by Mike Pannett
‘Aye. We all like payday.’
‘Specially when there’s a decent whack due. Nowt like a big fat envelope in your hand, is there, all crinkly like?’ Soapy smacked his lips and grinned at me. I’d last seen that look as he set about one of Walt’s sister’s cakes.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but I thought Algy was paying you a regular weekly wage these days. Straight into your bank, like.’
‘He is, cock-bod, but this here’s one of your back-pocket jobs. Our little secret from the taxman.’
‘Are you sure I need to know that, Soapy?’
‘Well, no, but what I’m saying, like, is . . .’ He nudged me and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Nowt like the old folding stuff.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Soapy. You’ve made it plain enough. Cash in hand. The black economy. I did grow up in the country, you know.’
‘So, er, when you can you get down the old cashpoint, like?’
‘Just run that by me one more time, will you?’ I said.
Soapy had me mystified, but that was nothing new. The guy was always talking in riddles.
‘Well, you know – the old spondulicks, like. The readies. Friday night coming up, late-night shopping. Me and Becky have a wedding to plan, remember? Seven months and counting, cock-bod. And you know what them lasses are like. Always finding a little sommat to add to t’list.’
‘Soapy, I am fully aware of your average female’s spending habits. What I don’t get is, what’s it to do with me?’
‘Well, Algy said I’d to settle with you – you and Ann, I mean.’
‘He what?’
‘He said it were down to you to pay me.’
‘Soapy, this is his house, not ours. He’s our landlord. Repairs and maintenance – that’s his province.’
‘That’s not what he told me.’
‘Well, what did he tell you?’
‘He told me you were buying it.’
‘Buying it? Soapy,’ I said, ‘I think I’m going to have a word with Master Algernon. We talked about buying the place all right, but we differed on the price – by a substantial margin, I might add. From which point negotiations, as they say in the football transfer market, were stalled.’
I looked at Soapy. He had a face like a fiddle. ‘So I don’t stand to get paid while you’ve sorted out whose house it is?’
‘I’ve sorted it out, matey. This place belongs to Algy. If you want paying, you take it up with him, mate.’
Ann was as perplexed as I was when she came home that afternoon and I told her what had happened. But after she’d thought about it for a few moments she said, ‘You know, he never did come back on that offer we made.’
‘Who? Algy?’
‘Who else? You know what I’m thinking? Maybe the leak in the roof made up his mind for him. I mean, maybe he suddenly found it all a bit of a faff.’
‘Could be – but you’d think he’d come and tell us.’
‘I don’t know. He’s got a lot on his mind.’
‘Algy? Nah – he’s a gentleman of leisure, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a man of means, Mike, that’s what Algy is. And there’s a difference. He has plenty of money, but it’s all tied up in investments. And people like that, they’re always studying the markets, fretting about a percentage point of interest here and there. You’d think if you had all that money you’d rest easy, but they don’t.’
‘Tell you what, if I had Algy’s money it’d be feet on the mantelpiece and break out the cigars.’
‘That’s what we all think, but do you know, when I was round there for that session on the horse he showed me three separate websites going on his computer. He runs them twenty-four seven. He has the stock exchanges and foreign currencies on one, some kind of investment chatroom going on another, and then he had some sort of fine art auction online.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Yes, blimey indeed. He has a lot of plates spinning, to coin a phrase. And don’t underestimate this latest obsession of his.’
‘What, Lord Nelson? I thought you’d written him off.’
‘Oh, I have. But I happen to know he’s paid for some professional tuition at a stables – over Langton way, I think. This whole hunting thing – he’s taking it far more seriously than people realise.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s still no excuse for messing Soapy about – and us, for that matter. I think it’s time we gave our friend a bell.’
‘I don’t think we need to,’ Ann said, shaking her head.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, don’t you think Soapy’ll be straight round there demanding to know what’s going on? Wouldn’t you, if you’d just finished a job and wanted paying?’
‘You’re probably right there.’
