A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

  “Nevertheless, you can’t just let the rumours carry on.”

  “Trust me, Eddie, I won’t, but I squash them in my own way and in my own time. They’re just stories, made up by people who feel that, perhaps, their careers aren’t going the way they’d hoped. Myra’s an easy target because she’s female and is doing well, and a lot of men can’t stand that, and some of the other women as well. The stories don’t bother me and they certainly don’t bother Mrs Callum.”

  Fuller looked at him sharply. “You’ve told her about them?”

  “She’s my wife. Of course I told her about them.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “She laughed too. The thought that I could be involved with a girl young enough to be my daughter tickled her.”

  Fuller gave a low whistle. “She’s quite a woman.”

  “That’s why I married her. I’m fortunate enough to have a handful of remarkable women in my life, and I include Myra Banks in that handful. I told you the other day that she reminds me of my Joanie, and I can imagine Joanie being just as reckless as Myra.”

  Fuller pulled onto the A1. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “How I do what?”

  “Command that kind of loyalty from your wife. Judy doesn’t trust me at all.”

  Jack smiled. “It’s easy. I just remember the answer my old man gave on the day of his golden wedding anniversary. Someone asked him how he had managed to stay married to the same woman for fifty years. Do you know what he said?”

  Fuller shook his head.

  “‘Whatever you do, never take them for granted.’ And you’d do well to remember that, Eddie, if your relationship with Judy Taylor ever makes it off the starting blocks. Never take her for granted. I use that in my personal life as much as I do at work. At the end of the day, it’s all about respect, and if we don’t respect the people we surround ourselves with, then there’s no hope for us.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Jack.”

  “And don’t I know it. By the way, what did the chief super want?”

  It was Fuller’s turn to laugh. “He’d just seen that I’m going for promotion. He seemed rather pleased and he wanted to reassure me that I have his backing and has put all the resources of his office at my disposal.”

  “Generous of him.”

  “He also wanted to make it clear that if I do make inspector, there will be a job for me at Welwyn.”

  “Despite all the budget cuts?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Well. Good for you. I’m pleased.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Good number twos are hard to come by.”

  “You mean that?”

  “You know me. Eddie. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t believe it.”

  Simon Docherty slammed down the telephone, irritated. It was time to get out of this Godforsaken country. Going back to the United States was no longer an option for him and his sister. The O’Briens had pulled out of the deal that he and Albert Klein had worked so hard to put together, and were now after his blood. If he stayed here the people who killed Tony Turner no doubt had him marked as their next target. He just could not see how things could have gone so wrong. But the flight to Canada was booked and in a few hours time he’d be jetting off across the Atlantic.

  There was a knock at the hotel door.

  He glanced around. “Who’s there?”

  “Room service.”

  “I haven’t ordered anything.”

  The knock came again.

  Furiously Docherty walked to the door and yanked it open. “I told you, I haven’t…”

  The sentence was cut short by the fist that smashed into his mouth, splitting his lips and knocking two of his front teeth down his throat. He didn’t recognise the two men who barrelled in through the door but he guessed their intent. The man who followed them into the house was instantly familiar and Docherty’s bladder emptied.

  The two thugs hauled him to the floor and pinned him there by his shoulders.

  Jimmy Dymond stood over his fallen victim. “Oh, look, lads. He’s wet himself. Pissed his pants like a little baby.”

  Docherty’s head twisted from side to side, looking desperately for some means of escape. Pathetic mewling sounds were coming from his ruined mouth.

  “I think baby needs changing,” Dymond said matter-of-factly. “Would you do the honours, boys? Relieve him of his trousers.”

  One of the thugs unfastened Docherty’s belt while the other one pulled the sodden slacks down over his thighs.

  Docherty was struggling, kicking his legs, but an open-palmed slap to his face sent his thoughts reeling and the fight drained out of him.

  Dymond leaned over him. “I suppose you’re wondering how we found you.”

  Docherty couldn’t speak but the confused look in his eyes was answer enough.

