by Neil Wild
He pondered on this as he dropped down into Evesham, and instead of taking the long way round the town by the by-pass, he carried on along Waterside with a sleepy River Severn on his left, turning right at the junction with Bridge Street; down Port Street, and bearing right onto Broadway Road.
The road then runs through the Vale of Evesham, with it’s fruit farms and kiosks of freshly picked strawberries.
Yes, although the first week had been pressurised, and Newberry himself was clearly a difficult man, he was going to enjoy running the case. Lisa’s presence added a little spice to the occasion. What a mystery woman she was. Friendly and alluring and yet distant. Was she playing ‘hard to get’? If she was, was he really interested in playing the game? Yes, he might be.
If he was going to be in Worcester for any length of time, he was going to have to find a place of his own to stay. His Bed and Breakfast in Diglis was clean and functional. But that was all it was, Bed and Breakfast. He had probably lost weight by not eating properly. He had subsisted on fast food. A full restaurant meal every night was out of the question because of the cost, and it was no fun eating alone.
He had been quite depressed in the evenings, walking around the streets after his meal, and spending hours lying on his bed. Sometimes he listened through headphones to the transistor radio he had had the foresight to bring with him, but otherwise he waited for sleep to come. He was surprised how much he had slept. Was that depression or the speed at which he had had to work?
He decided that he was enjoying the work because it occupied his thoughts during the day. On the other hand the partners were putting him under a lot of pressure. Was this really fair?
He would hardly describe them as a dynamic bunch. Mortimer was slightly supercilious. He obviously thought a lot of himself and his little schemes, but at the same time he was a nervous man. Perhaps Mortimer wasn’t as confident as he liked to make out. A desk man perhaps, leading from his blotting pad.
Ridley? Well he had not seen that much of him. He seemed a nice enough sort of chap, but was clearly happy doing just his conveyancing, and following the flow; a complimentary character to Mortimer, to whom he would pose no threat and follow without question.
All partnerships were made up of positives and negative personalities; checks and balances of character, and they broke up when there were tensions caused by conflicts; usually resulting from money – or the lack of it. Ridley would have a place in any partnership; the man who would never make any waves. Mortimer was probably an acquired taste.
Then there was the mysterious Mr. Morrison. Well, not mysterious He was keeping a check on him from a distance. He didn’t know too much about brain tumours. He must look them up on the Internet. He might then get an idea as to how long the job might be open.
And there again there was Lisa. Funny how his thoughts kept coming back to her. He had to confess that he found himself attracted to her. Was she really a femme fatale? Not his type if she was like she was with all other men. If he was going to spend some time in Worcester, there would be worse people to get to know? On the other hand there was the old adage, “Don’t foul your own nest.” No better keep clear of her as far as his physical needs were involved.
Physical needs? Well he was going to have to find a permanent female companion from somewhere. He always felt more comfortable in the company of women than of men. But then he had always been choosy about the sort of women he liked. He had known many, liked a lot and loved but few. Odd that he had met more women who aroused a response in him after he had been married than before. Perhaps he had married too soon?
Of course there was Mel. No, he wasn’t involved with Mel. He couldn’t be involved with her. That would mean a commitment he knew that he couldn’t give her.
His thoughts were interrupted as he came into Broadway. As he had anticipated, there was a queue of traffic along the High Street. The old sandstone buildings of the town were undoubtedly attractive, but he couldn’t see why it attracted so many American tourists, whose coaches, arriving to deposit them for their Cotswold weekend break, were causing the hold-ups. Eventually he managed to leave the village, or was it a town, and start the run up Fish Hill.
He could have some fun here. The Fiat was a feisty little car, and putting the engine into third gear, he jammed his foot on the accelerator. The Hill had two lanes for ascending traffic, and he found himself passing the more cautious motorists who were prepared to let their engines slog away in a higher gear. He kept his foot down on the bends and smiled to himself as the Pirellis squealed in protest. After the first left hand bend he was able to keep his foot hard down. Perhaps this was the sort of thing that Morrison did at Shelsley Walsh.
