Supping with the Devil

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Paniatowski said.

  And also a little envious, she thought.

  The Mid-Lancs Police could use this kind of set-up, but given the budgetary restraints, it was as unlikely to get it as it was to discover that Superman had signed up as a special constable.

  ‘Maybe I can persuade your bright young man to use the centre of Whitebridge as his next testing area,’ she said, whimsically.

  ‘Well, you can but ask,’ Bell agreed. ‘I certainly feel happier in my own mind now that I’ve got these cameras.’

  ‘Or perhaps I could borrow yours, because – after all – the Devil’s Disciples are providing you with all the security you could possibly need,’ Paniatowski said, teasing him a little.

  But then she saw just how uncomfortable her remark seemed to make Bell feel, and she was sorry she’d spoken.

  ‘It’s just a bit of extra insurance,’ Bell said awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ she agreed readily.

  In his position, Bell needed to be a real mental gymnast, she thought. There was a part of his brain which insisted – which had to insist – that the earl’s judgement was not to be questioned. But at the same time, there was another part of it which knew that if you relied solely on the Devil’s Disciples for your security, you were asking for trouble. And somehow – except when some smart-arsed detective chief inspector made a thoughtless remark – he managed to keep these two parts of his brain from talking to each other.

  ‘The reason I’ve shown you this set-up is because I thought you might like to help me out,’ Bell said.

  ‘Help you out?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t got the manpower to have the cameras monitored round the clock, so what I thought I’d do instead was to come up here whenever I have the chance, and review the tapes.’

  ‘That sounds like a sensible plan.’

  ‘And I was thinking that perhaps – if you can spare the time – you’d do some of that monitoring for me. After all, you’re the one with the trained eye, so you’d probably spot things that I’d miss.’

  The suggestion was an act of kindness on his part, she thought – an attempt to make her feel useful – but if even people outside the force were starting to pity her, then she was really up Shit Creek without a paddle.

  Jane Lewis watched as her husband packed his suitcase. He was making a bit of a mess of it – she could have fitted things in much more neatly – but since he’d lost his job, he’d been insisting on doing any number of things he’d been quite happy to have her do previously. It all came down to the fact that now he was no longer providing for his family, he had to prove himself useful in other ways, she supposed, but really, there was no need for it.

  ‘You still haven’t told me where you’re going,’ she said, as she watched him packing shirts in a way which would virtually ensure that they would come out of the case looking as if they’d been slept in.

  ‘I’m going to Whitebridge,’ Terry replied, not looking up.

  ‘And why are you going there?’

  ‘I’m following a lead.’

  ‘What kind of lead?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into that, now.’

  It hadn’t been his fault he’d lost his job on the Globe, Jane thought – or at least, she added in fairness, not entirely his fault. The problem was that he was too easily led – that though he’d never instigate anything dubious himself, he found it hard not to go along with it once someone else had.

  ‘Have you got a commission for this story you’re chasing down, Terry?’ she asked.

  Now, her husband did look up – and there was anger in his eyes.

  ‘Of course it’s not on a bloody commission,’ he snorted. ‘Who would give a marked man like me a commission?’

  ‘So how are you …?’

  ‘I’m paying my own expenses – if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘You mean that we – the family – will be paying the expenses,’ Jane said quietly.

  ‘Anything we’ve got, we’ve got because I earned it!’ Terry said hotly. Then, a look of shame swept across his face. ‘I’m sorry. I should never have said that. We’re a partnership. I’ve earned the money, you’ve made a home for the family – and a wonderful home it is.’

  ‘It’s just that we have hardly any savings left,’ Jane said. ‘Certainly not enough to throw away on some story that may, or may not, come to anything.’

  ‘It’s not just any story,’ Terry told her. ‘It’s huge. If I can land it, all the editors on Fleet Street will be biting each other on the leg to get it, and I’ll be pretty much able to write my own ticket. A month from now I’ll have a staff job again – a much better one than I had before.’

  ‘If you can land it,’ Jane said.

  ‘I will,’ he promised her. ‘I’m ahead of the game on this one. No other hack will be able to steal the story from me this time – because nobody else even knows there is a story.’

  ‘I’m worried about you being away on your own,’ Jane said.

  ‘You mean, you’re worried I might drink myself into a stupor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I promise you, there’ll be no drinking on this trip. It’s far too important.’ Terry looked down at his suitcase. ‘I seem to have made a real mess of that,’ he said. ‘There’s no chance you could repack it for me, is there?’

  She smiled at him. It seemed a long time since that had happened.

  ‘Of course I’ll repack it,’ she said. ‘But I might have to re-iron some of the stuff first.’

  Terry’s lower lip quivered. ‘I love you, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I know you do,’ Jane replied. ‘And I love you.’

  The Devil’s Disciples were on the move up the M6 motorway – forty-three powerful bikes in a convoy led by Badger, with his two lieutenants, Chainsaw and Sharkteeth, immediately behind him.

  Spike was somewhere in the middle of the column, but that had not always been his place.

  In the early days, when he had only recently been through the initiation ceremony, he had ridden at the tail end, forced to suck in the exhaust fumes of more fortunate men.