  “You seem to forget, Simon. This is my home turf I have hundreds of eyes out there waiting to tell me what I need to know.”

  Docherty whimpered.

  “The good news, mate, is that it happens to be your lucky day, ” he said, his voice heavy with menace. “I have a present from a mutual friend of ours. Want to see what it is?”

  Docherty shook his head frantically.

  “No?” Dymond said. “I think I’ll show you anyway.” He took a step backwards and threw open the heavy coat he was wearing. “Surprise!” Dymond exulted. “Tommy sends his regards.”

  When Docherty saw what the coat was concealing his eyes widened and he managed to say one word. “No!” and then started babbling incoherently.

  Dymond took the freshly honed garden shears from his belt and opened them, smiling in wonder as the blades reflected the sunlight as they scissored. “Playtime,” he said and advanced on Docherty who gave a low howl of anguish. The howl rose in volume to a shrill scream that echoed off the walls before being brutally cut off.

  32 - SATURDAY MARCH 28TH 1959

  “Almost there,” Jack said.

  From the back seat of the Morris Oxford Eric peered out through the window. “Shillington? What’s at Shillington?”

  “Just some people I have to see.”

  “Do they know we’re coming, Jack?” Annie said, checking her lipstick in the mirror of her powder compact.

  “I telephoned first thing this morning. They know.”

  Laurence Turner opened the door to the bungalow while the echo of the doorbell was still hanging in the air. “Jack,” he said. “So good of you to come, and you’ve brought your lovely family. Splendid.”

  Jack was taken aback. This was a different Laurence Turner to the man he had met just over a week ago, a man whose curtness bordered on rudeness, a man so consumed by bitterness there didn’t seem space in his heart for any light. Not only had his whole character changed but he actually looked a good ten years younger.

  “You’re looking well, Mr. Turner.”

  “Now, Jack, please, call me Laurence. And thank you. I certainly feel well. Especially now this ghastly business with my son and his wife is over.”

  “He’s a changed man, Chief Inspector, since Gerry came to live with us.” Jean Turner appeared at her husband’s side.

  “Were done with formalities, Jean,” Turner gently chided her. “It’s Jack, and his lovely wife is? I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name, my dear.”

  “Annie,” she said. “And this is our son, Eric.”

  “Well, what are we doing standing out here? Come in, come in.”

  They followed the elderly couple through the hall and into the sitting room. Gerry Turner was on the sofa, her legs curled underneath her, a folded sheet of manuscript paper resting on her thigh on which she was adding crochets and quavers with a fine-tipped ballpoint pen.

  “Look, Gerry, Chief Inspector Callum has come to see us, and he’s brought his family,” Jean Turner said.

  Gerry Turner beamed up at Jack, laid the manuscript paper down on the sofa and stood up. She was wearing jeans and a tee s
hirt and had tied her hair up in a ponytail. She too looked different, Jack thought. The tension that had creased her forehead into an almost permanent frown had gone, and her cheeks had a ruddy glow of a child used to playing outside in the sunshine.

  Jack said hello and introduced her to Annie and Eric. “Eric’s a musician too,” he added, which earned an embarrassed, “Dad!” from his son.

  “That’s all right, son. Gerry’s a fine pianist, and I’m sure her grandparents never tire of singing her praises.”

  Laurence and Jean Turner nodded in agreement.

  “What instrument do you play?” Gerry asked Eric directly.

  “Guitar,” Eric said diffidently. “I’ve not been playing that long. I’m not very good.”

  “From what I’ve heard you don’t seem too bad.”

  “Dad!”

  “Would you like to hear me play?” Gerry asked him. “I don’t get much of a chance to talk to other musicians, let alone show off to them.” Her enthusiasm was infectious and Eric found himself nodding. “Come on. We’ll go in the back room where the piano is and leave the grownups to their chattering.” She grabbed a rather bemused Eric by the hand and led his from the room.

  “Well they seemed to hit it off,” Turner said.

