The Bad Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

‘All right, if that stuff’s not what turns you on, maybe I can find you something else? What you like? Lezzies at it? Or is it nice little innocent kiddiwinks?’

  ‘Got some of that, have you?’

  He kept his voice hard into neutral.

  Norman Teggs sidled in and picked up a cardboard carton from the floor. He ripped off the shiny brown sealing tape, dipped in and came out with a video marked only with a title on a plain white label.

  He thrust it towards Jack.

  Two Little Darlings Get A Lesson in Love.

  For a moment Jack was tempted just to put his fist hard into the stomach opposite him. But he reminded himself there was something else he wanted.

  ‘You lousy bugger,’ he said. ‘That’s the very last thing to give me a hard-on. Christ, I’d like to …’

  Norman Teggs stepped back. The tip of his tongue went sliding from side to side of his pinched-up lips.

  ‘Could give you something better than a hard-on,’ he said at last.

  ‘What’s that, then?,

  Landed the scrote. Surely.

  ‘Bit of dosh. Look, I ain’t doing nothing really wrong, am I?’

  ‘Kiddy porn. You’re doing kiddy porn, and you’re doing nothing wrong? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Well, all right. Some o’ that goes a bit far, I grant. But I could take that into account according.’

  ‘I should bleeding well hope so. Don’t try and blind me you don’t make a hell of a lot every time you sell a tape like this.’

  He could see relief slowly rising up in the nasty little shit. A straightening of the back. A puffing-out of the narrow chest.

  ‘Couple o’ hundred notes be any good to you?’

  ‘Two hundred? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Well, no. No. That was just a figure, like. I mean, I’d go to five. All the way to five.’ A sudden spurt of pale-flame courage. ‘But I couldn’t go to no more. Five’s your limit. I ain’t no big-timer, you know. I ain’t no Harry Hook, nor no one like him.’

  ‘Never mind Harry Hook. It’s you we’re thinking about. You and the three-stretch you’ll likely get if you come up before the Bench. They’re downright hard on porn, the magistrates here.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could …’

  ‘A straight thou. Don’t tell me you ain’t got that much stashed away somewhere on the premises. Your sort don’t go toddling round to the bank, put it all in National Savings.’

  ‘But I haven’t got anything like that much, mister. Honest I haven’t.’

  ‘No? No more than what you didn’t have the key to this little copy-shop. So just cut it out. I haven’t got all day, you know, and I’d just as rather have a shitbag like you on my arrest sheet as have your filthy money. So, quick about it.’

  The look of overwhelming fright firmly back in place.

  ‘All right, all right.’

  ‘That’s a bit better. And one other thing …’

  ‘What you want now?’

  ‘Those videos. The kiddy ones. In the fire, every last one of them. And I’ll be back one day, see it’s done.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it. I never much liked ‘em, if you must know. Sickening really. Downright sickening.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what they bloody well are. Whether you say so or not. So get them burnt. Right?’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  ‘And don’t forget what we agreed neither. Come on, cough up.’

  Five minutes later, folded wad of notes stuffed into the inner pocket of his coat, Jack stepped out again into the chilly bright sunshine.

  He took a long, deep breath.

  Chapter Four

  After stopping off at a pub for a bite to eat - he had needed a couple of whiskies with it to wash away the taste of the Video Magic transaction - Jack found himself going past a betting shop. At once he thought of April Fool for the two o’clock at Uttoxeter.

  Two o’clock. Good God, must be almost that now. Or past it. Missed my chance?

  And, even as he pushed up the sleeve of his coat to see his watch, he became convinced April Fool would by now have romped home an easy winner. Or would be in the act of doing so that minute, moving to the front, jockey’s whip flailing.

  No. All right, by Christ. Five minutes to go.

  He swung round, banged his way into the shop. Darting glances to left and right, he saw the monitor screens high up along the walls were still showing the prices for the two o’clock at Uttoxeter. And there was April Fool at 7-1.

  Bloody good odds.

