One of the six lay indisposed on the pavement, holding his leather-clad genitals in obvious agony.
“Enough! Put the chains down now!” cried Decca. He was holding a revolver in his outstretched hand. He aimed it at the chest of the nearest biker.
The biker stood very still and appeared to be struggling with deep emotions.
“’Ere, Chief, you can’t go pulling guns on people. Low-life scum they may be, but this isn’t the answer, believe me,” declared Terse.
“Thank you for those words of support Sergeant. Now, read these men their rights and cuff them to the car.”
Never known to disobey a direct order, Terse and Reidy soon had the bikers handcuffed at all points around the Inspector’s car. Only when this pressing task had been completed did Terse return to his recent grievance.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Chief, but you’re under arrest for the unlawful use of a firearm.”
Inspector Decca’s face assumed a look of total bemusement.
“And they told me you didn’t have a sense of humour, Terse!”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Sir.”
“Sergeant, do you realize the seriousness of your allegation? Do you really want this on your record?”
Reidy was looking at the ground and shuffling his feet; clearly wishing he could be elsewhere. The bikers and other onlookers were beginning to warm to Sergeant Terse.
“The rulebook is my Bible Sir, and you’re in clear breach of Section 4.2 of the Firearms Code.”
“That’ll do Sergeant. Here…this was the weapon in question; it’s a kid’s toy gun. A replica made in Taiwan. I had occasion to take it off a juvenile delinquent earlier this morning.”
“’Ere, have you been drinking, Chief?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? So, I had a drink a few hours ago, it was old Jack Harrison’s leaving do. Do you think I’d be that stupid?” Secretly the doubts were beginning to creep in.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to blow into the bag, Chief. We can’t have Joe Public thinking we think we’re above the Law, now can we? The job’s flippin’ hard enough as it is.”
One blow in a bag later and Inspector Ray Decca was looking distinctly embarrassed.
“Look Sergeant…Barry, it could happen to anyone. I need hardly tell you as a highly esteemed colleague, Barry er…”
“That’s not what you thought when you had me transferred to Traffic, Chief.”
“A misunderstanding Barry, old son, nothing more. Stick with me and you’ll be an Inspector before you know it.”
“What, in Traffic?”
“Of course not me old mate. I knew it the moment I saw you handle those bikers. You belong in Homicide, Terse. I’m only sorry I didn’t recognize the fact sooner.”
“So am I Chief. You’re nicked for being drunk in charge of a motor vehicle.”
“But Sergeant…Look, I barely turned the crystals pink. By the time we get down to the station for a blood test I’ll be in the clear. Besides, I’m late for my appointment at the Marriage Guidance.”
“You goin’ to RELATE Chief?”
The sergeant’s hard-bitten exterior became noticeably less hard-bitten.
“Do yourself a favour Chief, get a divorce.”
Decca looked at him for some elaboration, but none was forthcoming.
“Oh and if I don’t get the transfer back to Homicide by next week I might just have second thoughts about booking you.”
Well, thought Barry Terse as he walked to the Tube Station, principles were one thing, but you didn’t have to be stupid about them.
Part Nineteen
The RELATE offices were in a converted semi-detached house formerly occupied by the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. It seemed that marriage guidance had become more of a pressing social need than advising the local population on what to do when their furniture was repossessed. Marriage itself seemed to be in terminal decline in the modern live-for-today era; when responsibility and commitment had become dirty words.
Rita O’Nions had been a counsellor with the Marriage Guidance Council for many years. She had seen and heard everything from the sublime to the ridiculous and thought she knew it all. It was true she had resuscitated a few marriages along the way, in the main by metaphorically clumping together heads that should have known better, but she was inclined to be prejudiced against men.
“Hello Mrs Decca, do take a seat. No, not that one, that’s mine. Is your husband with you today?”
“No, not yet. He said he had a few things to sort out at the station first.”
“Oh, righty-ho. I didn’t realize he worked for Virgin Rail. He’s the one is he, ho, ho.”
“No, the Police station, he’s a Police Inspector.”
“Oh, ah, yes.”
“He shouldn’t be too long, it’s just difficult getting time off when you’re in the Police.”