  Annie laughed. “Judging from the expression on his face I don’t think he knew what hit him. She’s very confident, your Gerry.”

  “She is now,” Jean agreed. “You wouldn’t recognise her as the girl who arrived here in a taxi last week after running away from that hell-hole she called home. Shall I put the kettle on?”

  “That would be lovely.” Annie said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  Turner took Jack’s arm and led him to the French doors that looked out onto a beautifully tended garden. “Talking of hell holes, I’d like your advice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Turner opened one of the doors and they stepped out into the garden. “Are you a gardener, Jack?”

  “I potter.” He paused. “Actually, no I don’t. Gardening is something of a passion for me. It’s the perfect antidote for the type of work I do.”

  “Yes, I can see that. I had thirty-odd years in the Civil Service before I retired and had I not had the garden I swear I would have cracked up. Planting and growing my flowers kept me sane.”

  “And the problem you want me to help with,” Jack prompted him.

  “It’s Gerry. It looks like Jean and I will be made her legal guardians.”

  “That seems the most likely outcome.”

  “We’re thinking of taking her back to Elsinore – bloody stupid name for a house, pardon my French – her music room is there and I know she’s missing her piano.”

  “But surely you have a piano here?”

  “Yes, we do, but it’s a rather ancient overstrung jobbie; more suitable for playing Roll Out The Barrel than a Rachmaninoff concerto. I know from growing plants all these years that seedlings need nurturing. Give them the best in the early days and they’ll reward you with succulent blooms year after year. I want Gerry to have every opportunity to succeed in her ambition to become a top class pianist so taking her back to her piano and her music room seems about the best we can do for her. But Jean is worried that all the horror that’s happened in that house might have some adverse effect on her. What do you think?”

  The delicate sounds of Clair de Lune floated through the warm spring air. The music was pure Debussy but the tone was closer to Winifred Atwell. “See what I mean?” Turner said.

  “I take your point.” Jack said. “If you want my advice, I’d get the whole house professionally cleaned from top to bottom, move back in there and start a new life as a proper family, something I don’t think Gerry’s had since her mother died, and then sit back and watch her bloom.”

  Laurence Turner smiled and slapped Jack on the back. “Thank you,” he said. “That was what I hoped you’d say.”

  “Tea’s up,” Annie called from the sitting room.

  “What did you think of Gerry?” Jack asked his son as they pulled out of the Turner’s cul de sac.

  Eric was thoughtful. “Hmm,” he said. “She’s very talented. She puts me to shame.”

  “Oh, Eric,” Annie said don’t be so hard on yourself. “You’ve only been playing a few months, she’s been doing it for years.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Of course so,” Jack said. “Listen to your mother. She’s quite right…as always.”

  Annie smiled and tapped him playfully on the arm. “Just you watch it, Jack Callum. You’re not too big for a smack.”

  “Anyway,” Eric said, ignoring the flirtatious behaviour taking place in the front seat of the car. “She said that when she’s moved back to Letchworth I can go around to her house and practice my guitar there. She’s got a big music room.”

  “That’s right, she has. I’ve seen it,” he said, trying to blot out the memory of Lois Turner lying dead on the bamboo couch, blood and brains dribbling from a bullet hole in her skull, and Thomas Usher lying dead on the floor, a look of complete surprise on his lopsided face. He wondered now if he had given Laurence Turner the correct advice.

  Annie noticed the faraway look in his eyes as he relived the events of just a few days ago. “A penny for them.”

  “Eh?”

  “A penny? For your thoughts?”

  “Trust me. Annie, you wouldn’t want them. Really you wouldn’t.”

  33 - SATURDAY JUNE 14TH 1959

  “You don’t need a tie, dad.” Rosie said. “It’s St Mary’s Youth Club not the Royal Albert Hall. Wear that pullover mum got you for Christmas. That’s plenty smart enough.”

  “Talking of your mother, where is she?” Jack stared at himself in the mirror for a few seconds more before removing the tie and hanging it back on the wardrobe rail.