‘I’m willing to bet I am. Just you wait, he’ll be round here before you can say knife. In fact, if we want our tea in peace we’d better get it now.’
As it happened, Algy didn’t come that night, which surprised us. I was all for calling him, but Ann insisted we play a waiting game. ‘No. Let him come to us,’ she said. ‘The last thing we want is for him to think we’re desperate to strike a deal.’
‘I don’t like it,’ I said. ‘Let’s get it sorted. I can’t be doing with all this uncertainty.’
But she wasn’t budging. ‘Trust me,’ she said, ‘it’ll all work out if we play our cards right. And if he thinks Soapy’s upset us, or embarrassed us, well, so much the better.’
I knew Ann was probably right, but I’m not good at waiting games. Never have been. As she reminded me, not for the first time, my mum always said I was like a bull at a gate. Anyway, the point is that all this business was very much on my mind, and I didn’t sleep well that night. So much so that when the alarm went off at a quarter to six next morning I must have pushed the snooze button, because I suddenly woke up to see that it was six thirty-one, which gave me approximately four minutes to get out of the house.
It’s amazing what you can do when you really, really have to. Normally I allow myself a good three-quarters of an hour to get up, wash, dress and have a spot of breakfast, but this day I was into my clothes, out of the house and halfway down the drive in the time it would normally take me to stumble downstairs and get the kettle on. Yes, I admit I ran the electric razor over my face as I drove down towards town – steadily enough, because there were patches of mist at the foot of the wolds – and yes, as I crossed County Bridge I was chewing on one of those cereal bars Ann keeps in the kitchen for when we go hiking, but I made it in time and was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I pulled into the car park just ahead of Fordy, entered through the heavy main door, and galloped up the broad sweeping staircase that led to the first floor.
Even now, after several years at Malton, I still enjoyed climbing that staircase. It’s the sort you’d expect to find in a stately home, with a polished hardwood handrail and ornate, carved wood balustrades. Two at a time the first flight, and if I’m feeling on top of my game I’ll run up the next two as well, narrower and steeper as they are, all the way up to the locker room, which sits on the third floor. I’ve always reckoned that the day I can no longer do that it’ll be time to think about retiring.
The lockers at Malton are not unlike the ones we had at school, for our games kit and so on: old-style, grey metal things, six feet tall and a couple of feet wide, with just a few slits towards the top to ventilate them – although they seem better at letting the smell of stale sweat out than letting any fresh air in. I always take a deep breath before I enter the room, and try to make it last. There’s no handle on the door: you open your locker with a little flat key that has a shamrock-shaped head on it. I always keep it on the same ring as my house keys. I was just reaching for them when I heard Fordy panting up the stairs, one at a time.
‘Now then, lad. You should be running up them stairs, young copper like you. I was doing them three at a time when I was your age.’
‘No you weren’t.’
&
nbsp; ‘Eh?’
‘You can’t fool me, Mike. They hadn’t even built the place when you were my age.’
‘Very funny. Listen, matey, when I started out – while you were still chasing girls around the playground in your little short trousers – I learned my craft at the sharp end. Let me tell you there were just as many stairs at Battersea nick as there are here, and I was up them three at a time, several times a day. Why, you came trudging up here like old man Thommo when he’s building up to a sickie.’
‘Ah, but there’s a reason for that, Mike.’
‘Yeah, you aren’t fit.’
‘No, it’s an age thing. I mean, you haven’t heard what I was up to last night, have you?’
‘I’m not sure I want to. I’d rather get down to the parade room and hear what our sergeant has to say.’ I dug my hand deeper into my right-hand trouser pocket. No keys. I tried the other one, then swung my leg at the locker. ‘Bugger!’
‘Hey, steady on Mike. No need to abuse police property just because you’ll never be young, fit and fancy-free again. Out on the town, on the pull . . .’
‘I can live with that, me old mucker. It’s coming to work without me bloody keys that gets me down.’
