The Golden Pig

by Jonathan Penny Mark Penny

  “Shut up, Terse, this neither the time nor the place,” snapped Inspector Decca.

  “What about Interpol, Chief?”

  “Not now, Jackson.”

  “I meant, wouldn’t they have a file on her, sir?”

  “Good thinking, but I doubt she’s known outside the UK. Follow it up anyway.”

  “Will there be another press conference today?” asked Jervis.

  “Jack Daniels is handling it folks, but heaven knows what he’s going to say.”

  “Sir, Chief Superintendent Morrison wants to see you in his office.”

  “Thanks, Suzy. Sergeant Terse will conclude this briefing. The real street plans must be in my office, Terse. Give me an update later, alright?”

  “Certainly, Chief.”

  “Ah Ray, come in, sit down. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. I’m concerned at the lack of progress in the Scarlatti case. It’s bad for morale having a murderer loose on the streets. Where the blazes is she? It’s not as if she’s invisible and yet she seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet. Do you think she’s left the country or is someone harbouring her? More to the point, what are you doing about it?”

  “Everything possible, sir. I’ve just had a team briefing on it. We’ve tried door to door, forensics and every grass and petty crook for miles around. No-one knows anything. We’re still pursuing a few leads though.”

  “What leads?” asked Chief Superintendent Morrison, irritably. If his golf handicap began to slide it would take months to recover and he held Inspector Decca personally responsible.

  “We know she’s a keen clubber,” said Decca.

  “Yes, she’s very violent, I know.”

  “So we’re checking out all the clubs and taxi firms in the area.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “We’re also exploring possible links with the Triads, sir.” He wondered if Morrison even knew what a Triad was.

  “That’s all very well, Decca, but we need results man, results, not leads. Have you spoken to Scotland Yard and the Drug Squad lately? Or Interpol, come to that?”

  “We’re working on it, sir.” Decca knew it sounded lame, but it was the best they could do.

  “What were you saying about the Triads?” asked CS Morrison.

  “Scarlatti used to work at the Rainbow Rooms casino, a well known haunt of the Chinese gambling fraternity. As you know sir, the croupier Tony Lee turned up dead not half a mile away from there and the victim of that other gangland killing, Tony Martino, had rumoured links with the Triads.”

  “Sounds like they’ve got it in for people called Tony. Makes you glad your name’s Ray, eh?” How could an idiot be a chief superintendent? wondered Decca.

  “Lee was also a known associate of Scarlatti’s,” added the inspector.

  “I see. Murky waters eh, Ray?”

  “Word on the street is that the Rainbow Rooms is a front for all kinds of illegal activity; drug pushing, pornography and illegal firearms.”

  “Then why the blazes haven’t you shut it down? You could have suspended their gaming licence or kept raiding the place until no-one went near the place. Strike at their home base and they’ll scurry off somewhere else, Ray.”

  “Insufficient evidence, sir. It’s the old, old story; the Drug Squad’s after MrBig, but all they can do is finger the couriers, so they drag a few of them into court and it stops nothing. They keep trying to get a man on the inside, but don’t seem able to pull it off. Martino or Lee could’ve been undercover for all we know, they just don’t keep us properly informed,” said Decca.

  “Which Triad are we dealing with, do we know?” asked Morrison.

  “Not for sure, sir. We think there are at least a dozen operating in the UK. They tend to stick to their own territories. There are three in Liverpool and Greater Manchester, two in Glasgow and maybe six in London.”

  “That’s only eleven.”

  “There’s one known to be operating in Gloucestershire, centred on Cheltenham, sir.”

  “Is nothing sacred!” cried Morrison, who had family there.

  “Seemingly not, sir,” continued Ray Decca.

  “How much information do we have on their activities?”

  “Not enough. So far there’s been a real lack of the political will to do something about it. We need to set up the kind of organized crime task forces they have in Hong Kong and the States.” Decca sounded like an old campaigner, climbing onto his trusty soapbox.

  “Have you made any approaches in the right quarter, Ray?”

  “I’ve spoken to the Director of Operations of the OCTB in Hong Kong, a guy called Eddie Hu.”

  “Who?”

  “Yes Sir, Eddie Hu.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No Sir, I’m Decca, Wright transferred to Traffic last month.”

  “Get out of here Decca, and for heaven’s sake, let’s get a result quickly or you’ll never make Chief Inspector.”

