The enormity of what this woman so calmly suggested was overwhelming. Steve felt physically sick. He stared at the door of the bar as though looking for a means of escape.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked quietly.
“No, Steven, not any more you don’t. Not now I’ve spoken to you.” Irene spoke evenly but her voice was loaded with menace.
She looked over into the gathering crowd where a smartly dressed young city gent was weaving his way towards them with a glass of beer in his hand.
“Ah, here’s your man now,” said Irene.
“Brendan, come over here!” she shouted. The young man nodded to her. “This is Steven,” she said to the newcomer as he reached the table. “He’s the chap I was telling you about.”
“Hello, Steven.” Steve was surprised to note that Brendan spoke with the middle English public-school accent of a stockbroker. He even probably played “rugger” instead of rugby, Steve thought sourly.
Brendan held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you at long last, Steven. Irene here’s told me so much about you. We’re delighted to have you aboard.”
Chapter One
West Berkshire – Mid-1960s
Despite it being a bright, sunny day, the wind had a keen edge. Gusts of cold air, like whispering thieves, rhythmically drifted over the countryside and stole away any warmth that the rays may have produced. In response to one particularly icy blast, Emily Pritchard shivered and pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders. She was still the right side of sixty years of age, but her painfully thin body constantly struggled to retain anything like a comfortable body temperature.
That is not to say that Emily was at all frail. She was an energetic lady and her level of fitness, from years of cycling, would put many younger women to shame. However, she did feel the cold.
She was frequently cold – and often lonely.
Emily was a widow; her husband had been killed in war, and she had never remarried. For many years she had lived alone but, as the secretary of a local high school, she was kept reasonably busy and looking after the garden of her secluded cottage kept her fully occupied in her spare time.
She sighed. She had to admit the flowers were lovely; however, like so many pretty things, they were becoming rather unruly and needed a firm hand to bring them under control. Emily very much believed in the use of a firm hand when it was called for, as many disrespectful children at her school had learned to their cost. The boys and girls knew that it was best behaviour only when Mrs Pritchard was on the prowl!
Her quick, deft hands worked the secateurs with surgical precision as she clipped and pruned. After half an hour or so, she paused and straightened up for a minute to ease her back. It was then that she heard the sound of a motorbike approaching in the distance. As her cottage was the only dwelling for some miles, she surmised she was about to receive a visitor.
Hands on hips, Emily watched as the Triumph motorcycle of the Berkshire Constabulary pulled up outside the wicker gate that led into her garden. She’d had a good guess as to which policeman likely to be visiting her, but, even so, her heart missed a beat as she recognised the rider to be PC Fred Weston. Fred was a special friend.
The officer killed his engine and dismounted, swinging his leg across the seat of the machine in a movement so entirely masculine that Emily could only approve.
Having effortlessly hoisted the heavy machine onto its centre stand, the powerfully built policeman slowly took off his white-backed leather gauntlets and placed them, fingers outward, on the tank of his bike just in front of the radio handset. He then removed his black “Corker” crash helmet with the word POLICE emblazoned across its front. He gently placed the helmet into the crook of the handlebars, on top of the gloves.
Emily was no stranger to police procedure and knew what to expect next. She was aware Fred wouldn’t even acknowledge her until he’d checked in with his control room a few miles away at constabulary headquarters.
The radio on the 650cc Speed Twin was located behind the wide leather rider’s seat. The set’s telephone-like handset, and other controls, however, were mounted on the top of the petrol tank. There was a small switch that, in one position, permitted the operator to use the handset discreetly like a telephone, whilst in the other position it switched on a loudspeaker that, in theory at least, permitted the rider to hear whilst travelling along the road.
Fred flicked the switch to the private setting and spoke briefly into the handset, telling his controller, in his slow, broad Berkshire accent, that he was engaged on crime enquiries and would be off the air for some time.
He concluded by saying, “You can get me on Brompton three one seven if required.”
“Thanks, Fred,” came the reply from the operator. “Give us a shout when you’re back on the air – just so we know you’re okay.”
Although he possessed incredibly quick reflexes, Fred routinely did nothing in a hurry. For him, everything had to be done right – and rushing things meant mistakes could be made. He switched off the radio, secured the motorcycle, then, finally satisfied, he made his way through the gate and over towards Emily – who by now had grown tired of watching him and had gone back to tending her flowers.
“Hello, stranger,” she said over her shoulder. Then, sarcastically, “To what do I owe this honour?”
“Now, don’t be like that, Milly,” said Fred with a large smile. “I’ve just called by for a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.”
“Yeah, I bet!” she said harshly, but nevertheless stood up, latched the secateurs in the closed position, and put them away into the pocket at the front of her tweed gardening skirt.
Emily opened the front door but, before entering, she turned and faced her visitor.
“You can take those boots off,” she said, slipping out of her green Hunters wellies.