‘See? The age thing. You’re suffering from early-onset memory loss. Any time now you’ll wake up sitting in a wicker chair with some lass in an apron feeding you custard on a spoon.’
‘Don’t you worry, there’s life in this old dog yet. Just stand clear while I banjo this door.’
I took three steps back till I was leaning against the locker in the row opposite ours, strode forward and landed a hefty kick smack underneath the lock. The door sprang open, and out fell half the contents, which left me standing ankle-deep in a collection of wellies, fleeces, woolly hats, gloves, welly socks, biscuit wrappers, crushed drinks containers, lunchboxes without lids, lids without lunchboxes, one spare Thermos flask, several handle-less mugs, any number of old notebooks, and the black waterproof coat I’d brought up from the Met and still used when skulking around unseen on night shifts. As I bent down to grab an old fag packet that, by some miracle, had a few cigarettes still in it, Fordy reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘This is going on the noticeboard,’ he said as the camera flashed. ‘In fact, I might send it to the Police Gazette.’
‘They’ve seen worse,’ I said, ‘far worse. Anyway, don’t stand there like a pillock, give us a hand. Don’t wanna be late for parade.’
‘Yeah, but where we gonna put it?’ Fordy, his arms full of crumpled rainwear, was staring at the shelf in my locker, where a stack of old Gazettes was topped by an empty polystyrene takeaway box, a Metropolitan Police truncheon and a pair of handcuffs.
‘Down there.’ I pointed to the floor.
‘That’s supposed to be in the proper store for a start,’ he said, pointing at a CS gas canister, ‘and that’ – he’d dropped the waterproofs and was fishing out my body armour – ‘that’s supposed to be hung up to protect it. And put on before you go out on patrol.’
‘Can’t be doing with all this health and safety nonsense,’ I said. ‘I know when I need body armour and when I don’t. Come on, just shove it in.’
‘And who the hell are that lot?’ He was staring at the faded colour photograph Sellotaped to the inside of the door.
‘That lot,’ I said, ‘is a collection of higher mortals whose shoes you are not fit to clean. You are looking at the York City team – I beg your pardon, the legendary York City team – that went to Wembley for the play-off final in 1993 and destroyed Crewe Alexandra after extra time in a penalty shoot-out. And I was there, buddy. Took me a week to get me voice back.’
Fordy said nothing. He was clearly awestruck in the presence of greatness. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘while you’re feeling free to slag off my locker, let’s have a look at yours.’
‘Help yourself,’ Fordy said, unlocking the door. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘You wanna bet?’ I said. Fordy’s locker was a picture. It was beyond immaculate. His helmet stood alone on the top shelf, shining proudly. Below it he’d hung one of those things you find in women’s wardrobes, a sort of coathanger effort with lots of little clear plastic pockets, and each one filled with some item of grooming equipment: deodorant, hair gel, shower gel, shaving foam, breath fresheners, plus a miniature tube of toothpaste and a pair of nail clippers, and there in a separate hanger was his hairdryer. On the door, below a framed mirror, scrupulously clean, was a collection of cuttings from a glossy magazine – mostly of gorgeous young ladies with no clothes on.
‘It’s like sommat you’d see in a bloody advert,’ I said, pulling out my own phone and clicking away. ‘Two guys in a locker room comparing hair products. Because they’re worth it.’
‘Nothing wrong with keeping your things in order,’ Fordy said, making a grab for the phone.
‘Nothing at all,’ I said, snapping away. ‘Except that if this was the Met, you might come to work some night and find it’d been busted open and the contents rearranged. Anyway’ – I put my phone back in my pocket – ‘it’s a level playing field now, isn’t it? You put your picture up and I’ll put mine next to it. And I tell you what, we’ll see who gets the most grief. Anyway, never mind that. It’s your turn to mash the morning brew.’
