‘Ha ha!’ Richard laughed. ‘That’d teach him. Was he arrested?’
‘Yes. If any one of them had been there alone they’d have shared a drink and said nothing, but because everyone was there they had to appear to be shocked and offended. Hypocrisy isn’t a half of it. He was stripped of office and sentenced to two hundred lashes, but he skipped the country and fled back to Paris. As far as I know he’s still there.’
Richard said: ‘And that was when you learnt that playing the game was fun.’
‘Yes. It was wonderful. I’d never felt anything like it before.’ She turned to him and placed a hand on his stomach. ‘Shall we have another try at the casino, see how your luck is running?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
‘But not just yet, though,’ she said, and moved closer to him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I couldn’t remember the name of the department I needed. Once we had a murder squad, which is self-explanatory and therefore too snappy and simple for the modern police force, so they changed it to the homicide and major enquiry team. While they were at it they changed the fraud squad into the economic crime unit and the serious fraud office became the serious organised crime agency. We don’t have a trivial organised crime agency. More accurately, these bodies became HMET, ECU and SOCA. Then there’s the NACP, NBPA, NCOF, NCPE, and so on. I logged on and scoured the Home Office glossary of obscure names but couldn’t find what I wanted amongst all the junk, so I rang someone.
‘What do they call that lot who look into the antics of the animal rights people and the anti-abortionists and the anti-fur coats lobby and the anti-third runway pressure groups and every other anti-something crowd?’ I asked.
‘Is that you, Charlie?’ came the reply.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s nice to hear from you, and I’m feeling fine, in case you’re interested.’
‘Long time no see. How are you?’
‘Top of the world. How are you?’
‘Terrible, fed up, over-worked. So who are they?’
‘Have you looked in the Almanac?’
‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘It only comes out once a year. They change these names more often than I change my mind.’
‘You’re allowed to write amendments in the back, you know.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. Any ideas?’
‘Hang on…Yes, here we are: you want the national extremism technical coordination unit, known as NETCU. Self-explanatory, really, don’t you think?’
‘Like an Ikea instruction manual,’ I replied. ‘Do you have a number?’ I wrote it down, then asked: ‘As a matter of interest, where are they based?’
‘A secret location somewhere on a trading estate in the heart of England.’
I thanked him profusely, promised to join him for a drink the next time I was in London, and rang the number. In seconds I was asking a DS if they’d ever heard of the Reverend Jonathan Leary, or if there was a cell of anti-abortion activists in Oldfield.
That drew a double negative, but I learnt that the anti-abortion movement was having a small renaissance and that an American sky pilot with extreme views and a huge television congregation was due to address a rally in Oldfield at the weekend, at the start of a UK tour. They’d tried and failed to have him denied entry, and it was feared there’d be clashes between opposing groups outside his meetings. In the US Bible Belt they shoot doctors who perform abortions, and he was vociferous in his support of this, referring to the gunmen as American heroes.
‘Any talk like that,’ I was told, ‘and we’ll have him by the short and curlies and he’ll be on the next plane home.’
‘But you’ve never heard of Jonathan Leary?’ I asked again.
‘He’s not on our database, but we’ll soon make that right.’
‘Will you be having a word with Oldfield about expecting trouble, or do you want me to?’
‘We’ll take care of it.’
‘OK. Thanks for your help.’
So that was that. The reverend was gearing up for a pitched battle in defence of the sanctity of life from what he regarded as the forces of evil, and I’d had him put on record as a possible trouble-causer bordering on terrorist. Within minutes he’d be listed by MI5 and his chances of employment in certain fields would be mysteriously blocked. I didn’t know if this would mean within the Church but I wouldn’t be betting on him ever becoming an archbishop. I felt a heel, wondered if I’d done him a disservice, but I could live with it.
Next I rang Gillian Birchall. ‘This is coming to be a habit,’ she said, after I’d introduced myself in case she didn’t recognise my husky tones.
‘If it’s inconvenient let me know,’ I told her, but she said it wasn’t.
‘I’ve spoken to the Reverend Leary,’ I began, ‘and I was wondering how you stood on abortion. Is there an official school policy?’
‘Abortion?’ she replied. ‘We don’t talk about it. The girls are too young, in my opinion. We only have them until they are eleven, but some more so-called progressive schools may raise the subject with girls of that age.’
‘But you’re not anti-abortion?’
‘The school or me personally? I believe in freedom of choice, Inspector, although I’m uncomfortable with the thought of late abortions. The school doesn’t have an opinion. How do you feel about it?’
‘Me?’ I replied, slightly off my guard. ‘I feel the same as you, except I’m a man, and as such don’t believe I should have a vote on the subject.’
‘Can I ask what this has to do with the Reverend Leary?’ she asked, so I told her that he’d given all the right answers about evolution, but I’d taken a peek inside his shed and seen the prolife placards that he was manufacturing. Then I told her about the rally.
‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve never heard of him being associated with anything like that. Do you think he could be behind my problem? I’d say it was a preposterous idea.’