Damn, he had to ease off for the second left hand bend, but then picked up speed and into fourth, reaching the speed limit as he crested the Hill. He had left the remains of the Broadway queue of traffic behind and had a clear road in front of him to Moreton in the Marsh. He had enjoyed that. The first bit of fun he had had all week.
Where was he? Oh yes, Mel. She had proved of incredible comfort to him, and, he hoped, he to her. The other occupant of the shared house was Trevor, an academic from the Open University. They didn’t see much of him.
He didn’t see that much of Mel either. She said that she was a professional dancer in the musical theatre, and was away quite often. Sometimes, when he had been at the house, he would hear her come in late at night or the small hours of the morning. When she wasn’t working she spent a lot of time in his bed.
She said that she worked mostly in London, and chose to live in Milton Keynes, because she said it was cheaper to travel to and from London than rent there.
She was divorced, as he was, and had two children who had remained with her husband. She never explained why, other than to say, “A girl has to make a living.”
It had been their similar situations which had created a bond between them. Like he, Mel also had contact with her children on Sundays. She and Brakespeare would compare notes, and cry on each others shoulders over the pain of saying goodbye to them.
Mel seemed to be in either a wonderfully happy mood, or depressed state. She didn’t seem to have an even temperament. Sometimes when they met in the house, she would ignore him, or at best find it difficult to speak to him.
On other occasions she would fling her arms round him, and they very soon found themselves making love, only it was not love. From his point of view it was definitely lust, and they were able to use up each others pent up anger and frustration in mutual physical pleasure.
“Fuck Buddy” was an American phrase that Brakespeare had once come across. That just about summed it up.
There was no question of any closer relationship. While he enjoyed her slim brown body with it’s proud buttocks, and her skin like crushed velvet, Mel herself did not belief in interracial marriage. “I’m a Jamaican and I live in a tree, white honky” she would shout with peals of laughter.
Brakespeare had noticed that she only did that whenever he seemed to be unintentionally getting emotionally close to her, whether he was telling her how good she looked, or was consoling her for leaving her children with her husband. It was a defence mechanism to keep him at a distance. Yes Mel lived in her own very self contained world.
He was realistic about that. He was probably not the only man with whom she was sharing her body; not in her profession, but it was something that he would rather not think about.
When they were together she made him feel that he was the only one that mattered in her world, and he hoped that he did the same for her.
Would Mel be in the house tonight? What mood would she be in? He felt himself stir at the thought that she might be wanting him.
Suddenly he felt thirsty as he cruised into Moreton in the Marsh. He had only passed through the town on previous occasions, but remembered that on the corner, where he turned into the High Street, there was a pub. A nice pint of beer would relax him, and still keep him under the alcohol limit to dri
ve.
Sure enough the Swan Inn was on the corner, and he turned into the car park at the rear, just before the junction.
chapter fifteen
Instead of using the rear entrance, Brakespeare walked round to the front of the Pub, glancing up as he did so at the sign on the old building; an oil paining of two swans on a lake.
As he went in, he could hear laughter from a boisterous group of men in the saloon bar. He glanced at his watch. 7.15 pm. It had taken him an hour and a half to drive the fifty or so miles from Worcester. A bit early for them to be so lively!
Still in a reflective mood, he turned instead into the lounge bar. Although it was served from the same counter, and he could still hear the group clearly, it gave him some privacy. A large fat man came to the bar, and smiled and nodded without saying anything. Brakespeare looked at the row of real ale pumps before him.
“Pint of Hooky please.” He asked, indicating the Hook Norton Brewery pump.
“Jug or glass?” asked the fat man.
“Jug, please.”
The fat man wordlessly pulled the brown and foaming liquid into the dimpled pint tankard, and limited his conversation to asking for payment.