  He snatched a paper slip from the nearest dispenser, and, hardly allowing himself to think, scribbled down 2 o’c Uttoxeter—April Fool—

  And, knowing in an instant flash of feeling that this was what he had to do with Norman Teggs’s ill-gained money, he scribbled down a final £1,000 to win.

  From his inner pocket he snatched the wad of notes he had stuffed there and strode across to the counter.

  Perhaps I’ll be too late. Be stopped from taking the risk.

  But, when he thrust the money and the slip across, the comfortably plump lady clerk behind the grille seemed only a little taken aback at the size of this last-minute bet. Looking up for a moment at the clock on the wall beside her, she then simply pushed the slip into the slit on her till and registered the bet.

  Christ, what a fool I’ve been.

  Madness. A thousand quid. There in my pocket. In an hour from now I could have been squatting down there in the garden, shoving my trowel under that clump of aubrietia. Should be coming into flower soon, makes a lovely show every year. Then haul out the old Cadbury’s Roses tin and put in almost a quarter as much again as I’ve got there already.

  Something a bit better than those chocs and sweets old Lily gobbled up that Christmas I gave her the big round tin. Coloured wrappers all over the place.

  God, and now I’m risking that much bloody cash on the chance of a horse at seven-to-one getting first past the post over at faraway Uttoxeter. Don’t rightly know where that is, even. Christ. Madness. Total bloody madness.

  Sick with his own stupidity, he stood where he was, staring at nothing, oblivious of the other punters studying the racing pages of the papers pinned along the walls, filling out slips or waiting to see the results on the screens. He sensed nothing of the grey layer of cigarette smoke all round. He heard nothing of the monotonous voice from the TV announcing changes in the odds at other meetings.

  ‘Bloody April Fool, might have known.’

  The sharp voice from somewhere near came to him like something in a dream. But April Fool, the name had brought him back to life.

  What had that bloke meant? That April Fool, as he should have known, had never been in with a hope? If that was the result, perhaps it was all for the best. Bloody tainted money.

  Or had that comment meant …?

  He looked up to the nearest screen. And there it was.

  Uttoxeter 2.00

  1st 6 April Fool (7-1)

  2nd 3 Bouncy Boy (6-4 Fav)

  3rd 8 Mr Frisby (4-1)

  Seven thousand quid. I’ve won seven thousand quid, give or take a little for tax. Seven thousand. Jesus, enough to put down the deposit on the bungalow, and with a few quid over. No, on the cottage. I’ll definitely call it a cottage now. April Cottage. Call it that to Lil. Make her see it as the home she’s always wanted. Go on about roses round the door, and, yes, by God, garden full of lilies. Lilies all the way. Every variety, every colour.

  Waiting till he could go over and collect his winnings, a shadow passed over the glittering fairy castle he had just built up. All right, he’d got enough to put down the deposit on a bungalow in Devon, and he’d hardly managed to accumulate that much in all the years he had been adding to the nest-egg. But the whole total he had now, putting the two sums together, was far from what he would need to complete the purchase. Which meant a heavy loan round his neck more or less for the rest of his life. If he could even get the loan.

  And as for that dream o
f Lily’s about some Pacific island … for God’s sake, pie in the sky if ever there was.

  In the end it was a good deal more than an hour later before Jack reached home and went out to dig under his clump of thick-growing, ground-covering aubrietia where he hid away the Cadbury’s Roses sweets tin with its cache of slowly collected nobody-knows-about money. First, he had visited, as he had in no way expected to do, the branch of the estate agency where months ago he had first seen the Devon bungalows advertised. There he had found - my lucky day, definitely - April Cottage still unsold.

  But as soon as he had got home, he went out, while the daylight lasted, with no more than a called-out greeting to Lily, and lifting up the thick tangle of aubrietia, he added to his nest-egg several hundred pounds left after handing over the six thousand deposit.