  Now, he could turn around and see all the newer recruits behind him – and when he did, he experienced a rush of pride even more invigorating than the wind which was ruffling through his hair.

  It was a wonderful thing to be part of something much bigger than you were, he thought – it was a wonderful thing, after all that had happened in his life, to finally belong.

  They were approaching a motorway service station. Badger signalled he was about to turn, and behind him a line of indicators rippled like the muscles on a large and dangerous snake about to strike.

  The gang saw the other motorbikes the moment they pulled in to the car park. In fact, it would have been hard to miss them, since there were over forty machines in all. They were parked some distance from the café, and each had a red dragon displayed prominently on its petrol tank.

  ‘Christ, it’s the Welsh Dragons!’ Spike said softly to himself.

  The Devil’s Disciples had many enemies up and down the country – ‘You can tell how important you are by the number of gangs that want to kick your heads in,’ Badger always said – but the Dragons were one of the most formidable.

  Twice, during Spike’s time with the Disciples, they had clashed with the Dragons. Twice, both sides had taken a bloody beating. And the beatings hadn’t been the end of it. The battles had been so fierce that they hadn’t even broken up when the police in riot gear had arrived, and several Disciples and several Dragons had ended up serving short prison sentences.

  The Dragons had left no one guarding their bikes – to have posted a guard would have been to suggest they were worried someone might be brave enough to damage their hogs – and so there was nothing to prevent Badger riding up to them, which was exactly what he did.

  Badger dismounted, put his bike on its stand, and looked around. To his left, several large lorries were par
ked. To his right, there were a few mid-range cars, probably being driven by commercial travellers. And just beyond the café, there was a grassy area with picnic tables.

  He’s picking out his spot for the rumble, Spike thought, and though he personally would have preferred not to have to fight at all, he felt his adrenalin start to pump.

  Several Dragons had already appeared in the café doorway and were watching with keen interest, but they would not attack yet – not as long as the Devil’s Disciples were so close to their machines.

  Chainsaw and Sharkteeth had dismounted, and were in consultation with their leader.

  And it was then that one of the newer members of the gang – a lad called Ferret – decided to do something that he probably thought would show initiative and might even attract admiration.

  Getting off his own bike, he strolled up and down in front of the bikes belonging to the Dragons.

  ‘Poxy Welsh bastards!’ he shouted in the direction of the café. ‘Call these hogs – I wouldn’t put my granny on one of these.’

  And leaning forward slightly, he spat on the petrol tank of the nearest bike.

  Badger swung round and squared up to him.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you stupid dickhead?’ he screamed.

  ‘I … I …’ stuttered Ferret, who realized he had made a mistake, though he had no actual idea what that mistake might be.

  From the moment Ferret had spat on the bike, the Dragons had been tensing up for a charge. They didn’t want to fight so close to their own machines – of course they didn’t – but there were some insults they simply couldn’t allow to go unchallenged.

  Now, however, seeing the way Badger was reacting, they held back, and waited to see what would happen next.

  ‘The Dragons might be shit, but their bikes aren’t – and the bikes deserve your respect,’ Badger bawled at Ferret.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ the boy mumbled.

  Badger hit him in the stomach. Ferret sank to his knees, Badger followed through with a boot to the chest, and Ferret was lying on the ground, his body in a fetal position, his hands covering his head.

  Badger walked around him several times, lashing out with his foot as he circled.

  ‘You don’t …’ (kick) ‘… disrespect the bikes …’ (kick) ‘… you don’t …’ (kick) ‘… disrespect the bikes …’ (kick) ‘… have you got that?’

  Ferret groaned.

  ‘Get him up,’ Badger said.

  Chainsaw and Sharkteeth hauled Ferret to his feet. Despite Ferret’s efforts to protect his head, Badger had managed to catch him a blow in the face, so his right eye was almost closed and his cheek was already turning purple.

  ‘Let go of him,’ Badger said.

  Chainsaw and Sharkteeth released their grip. It looked as if Ferret would fall over again, then, by a massive effort, he managed to retain his balance.

  ‘Clean that machine,’ Badger said, pointing to the petrol tank that Ferret had spat on.

  Ferret moved unsteadily to the motor bike and raised his arms, as if he was about to rub his sleeve along the tank.

  ‘Not with your colours, you bastard!’ Badger yelled. ‘Use your bloody tongue!’

  Ferret hesitated, as if he were about to appeal against his punishment. Then – perhaps accepting that any attempt at appeal would only make matters worse – he leant stiffly forward and licked the tank.

  Twice, Ferret looked up from his task, his eyes wide with doglike pleading, in the hope that his leader would say he’d done enough. Each time, Badger shook his head.

  Then, finally, Badger tapped Ferret on the shoulder, to signal that the humiliation was over.

  ‘Can you still ride your machine?’ Badger asked, when Ferret had straightened up. ‘Because if you can’t ride, I’ll leave you here for the Dragons to deal with.’

  ‘I can ride,’ Ferret groaned.

  ‘Get on your bike, then,’ Badger said. He turned to the rest of the gang. ‘We’re moving out.’