Out of the corner of his eye, Brakespeare could see that the group in the next bar seemed to be looking in his direction. Whatever it is, it’ll give them something to talk about, he thought, and moved to a table near the window, out of their line of sight.
He took a gulp of the beer. It had the unique tastes of real ale. A fore taste and an after taste, far removed from the pasteurised lagers that the big breweries relied upon to make their profit.
Now where was he in his thoughts. Ah yes, Mel. Would she be waiting? Would she be wanting? He tried not to think about her too much. It was rather sad really that the only person he looked forward to seeing, apart from the kids, was a peripatetic dancer; working in a world far removed from his own profession.
“Well, bi Jaysus, it is yer man himself.”
Brakespeare looked up as the door of the lounge bar opened, annoyed that his peace had been disturbed. He immediately recognised the plump and shambling figure coming through the door and smiled.
“Joe, what on earth are you doing here?” he said rising to his feet, and extending his right hand.
He had seen Joe Gargan but rarely since he had left the C.P.S.. Red faced, and with dark hair over the top of his ears where it had rested since the 1970’s, Joe Gargan considered himself a typical Irishman and tried to speak like one. The problem was that he was born and bred in Birmingham, and beneath the pretence had the accent to prove it. He claimed to be related to the Kennedy clan in the U.S.A., but no-one had ever seen any evidence of it. He would frequently talk about “the cousins” having done this or that, but nobody took any real notice, and feigned giving attention by nodding in feigned interest.
He had been a couple of grades below Brakespeare in the office, despite being at least a decade older.; a plodder who was almost permanently allocated road traffic cases. He had joined the C.P.S. from a local practice where he had dealt only with domestic conveyancing, and rumour was that he had been encouraged to leave the firm, rather than be made a partner.
He was a devout Catholic, well, he said he was, and went to Mass on Sundays. At the last count he was the caring father of four children, with one on the way. Brakespeare had never regarded him being anything more than an office acquaintance; in fact he regarded him as the office buffoon.
Joe was one of those people who would engage people in conversation about the most trivial of matters, and be totally oblivious of any disinterest. To an extent Brakespeare admired people like Joe, who could spin out long stories about nothing. It was a gift that he himself lacked. His own boredom threshold for small talk was low. Usually had had groaned inwardly when Joe appeared, but now he was more than happy to see someone he knew.
“Ah, begorrah, it’s the Hockey Club. We’re down for the weekend for our tournament.” He indicated in the direction of the group into the saloon bar.
Brakespeare remembered that oddly enough for his size and apparent lack of fitness, Joe had been a keen hockey player with one of the Birmingham clubs, and apparently, while not the fastest of runners, was a skilled hand with the hockey stick.
“We arrived at lunchtime” volunteered Joe.
“I thought that things seemed well under way. Well how are you; how many kids is it now.” He gestured to the seat opposite him. Joe accepted the invitation with alacrity. It was obviously a change from the throng next door; here he would have a captive audience. He plonked his own almost full glass of Guiness down on the table.
“Six.” He said proudly.
“Six? Is anything left of your wife?” No-one had ever met Mrs Gargan, and Brakespeare had the vision of an Irish washerwoman, with a wrap-round pinafore and a turban, elbowing her way through her children to do her domestic duties.
“Ah, she’s fine, mind you, that’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“I’ve had the snip.”
“A vasectomy? Does the Pope know?” The question slipped out before Brakespeare had time to retrain himself. Typically, it seemed to wash over Joe, as did most jokes.
“Well, I didn’t tell him. I did confess it to the priest.”
“What did he say.”
“He said that God already knew about it, and left it at that.”
“Well I think that you’ve done enough for the population Joe. So how’s work?”
“Something a man has to do. Not a lot’s changed since you left. Never does in the C.P.S.. Still I’m building up my pension fund. And how’s you. Are you back in harness yet?”
Joe had been swift in turning the conversation. That would have been his motive for coming into the lounge bar; to find out what Brakespeare was up to. That would give him fuel for a week’s conversations back at work.
