The Bad Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘… and what I’d like to be sure is: has our hotel got air-conditioning? Did I tell you I went to the travel agent’s the other day, got a lovely Ko Samui brochure, and I saw that all the big hotels—’

  ‘Lil. Lil, for Christ’s sake, shut up. Didn’t you hear that? On the TV?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jack. What could be on TV that’s more important than this? Forget your racing results and your blinking bets. We’re off to Ko Samui. The island that time forgot. Just think—’

  ‘You just think, damn it. Emslie Warnaby’s sold Abbotputers. He’s sold the whole bloody firm. He’s picked up five million quid and gone skedaddling off. And - and the deeds of our little hotel out there. They were signed by fucking Emslie. Chairman Abbotputers plc. We were given the place by Abbotputers. Do you think we’re going to still get it now?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Jack left Lily standing where she was and ran out to the car. Almost a madman in his wildness, he flung aside the floor covering at the back where he had tucked away the deeds and tickets before going to his nearly fatal interview with Detective Superintendent Detch, sir. He opened out the stiff paper of the deeds. With the hungry fury of a ditch-digging machine eating into the earth, standing where he was beside the still open door of the car, he went one by one through the interminable legal paragraphs.

  And, as he had thought - as in fact he had known in an instant the moment he had heard those words in the region of five million pounds belching out of the TV - it was plain the sale of the Calm Seas Hotel, Ko Samui, was by Abbotputers plc itself, and that to take effect it would have had to be signed by Abbotputers’ chairman. But there opposite Emslie Warnaby’s flourish of a signature was not even today’s date but tomorrow’s. When from yesterday, or even a day or two before, Emslie Warnaby had no longer been chairman of Abbotputers plc.

  Taking no bloody chances were Emslie and that sly bitch Anna Foxton.

  The deeds of the Calm Seas Hotel, Ko Samui. You’d better look them over carefully. We don’t want you coming back saying there’s something wrong.

  God, how she led me by the nose. Something wrong. Only the whole bloody transaction wrong as could be. Only the deeds deliberately post-dated to a time when it was certain Emslie Warnaby of that great big flourish of a signature would no longer be the Abbotputers boss.

  All right, I didn’t notice the date. Glad to get to the end of all the rigmarole. Dare say that’s why they dated the whole sodding document at the end instead of the beginning. Counted on stupid, gullible Detective Sergeant Stallworthy being too fucking impatient at the last to notice a tiny thing like that. And that bitch ready, I bet, with some bloody plausible explanation even if I had.

  And where would Emslie Warnaby and his precious little Anna be now? Nowhere in bloody Britain. That’s for sure. Winging their way to some Pacific island paradise of their own, if not snugly there already.

  Because - Christ, yes, there’s more to it yet - fucking Warnaby must have wanted very, very badly that blue folder slimy Symes left among all the documents seized. Jesus, hadn’t it been by a team led by Detective Chief Superintendent Detch himself? The documents in that folder, letters from Warnaby himself most likely, if signed by no more than, another bloody flourish, Emslie, would be what Symes had been keeping to show there was something dodgy about the sale of the Maximex system. His insurance in case Emslie renegued on his promise of giving him a Ko Samui hotel.

  He could see, clear in his mind’s eye, that single word in Symes’s black-ink writing on the pale blue folder at this very minute.

  Yes, this is what it’d be. The whole sodding Maximex system must be no good. Some bad miscalculation somewhere while they were designing it. And when Emslie had realized that, what he’d done was get hold of Arthur Symes, Chief Purchasing Officer of the Fisheries Development Authority, and take him and his luscious Raymonde on a no-holds-barred luxury cruise to the Far East and, as they sailed on, persuaded him into not having the Maximex system properly evaluated. So, once a major contract had been finalized with a reputable concern, the Americans would see Abbotputers plc as something worth taking over. With a golden handshake to Emslie Warnaby of five bloody million quid.