“Perhaps we should start the ball rolling in his absence?”
“If you think it would help.”
“Of course. Tell me, Mrs Decca, what seems to be the problem with your marriage? Has your husband been violent or unfaithful?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Does he drink or take drugs?”
“No, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Well, that’s an encouraging start, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
“So what’s causing the trouble between you?”
“It’s his job. He’s hardly ever at home and when he is, it’s as if I’m not there.”
“I see, well nobody likes to be undervalued, but have you tried to improve things between the two of you? Do you ever have sexual relations?”
“Not with each other. Not for a long while.”
“So you have sexual relations with someone else?”
“No, but I’ve thought about it.”
“I’m sure you have. It’s important to feel satisfied and sex can be a very positive force in a relationship.”
“He was never what you’d call a great lover. It was all finished in about five minutes.”
“You poor dear. But don’t get too hung up on sex. Many perfectly normal couples don’t have relations as often as they used to.” She looked wistfully out of the window for a moment.
“He sounds like a good provider anyway. Inspectors in the Police must be reasonably well paid, I would have thought.”
“Yes, but we don’t live in a hunter-gatherer society any more, do we?”
“No, no. Nevertheless, gone are the days when a husband could be relied upon to provide a decent standard of living for his family. These days they’re all a bunch of sponging loafers who run off with next door’s au-pair when you’re not paying attention.”
“You poor thing,” said Sheila Decca, “and you a marriage guidance counsellor too. It just shows you.”
“Oh no dear, I wasn’t speaking of myself, no. Just a friend you understand.”
Out in Reception Ray Decca leant down to the sliding glass window and asked to see Mrs Onions.
“Don’t for Heaven’s sake call her that will you? It’s O’Nions. She gets ever so narked. Especially recently. You’d think her husband was having it off with the au- pair or something.”
He smirked at the girl’s indiscretion.
“She’s in Interview Room Two. Just go right in, she’ll be expecting you.”
He knocked and entered the room in response to a muffled sound from the other side of the door.
“Sorry I’m late, there was a terrible traffic jam in Hendon.”
“Please sit down Mr Decca. Excuse us for starting without you but I’m a bit busy today so Sheila has been filling me in on the background.”
“Fine,” he said, resignedly.
“Good, then let’s make a start. The objective is for you both to do the talking, work out what’s going wrong in your marriage and agree on how you can fix it and for me to act as an impartial adviser. There are no right or wron
g answers here, it’s all about what works for you. Successful relationships depend upon good communications. So Sheila, would you start by telling Ray what’s going wrong from your point of view?”
“Yes Rita. What I would say to Ray is that you can’t have communications when one person in a relationship is never there. And when he is there he ignores me. I get more attention from the postman.”
“What does that mean? What has the postman got to do with anything? You know I have a difficult job, Sheila. I can’t just leave at Five O’Clock when I’m on a case, it’s just not that kind of job. When I do get home, I’m drained. I just want to relax in front of the television and forget about the day I’ve had. I can’t make polite chit-chat about Mrs Doodah from the women’s knitting circle.”
“So why don’t you give up the job?” asked Sheila.
“I can’t. At my age what else could I do?” replied Ray.
“I don’t know, but at least we’d be together.”
“Besides, I love the job, I always have,” he admitted.
Rita reflected that the incidence of divorce among marriage guidance counsellors was one of the worst of any profession. They didn’t tell you that when you started.
“As you can see Rita, there’s just no romance left in our marriage. He’s married to the Police force, not to me,” complained Sheila.
“Can’t you try to meet Sheila halfway Ray?” enquired Rita.
“Halfway? Where do you mean? Enfield?”
“Buy her the occasional bunch of flowers, take her out for a meal.”
“For Heaven’s sake woman, we’ve been married twenty-three years. How many married couples do you know that even preserve the romance more than a few months after the honeymoon?”
“Sheila, I sympathise. Ray, if you want to get the best out of your marriage, you need to try to find ways of building bridges with your wife. Can’t you suggest anything?”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and stood up.
“I’m sorry, Sheila, I have to go. I’ve got a departmental meeting at two o’clock.”
“Ray, we need to sort this out.”