Fred did as he was told. He unzipped then stepped out of his shiny, black leather, calf-length boots and placed them next to Emily’s wellies on the metal grill under the porch. He followed Emily into the cottage. Then, without waiting for permission, he unbuttoned the heavy uniform “thorn-proof” jacket, took it off, and hung it on a hook behind the door.
Emily took a long, hard look at him. He was just a few years younger than her, and he was a fine figure of a man. Lean, but broad-shouldered and strong. However, despite his youthfulness and energy, age was catching up with him. In a couple of years, once he reached fifty-five, he would have to retire whether he wanted to or not. The same grim prospect faced her when she hit sixty. She was not looking forward to it.
But now, seeing him standing in his shirtsleeves, riding breeches, and stockinged feet, she started laughing.
“You look like a tortoise that’s been winkled out of its shell,” she said. “Will the police force ever join the twentieth century, do you suppose? They actually make shirts with collars these days, you know. I’m surprised you can still get collar studs for those things.”
“These are top-quality Van Heusen shirts, I’ll have you know,” he said pompously. “They’re all the rage in Chelsea, or so I’m told. And Langston’s in Reading still do a very nice range of studs, thank you very much. Anyway, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s only the collar that ever wears out; the rest of the shirt doesn’t. It’s stupid throwing away a whole shirt when you can just replace the collar.”
Emily turned around and began making the tea whilst Fred sat himself down comfortably at the large, well-used wooden table that dominated the room.
“Now then, Fred,” Emily said, “why are you really here? And don’t tell me it’s just for tea.”
“No, not just the tea,” he replied slowly. “To be honest, I was hoping you’d have a little word with Mr Headley for me. A couple of your boys have been up to mischief again.”
Mr Headley was the headmaster at Brompton High School where Emily was the school secretary. A few times over the past couple of years, Fred had arranged, through Emily, to have misbehaving youths punished by th
e school for misdemeanours committed whilst wearing school uniform. Everyone agreed it was preferable to them being sent to juvenile court and acquiring a police record – besides which, it saved PC Weston a great deal of paperwork.
“So, what is it this time?” said Emily. “More rowdiness on the bus?”
Fred stood up and walked over to his jacket. From the extended inside pocket, known as a summons pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper that he placed face-up on the table.
Emily brought two steaming mugs over from the kettle, handed one to Fred, then sat down herself before picking up the paper.
“It looks like a photo-copy of a five-pound note,” she said.
“Exactly, and it was used to defraud old Jenny in the village Tuck Shop out of a load of sweets. The poor old dear is as blind as a bat and had no idea it was a dud until the bank rejected it.”
“Little sods! But what’s this got to do with the school?”
“Well, the culprits were in school uniform, and it seems the original five-pound note was ‘borrowed’ from the music teacher’s bag during break. Oh yes, and it was the school Xerox machine that was used to make the copy.”
“Yes, but even so, shouldn’t this be put before a juvenile court? It seems quite serious.”
“I agree, but Jenny won’t hear of it. She totally refuses to make a complaint – and without her statement, we’re buggered. The fact is, I really don’t want the little shits getting away with it.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I can. I’ll speak to Mr Headley for you. Who are the culprits, or do I need to ask?”
“No, I’m sure you’ve guessed. It’s the Churcher brothers again.”
“Oh dear. Poor Mrs Churcher, she’s tried so hard to bring them two up since she lost her husband, but they seem determined to let her down.”
“Does she still work at the school canteen?”
“Yes. She’s actually a very good cook. This will break her heart – again.”
“What will Mr Headley do, do you think?”
“Well, with something this serious he could expel them, but my guess is they’ll both get six of the best… for all the good that will do.”
“What do you mean? I thought Headley was a bit of a demon with a cane.”
“Oh, he is. Most of the boys are terrified of him – he refuses to cane girls, you know. However, the last time those two got into trouble, I had the older boy waiting his turn in my office while his brother was getting thrashed in the next room.”
“And?”
“Well, you could clearly hear the cuts being delivered, but when I looked over at the little monster, he was grinning like an idiot and openly playing with himself.”
“No!”
“It cost him an extra two strokes when I reported him – but he didn’t seem to mind a bit. There’s something very odd about those two boys. More tea?”
“Maybe later.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. He smiled. Then he gave her a wink before he allowed his gaze to travel down her body.
“You’ve got a bloody cheek!” she said. “Where have you been these last few weeks?”
“I haven’t had an excuse to get over here until today – and I’m too close to my pension to take too many chances.”
“I know, Fred, but I do like to see you.”
“Come on, Milly, we both agreed there’d be no commitment, didn’t we?”
“I know, Fred. Don’t worry, I’m not some silly schoolgirl who’s going to get all emotional and clingy. It’s just that I get so lonely, sometimes, here on my own.”
She stood up and walked over to an interior door. “Come on, then,” she said.
“You needn’t think I’m going in there with you while you’ve got those things,” said Fred with a huge grin.
Emily blushed. She’d forgotten all about the secateurs that were still poking out of her skirt pocket.
