see – apart from the seat of his worn jeans and the loose sole flapping off a cowboy boot – was the light of his torch, playing on the crooked beams that held up the rows of pantiles.
‘Weren’t you and Becky supposed to be getting married about now?’
‘Hey, spare a thought, Mike lad. You don’t send an expert to look for a hole in your roof and then start grilling him like a future mother-in-law. Bloody dangerous business, this. D’you want me putting a foot through your bedroom ceiling and suing you for neglect, or what?’
‘Sorry, bud.’
‘Aye, you just concentrate on holding them steps steady and leave a craftsman to his trade. I’m calling on twenty years of experience here, cock-bod. ’Tisn’t a job for an amateur, this.’
I didn’t answer. If Ann had taught me anything over the last couple of years it was that sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut. And to be fair, this was a serious business. We’d spotted what looked like a damp patch right above our bed a week or two earlier and alerted our landlord, Algy. Now he’d sent his right-hand man, his Mr Fixit, who’d got halfway through an apprenticeship two decades ago and consequently thought he knew everything worth knowing about the building industry – and here he was giving the roof timbers the once-over, and loving every minute of it.
‘Course, I’ve got City and Guilds in this, y’know. Years ago, like, but they were worth more then. All this dumbing down caper . . .’ There was a muttered curse as Soapy dropped the torch and a dull thump as his head made contact with a beam, followed by a further outbreak of profanity. ‘But y’know what they say, it’s like riding a bike. Once learned never forgotten.’
From the bottom of the stepladder I peered up into the roof space. ‘So, where’s the rain getting in?’
‘It isn’t, cock-bod. You ask me, that yellow patch is just natural ageing. Maybe a spot of duff plaster. Previous tenant having a champagne breakfast. Or maybe you had a rat die up there and – you know, sort of oozed its vital juices out. Sommat like that. No, you don’t want to worry about it.’ He patted the timber that he’d just bumped his head on. ‘See all them knots and that little kink in it? Shows how old this place is. All they did, them days, was find a nice straight branch and mek it fit. You take a good look at that roof and you’ll see all little dips in it. Might let a bit of wind in now and then, but that’s good for your attic. Gives it an airing. But rain? Listen to the expert, cock-bod. She’s watertight.’ He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice. ‘Hey, come up here and tek a look at this though.’
‘What have you found?’ I climbed to the top of the steps and hoisted myself partway through the tight rectangular hole. ‘Oh – that’s a good ’un.’ It was a wasps’ nest, the size of a football and beautifully patterned with whorls of darker and lighter brown, like hundreds of snail shells all clustered together. ‘Not live, is it?’
He prodded it, dislodging a few flakes of the papery material. ‘If this was live, cock-bod, tek it from me, they’d be active – nice spring morning like this with the sun on the roof. They’d be all over me like a rash.’
‘You gonna remove it, or what?’
‘Nah, they don’t come back to an old nest.’ Soapy prodded it again. ‘Bloody marvellous, these, and solid too.’ And just for luck he gave it another whack, harder this time – and dropped his torch as a cloud of wasps emerged from the wreckage and headed towards the light.
‘Outa me way, for f***’s sake Mike!’
I jumped off the steps just as Soapy came flying down, trampling my knuckles and then slamming the hinged trap-door on the angry buzzing sound that filled the roof space.
‘I thought you said it was dead!’ I shouted, as the pair of us danced around the bedroom with wasps dive-bombing us from every direction. ‘Downstairs, quick!’ I led the way, arms flailing about my head, ran into the living room and, as he followed me, slammed the door behind us, shutting our attackers in the stairwell.
‘Now what?’ I gasped, pointing upwards with a grazed and bloody right hand. ‘What we gonna do with that lot?’
‘I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do, cock-bod. We’re gonna put the kettle on, have a cuppa tea and when me heart’s stopped thumping I’ll maybe pop down to Yates’s for some poison. Then I’ll fettle ’em.’
‘And what about the leak?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? There is no leak, Mike. That roof is sound
as a bell. Trust me.’
‘Yeah, I’ll trust you – ’cos you know what you’re talking about, don’t you, Mr City and Guilds?’