‘Have you ever spoken out supporting abortion?’ I asked, ‘or had conversations about it with people you don’t know too well?’
‘No, never. Well, not since college, and my views on the subject aren’t all that obdurate.’
‘Have you ever given advice on the subject, to a former pupil, for example?’
‘No.’
‘Then I suspect we’re looking up a blind alley. Try not to worry about it.’
‘I won’t, and Inspector…’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for taking me seriously. I appreciate it.’
I made myself a coffee and took it down to the incident room, sipping it while staring at the drawing of Magdalena that I’d done all those years ago. She was handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, with a Slavic slant to her eyes that added to her exoticism. Plenty of men would want to make love to her, that was certain, but did any of them want a more permanent relationship? Bedable but not wed-able? How many times had she woken after a night of passion to find the other side of the bed cold and empty? The sexual revolution was well under way, back then, but for some it was a hollow experience, undertaken because that’s what you did, and hey, we were having a good time, weren’t we? Weren’t we? Weren’t we?
Is that why she fell in with a roughneck like Ennis – because he offered her stability, something more permanent than the hippie crowd she moved with could offer? Until he started robbing banks and was put in the slammer for a third of a lifetime. The best third.
And then there was the money. Whatever happened to that? I sat and thought about it, there in the windowless incident room with the fan blowing across me every half-minute and a fluorescent light flickering above the whiteboard. We didn’t allow the cleaners or the janitor in there while it was active with a case, so we’d have to put up with the flickering tube or replace it ourselves. That would involve completing a risk assessment report and a stores requisition chitty for the tube. It never ends.
A phone rang on one of the desks. It was Dav
e. ‘Hi, Chas,’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been hiding all morning?’
‘Important stuff to deal with, Dave. Any news to tell me?’
‘’Fraid not. The trail’s colder than a polar bear’s rump. Do you want a sandwich bringing in?’
‘Yes please.’
‘What sort?’
‘Ham with the slightest trace of French mustard.’
‘What do you want it in?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘What sort of bread, dumbo?’
‘Oh. Any sort. Wholemeal. Sliced. Anything.’
‘What about a pudding?’
‘Yoghurt. Strawberry yoghurt.’
‘Yoghurt? How long have you been eating yoghurt?’
‘OK, an Eccles cake then, if asking for a yoghurt would ruin your credibility with the lady who runs the sandwich shop.’
‘I don’t think she sells yoghurt. Is anybody else in?’
‘No, just me.’
‘Right. Won’t be long.’
I found the original file for the robbery that put Ennis inside and looked for the name of the investigating officer. Then I rang the national association of retired police officers and asked if he was still alive. He was, and they gave me his number after checking with him. I knew they would – there’s nothing a retired bobby likes more than being phoned and asked about one of his cases. Usually we have trouble getting people to talk; with old-timers it’s getting them to stop.
He listed the statistics first, making it sound like the biggest heist ever: second only to the great train robbery; biggest in Yorkshire; nearly a murder; violent; hardly any money recovered.
‘But we got them all,’ he went on. ‘The ringleader was a man called Ennis. Peter Paul Ennis. Nasty piece of work. Threatened to set a girl alight, sprinkled her with petrol. He denied everything, but the others grassed him up when they learnt how much he made out of it. That’s why the judge came down on him. He showed no remorse, the money wasn’t found, and he terrorised that poor girl. Twenty-five years, he got. I expect he was out in what? Twelve?’
‘He served full term,’ I said. ‘All twenty-five. He came out last August, and because he’d served full term he was free to go where he wanted, without leaving a forwarding address. He wasn’t on licence.’
‘So you don’t know where he is?’ There was a note of alarm in his voice, as if I was ringing to tell him to watch his back.
‘Yes we do.’ I assured him. ‘He’s back inside. He’s stir-crazy, couldn’t hack it on the outside after all those years, so had himself put away again. When you were investigating him did you ever meet his girlfriend, a lady called Magdalena?’
There was a long silence as he thought about it. I wasn’t sure how old he was but he could have been quite ancient or not much older than me.
‘Magdalena?’ he repeated. ‘No, I never met her. Ennis was a loner, we thought. Actually, most of the investigation revolved around his fellow conspirators. It was such a professional job that we decided that they’d be the weak link, so we looked for them. We were right. They soon started flashing their new-found wealth around and that led us to Ennis. We had him bang to rights, so the investigation was wound down.’
I wasn’t sure it would stick nowadays, but I’d had an admission out of Ennis, so justice had been done. I said: ‘You must have been delighted.’
‘And proud,’ he replied. ‘It was the highlight of my career. I retired two years later, but I knew I’d never have another case like that one.’
I did the maths and decided he was ancient. Still as bright as a button, though. ‘Tell me about the petrol,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard conflicting reports. Was it petrol or was it water? Ennis swore to me that it was non-inflammable carpet cleaner.’
‘It was lighter fuel. If anything, more volatile than straight petrol. We took it to the fire station and they did tests on it, saw them with my own eyes. It was highly inflammable, believe me.’
‘Scout’s honour?’ I asked. It wouldn’t be unknown for the tin to be switched to strengthen the case against Ennis.