“You’re right,” she said. “Too much temptation.” She unfastened her belt, and her skirt fell to the floor.
Within a minute they were inside the bedroom and naked. Emily could see that Fred was visibly aroused.
“You must be desperate if the sight of a skinny old lady can have that effect,” she said with a grin, but it was obvious that she was pleased with herself.
Fred grew serious. “Milly,” he said, “you don’t need to say things like that. You’re all the woman any man could ask for. If things were different…”
“I know,” she said, wistfully, “I know.”
She walked over to him and allowed her hand to run down his chest and beyond.
She closed her fingers around his rock-hard erection and led him gently over to the ancient feather bed that they had shared so many times in the past.
Chapter Two
West Berkshire – 7 Years later
It was 9 pm on a warm evening in mid-June, and the brightness of the day was finally beginning to fade to twilight. PC Don Barton, working the late shift, decided it was time to stop to take a short break and bring his pocket notebook up to date. He pulled the Morris Marina patrol car over into a field entrance at the side of the road and then reversed a few yards, turning the wheel, so that he ended up facing out towards the currently deserted country road.
Don did not like this car. The Marina was British Leyland’s replacement for the much loved and reliable, but sadly out-of-date, Morris Minor. The car itself was nicely designed, but for one reason or another it had gained a bad reputation for finish and reliability.
To make matters worse, police drivers were notoriously critical of any vehicle they used. Any faults (and the Marina had several) stood no chance of being overlooked or forgiven.
It had been a quiet evening on the Hampstead Norreys rural section and Don was bored. He was in his mid-twenties and he felt that the world was passing him by. Was it really almost a full year since he’d been kicked off the Traffic Department and dumped into this dead and alive country beat? The days and weeks were flying by, and Don could feel himself growing old before his time.
He knew it wouldn’t take long to bring his notebook up the date, but if he didn’t do it now there was a danger that he would forget to record something. He removed the little journal from its pigskin cover and took out his pen. He placed both items on the seat beside him and reached into the pocket of his tunic for his cigarettes. A smoke would help him reflect and recall the events, such as they were, of the afternoon.
He wound down the window of the car and lit up. However, before he began writing, he decided to radio into his control room and advise them of his location, just in case he should be required for anything.
Although his area was part of the Newbury Division, Don’s rural beat was well out of range of the local control room’s UHF radio system. This meant that for radio communication he had call in to the main Headquarters Control at Kidlington via the much more powerful VHF set fitted to his car.
He lifted the handset from its cradle and depressed the toggle. “HT Control from Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, over,” he said into the mouthpiece.
There were three main channels constantly supervised by Control Room staff, and HT was the frequency that covered the southern part of the Thames Valley force area.
“Go ahead, Five Zero,” a female voice answered him.
“Booking ten-five on the Brompton to Bucklebury road, available for commitment if required—Bloody Hell!”
“Is everything all right, Five Zero?”
“Er, yes, all okay. Sorry about that, I was startled for a moment. A white horse has just trotted past me. It’s running along the middle of the road heading towards Brompton. There’s no saddle or bridle, so I don’t think it’s thrown a rider. It’s probably escaped from a field. However, it is obviously a danger to traffic, so I’ll have to try to stop it. Any chance of some assistance, over?”
The Control Room operator put out a general call: “HT Control to any unit available to assist Foxtrot Golf Five Zero with a horse on the highway, please acknowled
ge with call sign, over.”
“X-Ray Delta Two One, resuming from the break-in in Didcot, I’ll start making, over,” came a male voice through the ether.
A dog handler! Just what the doctor ordered, thought Don. But he’s a long way off.
Control: “Thank you, Two One. Did you copy that, Five Zero?”
“Yes, all copied, many thanks. I’m following the horse now. I’ll advise Two One with more precise details as he approaches this location, over.”
“Obliged, Five Zero. I’ll leave this channel on talk-through and see if we can get other units to put some traffic control in place. Meanwhile, please keep me updated with progress, over.”
Because they transmitted and received on different frequencies, patrolling units could usually only hear the Control Room side of a conversation, but with “talk-through” engaged, they could clearly hear both sides. However, the protocol was that they would stay off the air themselves except for an emergency, or to contribute something to the unfolding drama.
Don had thrown his cigarette out of the window and was stealthily following the horse along the road by the time the radio conversation was completed – but he was already having difficulty. The horse was trotting at around 15 mph and kept speeding up every time he drew closer to it. The animal was also sticking to the centre of the road and showed no sign of slowing down or stopping.
Don was getting anxious. Two years previously he’d been patrolling the M4 when a horse had escaped from a field and somehow found its way onto the motorway. It was in the early hours of the morning, and a lorry coming out of London had struck the animal before crashing into the metal barrier on the central reservation.
The driver had been uninjured, but the horse had suffered a catastrophic laceration that had cut its stomach wide open and left it lying, pouring with blood, on the carriageway.
Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton Page 2