After the briefing I went into the sergeants’ office to see Cocksy and have a chat about how things had been during his absence. ‘Been hearing good things about you,’ he said. ‘The feedback from the wendy house – well, I shan’t tell you. It’d only cause you embarrassment.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘Very gratifying. But I’m ready to get back to my usual beat.’
Acting sergeant had been a change of pace, and something of an education, but it also made me realise how much I enjoyed the independence of my rural round. It got me thinking about the realities of being a sergeant: the extra work on the desk, the added responsibilities, the more pressured atmosphere. For all that I was starting to come around to the idea that it probably was time to go for promotion, there was this other voice inside me saying, yes, some time soon, but maybe not just yet.
There hadn’t been a great deal at briefing that morning, but there was one item that I did log away for future reference. We were all aware that over the past fortnight there had been a series of break-ins at golf clubs around our area. Easingwold, Ganton, Kirkbymoorside: they’d all been subjected to smash-and-grab raids on the clubhouses, with clubs, clothing and other merchandise being taken, and it seemed fair to assume that the same individual or gang was involved in each one. Sometimes you get overburdened with information and intelligence. You try to note everything down, but once you’re out on patrol, dealing with whatever the day throws at you, you know you’re going to struggle to find the time to follow them up. You just hope for a quiet spell so that you can spend a bit of time targeting the various issues. Other than that, you just log them away at the back of your mind.
I had no urgent calls to attend to that morning, so after I’d gone back up to the third floor and had a bit of a clearout of my locker, then sorted various bits and pieces of admin work, I decided to call in on Walt. It had been a while since I’d seen him.
I drove up through Leavening and climbed the hill that led to Walt’s place. It was now a beautiful late summer morning, the sun shining from a pale blue sky. The hedgerows were full of ripe haws and brambles, draped with gossamer and spangled with dewdrops. The fields down in the Vale of York were a patchwork of pale yellow stubble, lush green grass and newly ploughed earth in shades of brown. I paused outside the house, taking a moment to reflect on the events of the last few years, on the time I’d spent living with him in this isolated spot, surrounded by beautiful country and gazing out every day on these breathtaking views. I was so lost in thought that I actually wandered along the hedge a few yards and picked a handful of blackberries. I managed to scratch my hand and get stung on the inside of my arm by a stray nettle, but it was well worth it to t
aste the warm sweet fruit.
‘Don’t mind me, lad. You help yerself. I dare say you’ll leave a few for an old man struggling to feed himself.’ Walt was out in his overalls, carrying a garden fork in one hand and a bulging plastic bag in the other.
‘You can spare ’em, mate. I bet you’ve got your freezer half full of ’em already. I’m just tidying up after you. Besides, you’ve had all the good ’uns.’
‘Aye, I did put one or two away for t’winter, now that you mention it. Come on, out the back wi’ you and we’ll swap pocket knives, shall we?’
It was a while since I’d heard Walter use that phrase. It suggested that he had something on his mind, and he’d doubtless pitch it to me in his own good time. ‘I see your spuds are ready for lifting,’ I said, pointing at the rows of yellowing foliage. ‘And these.’
‘Aye well.’ He bent down and caressed a plump onion with his thumb. ‘Just want the top growth to wither, then hope we get enough sun to dry ’em off before I hang ’em under me eaves yonder. But come wi’ me. There’s sommat I want to show you.’
Walt was off through the little gate and into his field. I hurried after him, as ever amazed at how fast he could walk when he had something on his mind.
‘Your pond looks well,’ I said, grinning to myself as I remembered the fun and games we’d had last year with the unexploded bomb. He’d planted the margins with reeds and had a little patch of waterlilies growing in the middle, but no sign of any wildfowl as far as I could see.
‘Aye, she’s coming along,’ I heard him say as he hurried on across the pasture, pausing to pick up a mushroom the size of a tea-plate and pop into in his jacket pocket. ‘But never mind that. This is what I want you to look at.’ He’d reached the tall, unkempt hedge that bounded the far side of his land, just to one side of the sycamores we’d disfigured last year in aid of his clay-pigeon shoot.