‘It was lighter fuel, as it said on the tin. He even struck a match during the robbery, to frighten the girl. She was within an ace of being burnt alive. So why are you looking into the case again? What’s brought it up?’
I couldn’t be bothered telling him all about Magdalena, so I said: ‘The money was never found so the case was never actually closed. We were hoping that Ennis might lead us to it, but he’s as mad as a snake.’
He was happy with that and wished me luck. I thanked him for his help and rang off.
Dave came in, pushing the door open with his backside because he was carrying a bundle of paper bags in one hand, his car keys between his teeth and a five-foot fluorescent tube in the other hand.
‘Where did you get this?’ I asked as I helped him unload.
‘The caretaker’s cupboard. We’ll all be having epileptic fits if we don’t do something about that flipping light. The beef looked nicer than the ham, so that’s what I’ve brought. Is that OK?’
A bluebottle had followed him in and was buzzing around the room, bumping into things because its compound eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom after the brightness outside. I drew one at school, once, and remembered about the compound eyes. The biology mistress, Miss Forté, used to come and sit next to me because she liked to watch me draw. That was probably the first time I fell in love.
‘I said is that OK?’
‘Sorry, Dave. I was miles away.’
‘I brought beef. Is that OK?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘And, ’specially for you, strawberry yoghurt.’
‘You’re an angel. What say we go have a picnic in the square?’
‘Is that your lucky red dress?’ Richard asked.
‘It’s my lucky colour,’ Fiona told him. She didn’t disclose that the original hadn’t survived her boyfriend’s removal technique. They were freshly showered and powdered, tanned and perfumed, her hair floating around her face like a swirling mist, his freshly gelled and spiked, as they strode purposefully towards the casino. To the casual onlooker they were a typical, well-heeled cosmopolitan couple, out to enjoy themselves by gambling away some of their wealth.
In the casino they passed the tables where the proper gamblers played, ignored the wheels in the main hall and headed towards the furthermost recesses, where the lowering of the lights was compensated for by the raising of the stakes, and formal dress was de rigueur. The doorman outside the salon privé gave a smile of recognition and reached for the door handle, but Richard gave a slight shake of the head and pointed forward, towards the salon super-privé, where the high rollers played. The doorman gave him a look that said ‘Of course, monsieur, my mistake,’ and let go of the handle.
The salon super-privé is normally opened by appointment only, for known clients, but where money is involved rules can be surprisingly flexible. Messages were passed, some electronically, some by imperceptible gestures, and when the handsome couple arrived at the heavy door it was pulled open without any hindrance to their progress. Richard smiled an acknowledgement to the doorman and they plunged into the room’s opulent gloom. Outside, they’d not noticed the two large paintings in the Romantic style depicting the muses of Folly and Fortune, gazing down on all who fell under the spell of the wheel.
The two men already at the table looked up at the newcomers and Richard gave a do you mind gesture, which was rewarded by a wave of the hand towards the vacant places. One of the players looked like the American they’d seen before, now resplendent in dinner suit and black tie. The other was a heavy man with a moustache and perspiration problem. The woman standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders was over six feet tall, with platinum blonde hair and high cheekbones. Fiona looked at the couple and a shiver of recognition ran through her.
Richard spread his chips on the green baize then divided them into small towers. There were nineteen at €50,000 each and a further ten at €5,00
0, making a total of €1,000,000. He couldn’t afford to lose it, but had no intention to. If he stayed on the even money bets he’d win as many as he lost. And he had a system.
Every spin of the wheel comes up red or black, regardless of the number. The chances of it stopping on the same colour for three consecutive spins were slim. Therefore, if it came up red twice in a row, you bet on the black. Richard didn’t appreciate that this broke one of the cardinal rules, namely: what has gone before can have no effect whatsoever on what is about to happen. It was true that the chances of three in a row were relatively slim – the same as for a tossed coin falling heads three times in a row – but that was before the first two rolls. After them, the odds were even money on the third roll being the same. It was written in the rules of mathematics.
He started modestly, with €5,000 on black, and lost. Then he won twice which put him €5,000 ahead. After half an hour he was €10,000 down and looking for another win. Red came up twice so he put one of the big chips, all €50,000 worth, on black. It came up, and he was well in front.
From then on he played with the big chips, rolling one between his fingers, à la James Bond, as he watched the ball dance across the numbers. They were made of ivory, inlaid with gold wire, and embedded inside each was a unique radio frequency ID tag that enabled the management to monitor each client’s worth as well as protect against forgery. Black came up again and the male croupier pushed his annual salary towards Richard as nonchalantly as he might pass a bowl of sugar across the table to his wife.
Croupiers go to training school for six months before they are allowed on the tables. There’s a popular belief that they spend most of that time practising how to make the ball land on a certain sector of the wheel, opposite any big bet. It’s probably not true, but it may be. It may just load the wheel another couple of points in favour of the casino. Richard didn’t believe it, but it was another good reason to stay with the fifty-fifty bets. Nobody could control them.
Grief Encounters Page 21