  Pity, he thought as he scraped the damp earth off the top of the Roses tin, that all the lolly has to get put away here. The really good thing to do when you’d got more cash than your police pay warranted was have a wife with a business of her own. Far better than the risk of keeping bank accounts elsewhere, with all the complication records and procedures create. There were always rumours about officers, high-ups often, who had set up their wives with a hairdressing establishment or a little restaurant. Employ just a bit of what’s called creative accounting and you could absorb into a business like that thousands of pounds with no one ever needing to know anything. All ready when retirement days came for the pair of them to live on in style.

  But Lily, bless her, too much of a birdbrain even to run a newsagent’s. She’d just sit there all day, looking pretty as a picture, reading the fancy magazines from the stock and dreaming of all the nice things she’d like to buy. Place’d be bankrupt inside a year.

  He eased the tight-fitting lid off the tin, took a look inside just to reassure himself the bundles of notes were still in place - no need to count them, he knew almost to a penny how much, how little, there was - stuffed the new batch in on top of the old, thumbed the lid firmly back down, pushed the tin deep into its hole and trowelled the earth over it once more.

  With a groan he straightened his back, got to his feet.

  A wave of sick-feeling came and went. Yes, he really was beginning to get too old for this lark.

  Or so he thought sometimes.

  Carefully he scraped the wet earth off his trowel, took it to the shed, wiped it well. Tools rusted all too easily. Let a bit of damp slimy earth cling to them and before you know it a little patch of rust starts up somewhere. And then, carry on being careless, and all too soon it’s too late to do anything about it. Rust spreads, bit by bit, and one day rivets to the handle go all loose. Then all you can do is chuck the thing away.

  Heavily, feeling the ache in his back, he made his way indoors.

  Lily was there in the lounge.

  Jesus, how pretty she looked, curled up in a corner of the big armchair she specially liked. Box of chocs on the little table beside her. As per usual. But, pop them in as she might, she hadn’t lost her looks. Or, hardly. Little bit plumper than when he’d courted her - and, by heck, she’d been hard to get, what with all the competition - but still a fine figure of a woman. Petite. Be forty-nine next birthday, July the tenth, but you’d never know it. Curls as golden-yellow as they’d been when, at last, ruddy besieging her with presents, he’d chased off the opposition.

  All right, there’s a bottle of stuff on the bathroom shelf she uses on her hair sometimes. Well, once a week. But that’s only for touching up here and there. And her skin. Even in bed at night, when she’s creamed her bit of war-paint off, she still looks like a thirty-year-old. That pink-and-white. Like coconut ice, that’s what I used to say. Till she told me she didn’t like being made to sound like a tray of sweets in a shop window. When I switched to calling her my little English rose. But still sometimes feel I could eat her. Sometimes? Nearly bloody always.

  And in bed. In bed, when she wants to be nice, things better even than they were that first time. More than better.

  When she wants to be nice …

  Because, by Christ, she can use that, old Lil. First car we got. On and on at me for it. Just not listening when I told her there simply wasn’t the cash.

  ‘You could get a bank loan. Banks are always happy to lend to the police. Mike Mellish told me that.’

  ‘Yes, and look at Mike. Always trying to borrow the odd fiver even from blokes just come into the CID like me. And never ever paying anything back. The banks’ll lend you all right, but they want their interest. Police or no police.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Mellish seems to manage. That motor of his is a lovely job.’

  ‘Yes, and you know how he paid for it? By being on the take. That’s how. And, mark my words, he’ll come to a sticky end one day over that.’

  But Detective Sergeant Mike Mellish never did come to a sticky end. Or not as far as I heard. Away in another force somewhere. Probably retired already. Living on the fat of the land.

  So then there came the Strike. Nothing whatsoever in the way of bed. Not so much as a kiss or a cuddle. Week after week. And no way I could take what I wanted by force. What they call marital rape now. And well she knew it, my little English rose.

  So in the end it was getting hold of some real money, the Mike Mellish way. And Lily got her car. Learnt to drive, too. In about a month. Probably sweet-talked the test examiner into passing her, come to think of it. Well capable of that.

  So it had been I ain’t never going to go in a bus ever again. And reward between the sheets. All over the bedroom, and out on to the stairs too, truth to tell. Lucky we never had kids. Wake up and find Mum and Dad at it up against the banisters.