  Part Thirty-One

  They made a pathetic sight; two lumbering, rain-sodden deadbeats, being led down the drive of Baddeley Manor by a racehorse. Even now, it had failed to dawn on them that it was the wrong racehorse.

  Jervis smirked from an upstairs window, and awaited the onset of the fun and games with anticipatory glee. The front door bell rang in the distance but he carried on adjusting the sights on his telescopic umbrella. He wasn’t about to answer any more doors for those two low comedians. With practiced ease he unscrewed the silencer unit and slid it back into its casing in the handle. It was approaching the time for the dénouement of this sorry little saga and then his mission would be at an end. Having completed his checks he put the umbrella under his arm and headed for the back staircase, leading down to the stable block.

  Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley had been planning the weekend menus with Cook when the doorbell rang for the first time, but having now finished and with no sign of Jervis, she reluctantly opened the front door herself.

  “Mr Goldman! Mr Murphy! Whose horse is this?”

  They were too demoralized to register the least concern.

  “The truck broke down on the way to the training camp!” moaned Hymie.

  “But where’s Lightning?”

  “Someone cut the brakes! We were nearly killed!” cried Mike.

  “What have you done with my racehorse?!”

  “This is it. Don’t you even recognize your own horse?” asked Hymie, unheeding.

  “Lightning has a white flash on his left fetlock Mr Goldman. This animal has one on his right fetlock. Surely you must have noticed?”

  “This is the horse your butler loaded into the box. I don’t know what the world’s coming to if you can’t trust your own butler,” said Hymie, bitterly.

  “Whether he did or not is neither here nor there. This creature isn’t Lightning. Where’s Lightning?” continued a livid Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley.

  Hymie gaped at her speechlessly for a moment. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

  “Yesterday, of course. What have you done with my racehorse, you blithering idiot?”

  She seemed to be verging on hysteria.

  “You said that already. Have you tried the stables? Maybe he never left this morning? Maybe he’s a homing racehorse?” suggested Hymie. Mike remained silent like a defendant exercising his right not to incriminate himself.

  “I’ll ignore your impertinence but you had better be right. He had better be in the stables or it will be a dark day for JP Confidential, I assure you. Let’s go and see, shall we.” It was neither a suggestion, nor a request, but a command. You had to admire her in full flow, thought Hymie; wishing it was with someone else. They filed out across the driveway to the stable block.

  “Jack! Jack!” called Lucinda H-B.

  “Yes ma’am?” enquired the head stable-boy.

  “Is Lightning in his stall?”

  “No ma’am, I haven’t seen him since late last night. I assumed he was at his training camp by now. These
gents were meant to be escorting him.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know. Phone for the police, Lightning has been kidnapped!”

  “Kidnapped? But…” He seemed genuinely taken aback, but Hymie was beginning to suspect everyone.

  “I know, but let’s hope it’s nothing worse than that, Jack,” concluded her ladyship.

  “Hey, what about my fee?” asked Hymie, trying to keep a grip on what really mattered.

  “Our fee!” cried Mike, thinking the same thing.

  “Jack, show these prize idiots to the dining room until the police get here. As for your fee, you can whistle for it! I hope you have a good insurance policy, gentlemen, because you’re going to need it.”

  Hymie had had enough.

  “So, sue us. I’m sure we have an equally strong case against you, Mrs Snotty. That truck was a deathtrap. You could find yourself facing a charge of attempted murder, or at least manslaughter.”

  “I’ll give you manslaughter, you pathetic little man!” snapped Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley.

  “Quick, Mike, run for it!”

  They turned tail and fled. It wasn’t so much the thought of their aggrieved client as the prospect of being questioned by the police again that was exercising their minds.

  It seemed that Hymie was destined to accumulate ever more unsolvable cases, until he could break the spell by solving one. He meant to find Summer Lightning and bring Steffanie Scarlatti to justice, if only to lay his own ghosts to rest, but to do it he would need to get back to North London. Nothing seemed to make any sense out in the wilderness of the countryside.

  Part Thirty-Two

  Nowhere on earth looks more out of sorts, more sorry for itself than a second rate nightclub during daylight hours. This was particularly true of Leptospirosis. What passed for street credibility in the dark became undisguised squalor under the sun’s merciless rays.

  Sergeant Barry Terse simply didn’t register the exterior décor; he was no limp-wristed makeover ponce off the telly, he had a proper job to do. No-one could accuse him of prevaricating about the bush, he just swaggered up to the front door and pummelled it with a ham-like fist.