By the time I’d mashed a pot of tea and stuck a couple of plasters on my hand, Soapy was perched on the log outside the back door, puffing serenely on a cigarette, eyes closed, head back as he soaked up the sunshine. Over by the gooseberry bushes Henry was lying in the rank grass, snapping half-heartedly at the odd wasp that drifted past him. Up on the roof they were flying in and out of the slenderest of gaps where one or two tiles were tilted upwards at a slight angle. Soapy saw me looking. ‘Don’t worry, cock-bod. They’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Won’t bother you for a month or two yet. People don’t understand wasps. They do a lot of good – early in t’year.’
‘Is that right?’ I was thinking about the angry, buzzing cloud we’d trapped in the stairwell. They certainly seemed bent on mischief, if not murder.
‘Aye, quite handy in t’garden. They’ll eat aphids and suchlike. Just later on, when they’ve got the next generation up and running, they start feasting on your ripe fruit, your jam and suchlike. That’s when you find ’em in your kitchen, being a nuisance.’
‘So what you saying? We’re going to leave them be?’
‘I would. Why go spending your hard-earned on poisons? Not very eco-logical, is it?’
‘No,’ I said, handing him his tea. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Aye, they’ll not do any harm.’
‘Especially if I can resist the temptation to poke their nest with a sharp stick. No, I tell you what, let’s get rid of ’em.’ I said. He didn’t answer, and I decided I’d get onto less controversial matters. ‘So,’ I ventured, ‘question for you.’
‘Go on.’
‘The wedding.’
‘Aye, that.’ He placed his mug on the grass at his feet and turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘But I’ve got a question for you first.’
‘Let’s have it.’
Soapy jerked a thumb towards the house. ‘This place? You thinking of asking Algy to flog it to you?’
‘How d’you know about that?’
Soapy touched the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Ah well, that’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Well, yes, Ann and I were wondering what he’d want for it, so I asked him.’
Soapy nodded his head. ‘That explains it then. He had one of his estate agent chums over for a drink last night. Lad from out Helmsley way. So what’s he asking?’
‘No idea, mate. Don’t even know if he wants to sell. He said he’d come round later in the week to talk it over. Anyway, stop changing the subject, will you? Tell us about the wedding plans.’
Soapy lit another cigarette and studied the glowing tip, his brow furrowed. I waited, looking down the lane at the stand of larch trees. Their needles hadn’t been out long, and in the bright sunshine they were still a beautiful lime-green colour. May is my favourite month at Keeper’s Cottage: the house sits in an oasis of green, and on a morning like this, with the sky a bright blue, it really is a little corner of heaven.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Mike. I mean, I’ve nowt against getting married. But what I say is, why not just pop along to the old registry office, sign on t’dotted line, and then get yourselves down the Spotted Cow with your savings? Eh? I mean, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘That’s not what it’s about, is it? You know what these lasses are. They want an occasion. An excuse to dress up.’
‘Me too, but no need to go overboard.’
‘I see. Getting over-elaborate, is it?’
‘Listen, Mike, I can cope with a spot of elaboration. You don’t get married every day, and all that. And I know they don’t come cheap, these modern frocks. Push the boat out, I say. Top hats and tails for t’leading men? Yeah, why not? Go for it. Algy says we can use one of his old cars, so that’s not a problem. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mike. I’m not like old Walt there. I can splash the cash when it’s called for. But she’s got the bit between her teeth now. Wants the full monty. Church affair, choir, bridesmaids in matching dresses, full-on reception at t’Stone Trough, bloody fancy invitations and reply-paid envelopes, goody bags at the dinner table – one for every guest. Hey, and how many do you think she wants to invite?’
‘Search me, mate.’
‘A hundred and twenty. A hundred and frigging twenty. I ask you, Mike, could you name that many people in t’whole of t’North Riding? ’Cos I’m buggered if I can. I tell you, mate, it’s getting out of hand. Latest thing is, she read this thing in t’Yorkshire Post where some footballer marries a model and they release a hundred white doves outside t’church. Ooh, she goes, that’d be nice. How much is that gonna set us back, eh? I told her we could mebbe shoot ’em and stick ’em in a pie.’ He took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it to the ground. ‘Not amused, my friend, not amused. And then on top of that there’s the bloody honeymoon.’
‘Why, you want to go somewhere nice for that, don’t you?’
‘What would you say to Greece?’
‘What, you and me? I never knew you thought that way . . .’
‘Steady away, lad.’
‘Sorry, mate. Yeah, Greece. Cracking spot. That’s where we’ve just come back from. Hang about – no, it was Cyprus; but they speak the same lingo, don’t they? Anyway, great grub, fabulous weather.’