  No wonder he’d been ready to pay out such a fat bribe to the man in Abbotsport police force most likely to get hold of that damning folder for him. A folder that would reveal too early the almighty scam that, when the truth at last came to light, would lose hundreds of innocent Abbotsport people their jobs and their livelihoods. And a bribe, when what it had been offered for was safely obtained, that could be neatly made so much rubbish.

  And who was going to be blamed if it ever came out there had been, actually in police hands, a document proving Warnaby’s guilt? Good old Jack Stallworthy. That’s who. Jack Stallworthy, very nearly the owner of the Calm Seas Hotel.

  The Calm Seas Hotel. There were going to be no calm seas for Jack Stallworthy from now on. That was certain.

  Go back and explain all this to Lil?

  Not now. Not now. Jesus, I couldn’t face it. Her, most likely, not even cottoning on. And then, when I’d got through to her at last, God knows what sort of a storm we’d have. Can hardly blame her, though. Talk about snatching the cup from the lip, or whatever it was they said. Christ, worse for her than for me. I’ve been thinking I was home and dry for all of two days. She only just this moment heard we’d got it made, or so we thought, and then that newsreader’s voice had come blaring out of the TV.

  So should I, after all, go back in, put the old arm round her shoulders? offer a bit of comfort?

  But what comfort could I offer? There ain’t no comfort. Anywhere.

  He had at last simply driven into the town, put the car into its slot behind the Central Police Station, and gone wearily treading up to the CID Room, feeling sicker and sicker with every step of the stairs.

  Without much trying to work anything out, one thing was clear. He still needed his job. For a while at least. Till that medical discharge was properly fixed.

  So, get into work any later than he was already - had he been missed all morning?’ - and he could find the Guv’nor putting him on a disciplinary. And, whatever happened in the days ahead, he needed to keep his nose maximum clean.

  Take my nice, neat little medical discharge when it comes along and quietly fade from the scene. That’d be the thing. When the big Emslie Warnaby scam comes to light - Mrs Emslie, down there on her holiday in the south, creating an almighty row when she finds hubby’s gone off with little ex-secretary and all that loot - just hope and bloody pray nothing of it comes back to me. Herbie Cuddy, caught for some other blag, tryin to earn Brownie points by owning up to what had happened at Headquarters that night? Old Horatio having an attack of conscience? Mac, the suspicious bastard, smelling a rat somehow? Anything.

  ‘There you are, Stallworthy.’

  Jesus, the Guv’nor, and sounding like he’s in a right paddy. Don’t let him go on at me. The state I’m in, I’ll punch his nose or something.

  ‘You’re to go up to Headquarters. Right away.’

  Oh, God. Detchie again. About a much bigger bribe than Norman Teggs’s thousand quid this time? Offer of a hotel, the Calm fucking Seas, on the island of Ko Samui?

  But, no, it couldn’t be, not yet. Surely not yet. Unless bloody Warnaby had left a nice little note for his tenant and dinner pal, Chief Inspector Parkinson?

  ‘You’ve got to see Dr Smith. Right? And it’s urgent.

  Or so he says. Caught a dose, have you? I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  But that was the extent of it.

  He even wondered, chugging up in the car to Palmerston Park again, whether he actually had caught a dose. But, no, no, no. Hadn’t been over the side for years. Well, for a year or so at least. No, couldn’t possibly be that. Probably old Doc Smith making even more of a meal of getting him his duff discharge.

  Or … The old doc ain’t going to jib at it, is he? He can’t. He mustn’t. Not now. Not when all the plans for ever
ything have gone down the pan. No, after Detchie made that call to him, there can have only been one way he could’ve played it. Definitely.

  Unless Detchie didn’t do what he’d promised. Unless the old bugger said nothing about a nice, neat discharge when he fixed the appointment and gave the doc the hint he’d need. Could I have just hung around there to hear what was said on the blower? No. Devious old sod like Detch would never have begun that sort of conversation with a witness there to hear.

  He found somewhere to park outside Headquarters. Sat for a moment pulling himself together. Got out. Went in and up the stairs.