  His junior colleague, Potter, on the other hand saw himself as a frustrated thespian in policeman’s clothing. He preferred to stand a little downstage of the action, particularly when it became violent, and visualize a kind of personal karma with whatever assignment he’d been given. In Terse’s book he was a complete wally.

  To Terse this assignment was simply one of “a” getting into the club and “b” finding out if the scum who ran this dive knew where that slapper Scarlatti was hiding. Modern policing had passed him by. In fact, it had given him a wide berth, not wishing to get its head kicked in.

  “Come on, Pansy, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “After you, Sarge. How shall we play it?”

  “That’s your trouble, Potter, you’re always playing at something. This is police work, not the Old Vic.”

  “But, what’s my motivation?”

  “What, pay cheque not enough for you?” asked Terse. “Okay, have it your way. I’m sure you’ve seen the repeats of Starsky and Hutch and all those other old American buddy-buddy shows, well this week we’re going to play ‘good cop, bad cop’.”

  “One of us is a mean son-of-a-bitch and the other one’s as nice as apple pie?”

  “Yeah, that’s the general idea, Potter.”

  “Which is which, Sarge?”

  “Well, I know what you’re thinking; we should play to type, so I’m going to give you a challenge…you can be the bad cop. You should be able to handle that, eh?”

  Potter looked a little hesitant.

  “Got it, Sarge. I’m the bad guy, you’re the good guy, right?”

  “Exactly,” concluded Terse.

  Potter seemed to collect himself together momentarily and then charged at the door to resume the battering Terse had already started to inflict on it.

  “Open up, scum! Open up! D’yer hear?!” cried PC Potter, ambitiously.

  The door opened slowly and a massive bouncer poked his head around it. He had the appearance and bearing of King Kong coupled with the warmth and charm of Attila the Hun.

  “About ruddy time you great spawny-eyed wassock! Get me the manager, and be quick about it!” added Potter.

  He flashed his police badge at the human obstruction, lest the bouncer should think that he was just looking for a fight. He was showing a game streak Terse wouldn’t have given him credit for. It was Terse’s turn.

  “Excuse my colleague, sir; he’s of an excitable disposition. Could we just have a quiet word with the manager please? Tell him Sergeant Terse and PC Potter of the Metropolitan Constabulary would be grateful for his co-operation.”

  “Get lost, Filth!” said the bouncer.

  “I don’t think you heard the Sergeant properly, Fatso. Get the manager immediately or I’ll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu!”

  “Just try it, ponce!” cried the bouncer with increasing annoyance.

  “Please, gents, please. We’re all reasonable men here. There’s no need for any trouble. I’m sure we can sort this out without resorting to abusive language and violence,” said Terse, peaceably. Inspector Decca would have been proud of him, he thought.

  “Which part of ‘Get lost, Filth’ didn’t you understand you morons?” resumed the bouncer, rudely.

  “Now, now sir, there’s no need for that language.” The sergeant was enjoying this.

  The bouncer looked at Terse as though he had just arrived from another planet. He cast an appraising eye over the opposition; two bog-standard coppers, no iron bars, no baseball bats, no knives. He could take them any time he felt like it without so much as breaking into a sweat. Now was as good a time as any. He took a swipe at Potter.

  Potter saw a hefty fist approaching him at around twenty five miles per hour and started to duck. His instincts were good but his response time just wasn’t fast enough and he caught the tail of the hurricane on the side of his head. He span around and fell to the ground, groaning.

  Terse had had enough of play acting. He stomped on the still partly open door and it crunched onto the bouncer’s knee, bringing him down to Terse’s level. Then he followed through with an instinctive upper cut to the chin.

  Ordinarily that would have been enough, but Fat Larry was a bouncer made of sterner stuff. Grimacing through the pain he recovered sufficiently to land a couple of juicy wallops on Terse’s coconut-like head.

  OOF! OOF!! Exclaimed the sergeant, involuntarily.

  “I don’t believe you wanted to do that sir” said Barry Terse, through clenched teeth.

  He withdrew his truncheon with practiced ease and smacked the bouncer smartly twice across the head.

  THWACK! THWACK!!

  The sound reverberated like an old growth tree being felled in the primeval forest and the lumbering doorman went down like a detonated chimney stack.

  Terse stepped delicately over the big man and walked into the club, through reception, past the cloakrooms, across the dance floor bedecked with a retro glitter-ball and up to the door marked “Strictly Private”. He opened the door and walked in.