‘Well, it might be good enough for you and Ann, but it ain’t good enough for her. So how about Spain, I said? She laughed at me. Italy then? Doesn’t like the grub. South of France? No, you’ll not catch her bathing topless on the old Côte d’Azur. So guess what she wants. Go on, have a guess.’
‘Florida?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Just what I said. No, she goes, and – get this – she said it’s “obvious”. Everyone goes to Florida, she reckons. It’s too bloody “obvious”. So I said to her, go on, I said, what you after, lass?’ Soapy leaned forward, picked up a stone and hurled it down the drive. ‘Mauritius, my friend. That’s the place to be. Five-star luxury hotel, mini-cruise, the bloody lot.’ He fell silent, stamping out the cigarette end with his boot, then scowling at the flapping sole. I’d never seen him look so glum.
‘So, what’s the damage likely to be?’ I asked.
‘Last time I totted it up it came out at eighteen grand.’
‘Hell-fire.’
‘Aye, and you know what she says?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, which was a good job, because I didn’t have one. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘that’s not bad at all. That’s well below the national average – according to Hello!’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, the long and short of it is, we’re not getting married till next year now. ’Cos it’ll tek that long to save up – if I can find enough work.’
‘Isn’t Algy keeping you busy?’
Soapy was on his feet and brushing himself down. ‘Algy? All he cares about these days is that horse of his. Lord bloody Nelson.’
‘Oh aye, how’s he managing?’
Soapy snorted. ‘Old Walter’s lady friend asked the same question in t’Farmers the other night. “With great difficulty,” he goes, “with great difficulty”.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ I said. ‘Remember how Ann had to help him off it at New Year’s?’
‘I do. And I’ll tell you this much, Mike. He hasn’t improved. And he’s still on about following the hounds first chance he gets. Anyway’ – he took out his keys and made his way towards his van – ‘better get myself to town and get that insecticide. Then his lordship wants mucking out.’
‘His lordship?’
Soapy pulled a face. ‘The horse, mate. Not Algy.’
‘So he gets a horse and you have to sweep up after it?’
‘Don’t worry, cock-bod. I’m making it worth me while. Where there’s muck there’s brass and all that, y’know what I mean?’ I looked at him and he gave a sheepish grin. ‘Hoss manure. They can’t get enough at the allotments down in Norton.’ He
got in the van and started it up. ‘Pound a bag? It’s like pinching money, mate.’
I watched Soapy drive through the woods and then went into the house. One or two wasps had managed to get under the door and I swatted them with a rolled-up newspaper. What I wanted was to go upstairs. I was starting back on the night shift, so I still had the rest of the day to myself. Normally I’d try and grab an hour in bed, but today bed was out of bounds until we’d dealt with our visitors.
By the time Soapy had returned, rigged up his sprayer and sorted out the wasps indoors – then sat and drunk more tea and had another moan about the cost of the wedding – the day had more or less slipped away. Thankfully Ann had been up and out early, visiting her parents. She’s not at her best after a night duty, and wouldn’t have appreciated the afternoon’s excitement. ‘Oh well,’ I said, when she returned home at teatime and I filled her in with the day’s events, ‘I’ll survive. Get my second wind once I’m out on patrol.’
It always feels a bit odd being back at work, even after a short break. I’d only been off ten days or so, but as ever things had moved on, and it would take a bit of time to catch up. Some of the cases that were top priority when I worked my last shift were history, new ones had come up, and a lot of the chat in the parade room concerned characters and incidents I knew nothing about. But I needed to make a call to York and find out what had happened about my off-duty adventures with the trailer thieves.
The depressing news was, not a lot. York CID had interviewed the fellow with the beat-up face, the one who was pulling the trailer. His story made sense. He told them the other members of the gang had come round and told him he was going to have to do this job. He refused at first. With his record, he said, he’d wind up in prison. That cut no ice with the gang. They beat him up and told him he could expect worse if he didn’t co-operate. If that wasn’t enough on its own to persuade him, he had a drug habit and needed whatever they might pay him. So he was very much an outsider, and his claims that he knew nothing much about the gang had the ring of truth. He’d given nothing away as to the identity of the team involved, and it was plain that his fear of prison was less than his fear of what they might do to him if he did reveal any information about them. Sometimes you genuinely feel sorry for people like that. They’re basically inadequate, probably unfortunate. They get into bad company at a young age and never really escape the criminal environment. A couple of months later he was to appear at York Crown Court and be sentenced to eighteen months in prison.