  Dr Smith’s secretary waved him in as soon as he put his head round the door. Sitting behind his desk, Old Smithie was looking like nothing so much as a contented little Buddha.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Stallworthy. Yes. Yes. Take a chair. Sit yourself down. Yes. Well, I asked you to come and see me again today because, quite frankly …’

  Dried to a halt.

  Was it, after all, going to be no dice on the discharge? Bugger looks solemn enough.

  A long, rattly cough.

  God, by the sound of it he needs medicine more’n I do. And I dare say I could do with a good dose of something or other, way I’m feeling this moment.

  ‘Because, as I was saying, I’m afraid I am going to have to be absolutely frank with you. The fact of the matter is that you’re in very poor shape. I was astonished when I listened to your heart this morning. I could hardly believe my ears. So I had tests done urgently on those specimens I took from you, and I’m afraid they absolutely confirm my diagnosis.’

  For an instant he’d looked mightily pleased with himself. With his sodding diagnosis. Then back had come the ultra-solemn face.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush, old fellow. There’s no point. No point at all, I’m afraid’ - get on with it, get on with it, you old fool - ‘the fact is you have been abusing your body for far too long. You’re in a terrible state all round, not just the heart. So now - well, now you’ve not got very much longer to live. Two years, I’m afraid. Two years at the outside.’

  He sat there.

  He had taken it in. It had been clear enough, despite Doc Smith’s bumbling and fart-arsing about. But he had not taken it in, either. He knew what the words had meant, but they meant nothing to him.

  Two years to live. But that couldn’t be so. A few minutes ago he had had years and years in front of him. It had never occurred to him there was anything else. He had had years to live. All right, it had turned out that they weren’t going to be years spent in the sun on Ko Samui, looking at the blue sea, watching the wind waving the stupid coconut palms about. And, no, he hadn’t really thought how all those years were going to be spent instead. April Cottage, probably, the garden, growing lilies. But there were going to be a good many years. Christ, he was only just past fifty. You didn’t die when you were in your fifties.

  Dr Smith was yakking on.

  ‘You know, old fellow, you could have dropped down dead at any time in the past year or so. At least now you’re getting some warning. I like to think, when it comes to my turn, I’ll get as much. It gives you time to - to repent - that is, to make, as it were, your dispositions.’

  Peering now at the papers in front of him.

  ‘I see you’ve got a wife. Yes, a wife. Fairer to her really for her to have time to …’

  My God. Popped off at any time. That’s what he said I could have done. At any time. Jesus, could have happened when I was hanging there from Herbie’s fucking rope-ladder. Put the cat among the pigeons all right, that would’ve done. Jesus, yes. Or, say, when I was being a sodding hero dealing with mad Marvin Hook. Drop dead then, and bloody Jane Lane wouldn’t have found it so easy to hog all the credit. Could’ve really got that A good detective on the old gravestone then.

  And what was that the old blitherer was saying? Repent? He say that? What’ve I got to - oh, well, yes. Yes, that bloody blue folder. Doing what I did there’s something to repent about. Doing it for that big, big bribe. Calm sodding Seas Hotel. Letting big-deal criminal Emslie Warnaby get away, laughing.

  Yeah, shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have done that at all. Right.

  Dazedly making his way out, going down the broad stairs like some sort of mechanical doll, a voice - distinctly ringing with cheerfulness - forced itself to his attention.

  ‘Jack! Hello there. How’s it all going?’

  It was Mac MacAllister.

  And cheerful. Brimming over with totally uncharacteristic cheerfulness. Mac, the dour Scot. Mac, the ever suspicious.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mac. Er - how’s yourself?’

  He had had difficulty finding the words. Words for the ordinary world. The world, it seemed, he had now left for ever.

  ‘I’m just fine, Jack. Fine as could be.’

  And, so bubbling over with well-being Mac was, he found despite the distant universe he felt he was now inhabiting that he was actually communicating.

  ‘You’re very bright this afternoon, Mac. Have a good holiday, did you?’

  ‘No holiday’s any good. You ought to know that. But, no, it’s what I’ve just this moment heard that’s making me feel all of a sudden on top of the world.’