“Yes, just got back on my feet.”
That was not enough for Joe.
“Locally?” indicating the immediate countryside with his head.
“No Worcester. I’ve just finished my first week there. I’m on my way home to Milton Keynes. I moved out of Birmingham after….” He was trying to think of an elegant phrase to cover his situation, but Joe nodded in understanding.
“What are you doing? Crime?”
“General litigation, but only as a locum. I’ve only got one criminal case. Funnily enough, or not funnily, depending on how you look at it, it involves the National Bank.”
Joe looked surprised. “They’re not in trouble, are they.”
Brakespeare laughed. “Well they may be if our defence succeeds. No I’m acting for a surveyor involved in a big mortgage fraud case.”
Joe was silent. Brakespeare waited.
“Was the chap called Blackberry or something?” asked Joe, searching for a name.
Brakespeare looked startled. “Newberry, yes.”
Joe looked at him seriously as he always did when he thought that he had a prime piece of useful information.
“That’s a load of rubbish.”
“How do you know Joe.”
“ ’Cos I handled the case,” said Joe pompously.
“You what?” said Brakespeare unable to hide his incredulity. Unless things had changed, Joe would never have been allowed near such a case.
“Yes, when the case came in for advice, they gave it to me to look at.” He was now fully aware that he would have Brakespeare’s earnest attention.
“And?”
“As I said load of rubbish. No evidence that your man ever did a dodgy valuation.”
Brakespeare thought a moment. “Let me get this straight Joe. The Police brought the case into Birmingham C.P.S.. to look at; the file was given to you, and you said that there was no case to answer?”
“That’s right. I went through all the tests. We could never have secured a conviction. Mind you I thought yer man was a bit shady.” He looked disapprovingly as if it was somehow Brakespeare’s fault.
/> Brakespeare thought rapidly, and rubbed his upper lip with his tongue.
“Joe if you don’t mind me asking, how did you get the case.”
Joe didn’t mind. In fact he was flattered to be asked, because he obviously had a story to tell.
“Well you know that Clive Masters?” he asked, knowing full well that Brakespeare did. He received a nod in response. Joe lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.
“Well he and the Boss are both Freemasons – and in the same Lodge.”
Brakespeare involuntarily raised his eyebrows.
“Did you not know that, my man?” asked Joe, delighted to have scored a hit.
Brakespeare shook his head. “The Boss is still Adrian Miles?”
“Chief Prosecuting Solicitor for Birmingham. The same.”
Again Brakespeare shook his head. Should he have known? No, the Masons had never really interested him. He had been invited with his wife to one or two Ladies Festivals, and had enjoyed them, but the Lodges he had been to were populated by small business men and shopkeepers, revelling in the ceremony and trappings of Freemasonry. He assumed that there were Masonic Lodges, where the members came from a higher strata of society; wasn’t the Duke of Kent the top man? Like the Round Table, compulsory socialising had never appealed to him.
Joe was nodding his head as if to make sure that he had made his point clear.
“….and so?” asked Brakespeare. Joe pulled his chair close to the table and indicated that Brakespeare should do likewise. He lowered his voice for full effect.
“Well, the story is that when Masters discovered that the National had lost so much money just before it became a bank, he needed someone to carry the can, because he had been dangling carrots in front of Schumacher Weinstein, the big American investment bank .” Joe paused. “He couldn’t let them know that it was his commercial decisions which had lost the money, and so he had to find someone to blame; just as he did with you and your partners..”
A spasm ran through Brakespeare. Joe’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“So Masters asked the Chief Constable – who is also in the Masons - to investigate; implied that his staff in London had been up to no good and doing things behind his back. The Chief didn’t want to do it. Said it was a civil matter, but Masters wouldn’t let go. Seems he’s higher up in the Masons than the Chief, but the Chief has aspirations too. They say he wants to become Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and to get that job you have to have the right connections. He seems to think that the Masons will help. Whether that’s true or not I don’t know.”