  My Lily.

  ‘Hello, darling, there you are, then. All finished in the garden? Bit more popped in the old Cadbury’s Roses?’

  ‘Yeah. Just about.’

  When he had first come home he had been careful to avoid saying anything about April Cottage. For one thing, it would have meant mentioning his big bet, and Lily never liked him putting money on the horses. Or drinking very much, come to that.

  There’d been a bit of a strike about that too, one time. In the days when he’d still been a twelve pints a night man. And she’d won that one as well. Quicker than with the great car strike.

  One thing, though, giving up drinks with the boys end of the day, almost expected of you after you got married. But quite another matter deciding to get that car cash, in whatever way it had to be got.

  God, but that was a long time ago. Married nearly twenty-nine years now. Twenty-nine bloody years. And I’m still dead struck on her. Got to admit it. Only been over the side a couple of times. Or maybe three. Well, four, say. And that only when it was pushed in front of me, in place of hard cash. Fair enough then, take what was offered.

  But the real reason why he had decided to say nothing to Lily just yet about what he had done that afternoon was that, by the time he had turned into his own street, he had ceased to feel at all sure that putting down the deposit on April Cottage would be something that delighted her. So he had just called out he was back and needed to go out to the garden, and then had gone straight through and into the shed to collect his trowel.

  So all he did now was to reply to her with much the sort of say-nothing question she had greeted him with.

  ‘How about you then, ducks? What sort of a day you have?’

  ‘Oh, all right. Bit boring. Had my hair done, that new place. Bet you never even noticed.’

  ‘Oh, I did. Straight away. Only I wanted to get out to the garden, before it got dark.’

  ‘So, what d’you think?’

  ‘Think? Oh, your hair. Looks very nice. I was saying that to myself when I was in the shed, cleaning up the trowel.’

  ‘You and your old trowel.’

  Yes, right not to mention April Cottage and a garden full of lilies. Likes flowers all right, my Lil, but mostly if they come wrapped in shiny paper.

  ‘I got something tasty for su
pper, Jackie. Popped into the supermarket, bought a couple of those Chicken Kievs.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘And you? What sort of a day you have? Caught any more criminals?’

  ‘Well, as you reckoned, I did get meself a nice little contribution to the nest-egg.’

  ‘Nest-egg, nest-egg. I wish you wouldn’t call it that. Makes it sound all titchy and cosy. No romance in it.’

  Tell her after all the nest-egg was not as titchy as it had been? Or tell her, rather, what I’ve done with what I could’ve put in that tin? Show her it’s all a bit more romantic than she thinks?

  Only it ain’t. A bungalow in Devon won’t be Lil’s idea of romance. No way. That sodding Pacific island she’s got on the brain. That’ll be what she wants. What she saw on telly. Bloody tourist programme. That place. Ko Sammy whatsit.

  No, wait till the right moment. If it ever comes. Or at least wait till there’s nothing else for it but to bring out the bloody truth.

  ‘Yeah, well, it still is pretty titchy, the nes— I mean, there’s no getting past that.’

  ‘But what about that Councillor Symes burglary? Was what you got today from the fellow who did that? You told me, soon as you got back in Sunday night, you knew who it was. Fancy calling you out to that at almost midnight. The cheek.’

  ‘More like Monday morning when I got back. And, yes, I was right about who it was. But I had to go to his place with a ruddy woman aide, and, damn it, she went and found the loot in the attic there. So Jinkie Morrison’s tucked away in a cell now. Poor sod.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about any poor sod. He had laid his hands on all that stuff from Councillor Symes, after all. His wife’s jewellery and everything. Wasn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, old Symes has got it all back now. Or will have when they’ve put Jinkie away and the evidence ain’t needed no longer.’

  ‘You know, you might get a word of thanks from Councillor Symes, clearing it up so quickly, getting him everything back. Be nice for you. By rights he ought to give us a dinner invite or something.’

  ‘Dinner invite from him? He wouldn’t invite us to share a packet of crisps. Toffee-nosed sod.’