  ‘Oh? And what’s that then?’

  It wasn’t as if he really wanted to know. But he felt, faintly, deep down, that perhaps he could somehow attach himself to this spilling-out good cheer. Perhaps, in the depths he had been plunged into, the as-yet-not-fully-tasted depths, Mac with this totally out-of-character sunniness might somehow be what he needed.

  ‘Team from London up here.’

  ‘London? Team? What is … ?’

  ‘From the CIB, laddie. The great old Complaints Investigation Bureau.’

  ‘Oh, yes?,

  He could hardly bring himself to take the least bit of interest.

  ‘What’s the CIB here for then?

  Mac’s eyes shone with delight.

  ‘For my auld friend Sergeant Detch, Detective Chief Superintendent Detch, as the bugger now is. That’s who they’re here for, laddie. For Detch. Corruption. Receiving undue reward to induce him to act contrary to his duty. Conspiracy so to do. As many charges as there are in the book.’

  The vigour of it penetrated a little way to him.

  ‘You mean… You mean, they’ve caught on to Detchie’s links with Harry Hook? That it? You know, I just had an inkling that was on the cards. When was it? Few days ago? Yesterday? I don’t know. Can’t even remember what it was all about.’

  A sudden sharp look came on to Mac’s face.

  ‘You all right, Jack? You look pretty terrible, laddie. Now I come to see.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m all right. Well, no. No, I’m not really. Just had a bit of bad news.’

  ‘You look as if you had. What’s the trouble then?’

  ‘Oh, it’s - it’s - well, I’ve just been seeing Doc Smith, and …’

  ‘And he’s spotted something gone agley? That it? What is it? Nothing too bad, I hope.’

  What to say?

  Hell, with it. Why shouldn’t other people know about this? Jesus, I’ve got to tell Lily in a few minutes. Got to. Might as well sort of rehearse.

  ‘Truth is, Mac, the old doc told me I ain’t long for this world. Couple of years max, he said. Seems I’ve been treating the old heart something rotten, and now I’ve got to pay for it.’

  ‘Oh, man, that’s terrible. Terrible. You poor devil. I - I had no idea. And there’s mesel’ coming out wi’ all my good news about that wicked bugger Detch, and you all the time nursing this to yourself. Listen, I was just on my way home. Going for a wee celebration. But - but, well, why don’t you come with me for a bit? No celebration. But a drop of the right stuff comes in just as well for trouble as joy.’

  And, again, something from the world as it had been until a few minutes ago came through to him.

  Mac leaving the building at this hour. Less than half-way through the afternoon. And going home for a wee celebration.
Human, after all. Mac. Even Mac.

  So why not take him up on the offer? Okay, the doc’s parting words had been all about stopping smoking, giving up drink, sick leave as from today’s date, taking things easily, fresh air and good food. But after getting news like that a fellow was entitled to a little of Mac’s right stuff.

  And generous of the Scotch sod to offer it.

  Besides, it would put off for a little the moment when he had to face Lil and tell her the whole of it.

  ‘Right. Yes, Mac. Nice of you. Very nice. And I’ll take you up on it.’

  ‘That’s the style, laddie. And have you got that car of yours here? If so, I’ll take a wee ride with you. Always glad to save a bus fare.’

  Good old Mac.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Two stiff whiskies at Mac’s had done him a lot of good. If telling Lily still seemed a task that would need all his strength, it no longer appeared impossible. And, another extraordinarily unexpected thing in a day of the totally unexpected, he had there beside him on the car’s passenger seat as he drove towards home something he could use somehow to soften the breaking of the news.

  The Lovely World of Lilies video, no less.

  Fancy, old Mac turning out to be a gardener, too. Whenever he had happened to think about him, he had always imagined that flat where he spent his holiday times, counting the days till he could get back to his files and figures, as being that and no more. A bachelor bolt-hole. But not at all. Mac, whatever impression he had liked to give, must have actually spent much of the time of his holidays, and all the time-off he ever allowed himself to take, in keeping in trim the short strip of garden that went with his ground-floor flat.