  “Downstairs in the back room. Joanie’s doing her hair for her.”

  “Joanie is doing her hair?” Jack said, surprised. “I thought I heard Avril arrive earlier.”

  “You did. It’s a team effort.”

  Jack gave a slight frown and shook his head. He should be used to the vagaries of female beauty regimens by now but the women in his life always came up with something new to surprise him. “Shouldn’t you be getting down to the club to rehearse? Eric will be wondering where you are.”

  “There’s no rush. I’ve only got two songs this evening and I know them backwards. Besides they’re debuting a new member of the group this evening so they want to run through a few things before I get down there cluttering up the stage, so I’ve got plenty of time. I might even cadge a lift from you.”

  “What’s wrong with your bike?”

  “Nothing. I just thought it might be nice to arrive in style for a change.” Rosie grinned at him.

  “I’m not your chauffer.”

  “Ah well. It was worth a try.”

  Jack sat in his armchair listening to the radio The new television glowered at him from the corner of the room as if challenging him to switch it on and get sucked into its time-consuming void. He had wondered how television would change their lives, for change it would. He’d been less than enthusiastic about the idea, but he was equally determined not to be perceived by his family as a curmudgeon, so went along with Annie’s idea. He quickly became aware that moments like this, sitting in his favourite armchair listening to a classical concert on the BBC’s Third Programme, were precious and would soon to be consigned to history. The thought made him slightly melancholy.

  The door opened. Joan came into the room, stood by the doorway and cleared her throat. “Tonight, John ‘Jack’ Callum, father, policeman, catcher of criminals, scourge of the Hertfordshire underworld, and husband, tonight This Is Your Wife. She stood to one side, glanced back over her shoulder, gave a low bow, and made a beckoning gesture with her arm. “Now, Mum,” she hissed.

  Jack got to his feet and stood as Annie, his wife of twenty years walked hesitantly and shyly into the room. He felt his jaw slacken and
his mouth start to drop open. He snapped it shut.

  Self-consciously Annie patted her newly shorn and permed hair. “Do you like it, Jack?” she asked, her eyes beseeching him to say yes.

  Jack swallowed and crossed to the doorway. He stretched out his hand, his fingers gently pulling at a curl of hair at the nape of Annie’s neck, marvelling slightly as the hair straightened and then sprung back into a curl on its release.

  “Hey, you,” Joan protested. “Don’t you go spoiling the style with your great banana fingers.”

  “Jack, do you like it?” Annie said urgently. “Avril cut it for me and Joanie permed it. What do you think?”

  Jack took a breath. “I think you look beautiful.”

  “Yes, but do you like the hairstyle, Dad?” Joan said to her father impatiently.

  “Yes.” Jack nodded his head slowly. “I love it.”

  “You see, Mum,” Joan crowed. “I told you he would.”

  Annie looked hard into her husband’s eyes, “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “It makes you look younger.” Jack recognised his wife’s uncertainty and tried to assuage it. “Like a new woman.”

  Annie shook her freshly coiffed head. “I’ll settle for younger, but I don’t want to be a new woman, Jack. I want to be the same old Annie Callum, wife and mother.”

  “And sexpot,” Jack said with a twinkle in his eye.

  The two women chorused. “Jack!” “Dad!”

  “A man’s entitled to his opinion.” Jack glanced at his watch. “Anyway, we have to get going. Eric will kill us if we miss the beginning of the show. It’s his big night.” He went across to the radiogram and turned it off.

  “I’ll get my coat.” Joan skipped happily from the room and called back over her shoulder. “Can I get yours, Mum?”

  “If you would, love. I’m wearing my navy duster coat tonight.” Annie encircled Jack’s waist with her arms. “Do you really like it, Jack? I was so scared when Joanie suggested it. I know you always preferred my hair long.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “Times are changing, pet.” He kissed her on the forehead. “It wouldn’t do if we don’t change with them, and yes, I meant it. I think your hair looks lovely. Come on, let’s go.”