“I’m afraid it’ll have to keep.”
He crossed the room, opened the door and passed down the corridor back to the street. He could imagine what they were saying about him, but he had no choice, couldn’t they see that?
Part Twenty
In her exquisitely decorated and tastefully furnished apartment in the West End, Mrs Edna Timmins was holding court. She looked like everyone’s favourite grandma; the archetypal sweet natured, white-haired, little old lady. You could imagine her serving tea and scones at a village tea-party or singing feebly in the congregation of a rural parish church.
Looks could be deceptive. In reality she was a hard-bitten multi-millionairess and ruthless bitch, running every kind of racket from drug-pushing to gun-running. She controlled all the wild flower pressing from Golders Green to Dagenham and was just moving in on the W.I.’s jam-making monopoly west of Croydon. She enjoyed the disparity between her public and private faces and sustained her public image by the convenient fiction of telling her gangland acquaintances that she worked for a schizoid drug dealer called Baron Chang. The picture she painted of him was so appalling that they were all delighted to deal with her instead.
“Queen’s Bishop to King’s Knight Five. Checkmate I believe, Lau. I win again.”
“You are a remarkable player Mrs T.” said Lau, patronizingly.
He studied her wrinkled face, looking for the slightest glimmer of weakness or frailty, but found none. Her face was as blank as a saggy ceremonial mask.
“You on the other hand are not, although I sometimes have my suspicions that you are not playing to the best of your ability.”
“My dear lady, whatever gives you such an impression?”
“Anyone with your talent for saving his own skin, must surely know all about chess, Lau. Although it is the game of kings, not gangland killers.”
“If I am honest, dear lady, my own interests are more in the field of TV game-shows.”
“You surprise me yet again Lau. However, getting back to the pig, it’s a great pity your unfailing instinct for self-preservation didn’t extend to the Baron’s pig.”
“My dear Mrs Timmins, I can assure you that the Baron’s interests are of paramount importance to me.
Scarcely a day passes without my offering up prayers to Heaven that the Baron should receive his just deserts in this life and the next. If I could have retrieved the golden pig for him already, I would have done so. Unfortunately, I have my suspicions as to its whereabouts but no hard evidence.”
“Have you forgotten so soon, man, that it was I who paid you to kill Goldman. Is it your idea of a joke to allow him to wander around freely? If so, it is in extremely poor taste. Will you finish the job or shall I tell the Baron that you were unequal to the task?”
“I understand and share your frustration Mrs T., I really do. I was on the point of disposing of him when the Police arrived to spoil my plans. Goldman is a surprisingly resourceful man.”
“Surprising is right!”
“Nevertheless, he will not last long with me on his trail,” stressed Lau.
“You have a plan?”
“I am never without one, I assure you, Mrs T.”
“Well, tell me then how you plan to pay the Baron his two million dollars?”
“Two million dollars? But the golden pig isn’t worth as much as that surely?”
“It is worth whatever someone is prepared to pay for it, Lau. To the Baron it is worth two million dollars.”
“It is uncanny how you know his mind so well Mrs T. You must be very close.”
“We are. So tell me about this plan of yours.”
He was about to say that he was jolly well going to if she gave him half a chance, but he fought back his irritation. The illusion of inscrutability must be preserved.
“The golden pig is in the possession of Lucretia Scarlatti, so if I am able to retrieve it, I will let the Baron know in due course. As for raising the two million dollars he asks for, I have a new stratagem; a betting scam…”
“What, rigging a few races?”
“Not just any races dear lady…the race; the Cheltenham Gold Cup. I know of your sporting interests and thought it would appeal to your sense of occasion. I have a number of contacts in the leading stables around the country and plan to call in a few favours.”
“And you are confident of success, Lau?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“And this will bring me, I mean the Baron, two million dollars?”
“At a conservative estimate. Of course, I should need a small contribution to defray expenses. Shall we say £30,000, dear lady?”
“Dear is right, Lau. Given more details of what you plan to do with the money and some security I may be able to raise £20,000 but I am not independently wealthy and it would be out of the question to ask the Baron for the money in the circumstances.”
The Golden Pig Page 12