  Spike did his best to analyse what he had just witnessed. He strongly suspected that Badger had not been anything like as angry and outraged as he seemed to be, that it had, in fact, all been a pretence brought on by his need to find an excuse – any excuse – not to have to fight the Red Dragons.

  But why wouldn’t Badger want to fight the Dragons? Spike had never known him to back away from a confrontation before. Usually, it was quite the reverse – usually, he went out of his way to provoke other gangs.

  The only possible explanation was that he didn’t want the Disciples getting into any trouble with the police at that time. And the reason he didn’t want trouble – the reason he was prepared to run the risk of being mocked as a coward by the Dragons, and perhaps even by his own members – was because he didn’t want to be late for the RockStately Festival.

  And that meant that, for some reason Spike couldn’t even begin to guess at, the festival was very important indeed to Badger.

  The Devil’s Disciples moved out. The Red Dragons did not jeer at them for retreating. In fact, they seemed to have appreciated Badger’s gesture, and raised their arms in what could almost have been a token of friendship.

  And that was what made Badger a great leader, Spike thought – he knew exactly when to push things, and how hard that push had to be.

  SIX

  From the monitors in the control room, Paniatowski and Bell watched the column of motorcycles arriving at the East Gate.

  ‘There’s over forty of them,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Forty-three, according to what I was told in advance,’ Bell told her. ‘That’s not a lot, really, when you consider they’ll have to control upwards of a hundred and fifty thousand people. Still, if the earl’s right – and I’m sure he is – it’ll all be peace and love once the festival’s started, so they shouldn’t need much controlling at all, should they?’

  The column came to a halt, and the lead motorcyclist dismounted and approached the gate. A man appeared at the other side of the gate, and they seemed to be exchanging words.

  ‘That’s the head gardener, Walter Brown,’ Bell explained. ‘He’s a responsible chap – well, he has to be, to control a team of eleven other gardeners – and I’ve put him in charge the gate during the festival. I’m sure he’ll do a good job, and he’s very eager to help – like me, he wants the festival to be a big success, if only for the earl’s sake – but he’s already fretting about having to desert his greenhouses.’

  The head gardener opened the gate, and then walked back to his Land Rover. When he pulled off, the Devil’s Disciples followed.

  ‘He’s taking them straight to Backend Wood. I’ll give them a bit of time to settle in, then I’ll pay them a visit – just to let them know what’s expected of them and what their duties will be.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Paniatowski said.

  Bell shook his head, almost mournfully.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Chief Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean – it won’t be possible?’

  ‘The earl doesn’t want you to have any contact with the gang. They don’t like the police, and he thinks it might upset them.’

  ‘What if I insist?’ Paniatowski asked.

  But she knew that she couldn’t insist. This was private land – in the most literal sense of the word – and on it, the earl’s word was absolute law. If she disobeyed him, the earl would ask her to leave, and she would have to go. That would give George Baxter a reason for accusing her of not doing her job properly, and it would be another nail in the coffin he was building for her career.

  ‘You’re not going to insist, are you?’ asked Bell, offering her a way out.

  ‘No,’ she said, grasping it gratefully. ‘If those are the earl’s wishes, then I suppose we must respect them.’

  ‘By the way, where’s your bag?’ Bell asked.

  ‘My bag?’

  ‘The one with your clothes in it.’


  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bell said, confused. ‘I was told you’d be staying here, round the clock, for the next five days.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I got a call from your headquarters. I assumed, of course, that you knew all about it, but … err …’ The estate manager was growing more and more uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, if you decide to use it, I’ve had a room made up for you in the east wing. I think you’ll find it very comfortable.’

  ‘I didn’t … I haven’t …’ Paniatowski spluttered.

  Why was this move to marginalize her – more than any of the other strokes that George Baxter had pulled in the previous two days – having such an effect on her, she wondered.

  Perhaps it was because the chief constable now seemed to think that he’d pushed her so far out on a limb that he didn’t even need to speak to her directly any more.

  She felt both insulted and humiliated to learn what his orders were through a civilian – and that was exactly what she had been intended to feel!

  She took a deep breath. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Bell, I think I need a little fresh air.’

  She rushed out the room, down along a corridor, and out through one of the numerous narrow side doors which had been installed in previous centuries to enable the servants to move around freely without having to cast their unworthy shadows over those of their betters.

  She was planning to head for the nearest bushes, but her stomach was not prepared to wait that long, and before she was even halfway there, she doubled up and vomited.

  ‘It’s only a job,’ she told herself, as her stomach heaved. ‘Things could be much worse. You could have cancer! Louisa could have cancer! You don’t have to be a police officer.’

  But she wanted to be a police officer, she thought, as she straightened up. Being a police officer was the second most important thing in her life.

  A sudden flash of light from above distracted her from her misery, and she looked up. The flash had come from the roof, but she couldn’t actually see what had caused it.

  There was a second flash, a little to the left, and she saw a man standing close to the edge of the roof and holding a pair of binoculars. He was only there for a second, then he moved closer to the centre, and she lost sight of him. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was the earl. And though she couldn’t know for certain why he had gone up there, either, she guessed it was to track the progress of the Devil’s Disciples through the estate.