‘I’m fine,’ Beresford said, unconvincingly. ‘So he asked for a ticket to Spain, did he?’
‘No,’ the girl said. ‘He asked for a ticket to anywhere, as long as it was abroad.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘I don’t think he had much of an idea about foreign travel.’
‘So what made you choose Spain for him?’
‘We’d just had a cancellation, so that was easiest and quickest. And to be honest with you, I didn’t want to spend a lot of time on him.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because I was sure that when it came to actually paying, he’d make some excuse and leave.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No, he didn’t. He reached into the pocket of those tight jeans of his, and pulled out a wad of notes. Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Anyway, he paid, I issued the ticket, and that was it.’
‘He didn’t say anything else?’ Beresford asked hopefully.
‘Like what?’
‘Like where he’d got the money from?’
‘No, he didn’t. I think he found the whole process a bit intimidating, and he couldn’t wait to get it over and done with.’
Of course he couldn’t, Beresford thought. Big Bazza understood the discipline of the workplace and the violence of the streets, but an agency like this one was a totally alien world to him.
‘Can I ask you a question now?’ the girl said.
‘All right,’ Beresford agreed.
‘Have you got some kind of scalp infection? I mean, is that why you’re wearing a hat inside?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Beresford told her. ‘I had my hair cut very short, and I feel rather awkward about it.’
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ the girl said, sounding relieved. She took a deep breath, pushed out her chest and produced what she obviously considered to be her sexiest smile. ‘So when your hair’s grown back, why don’t you come and see me again?’ she suggested.
They had arrived in Oxford in the previous evening, and booked into the hotel under the name of Mr and Mrs Robert Rutter.
‘It’s the best hotel in town,’ Elizabeth had said, as they had lain naked on the bed, after a late-night session of passionate lovemaking. ‘I always go for the best.’
Rutter had smiled. ‘I rather got that impression,’ he’d admitted.
‘The best hotel, the best cars – and the best men.’
‘Is that what I am? The best man?’
And Elizabeth had tickled him lightly under the chin, and said, ‘You know you are.’
Now it was morning, and they were sitting in the hotel’s breakfast room, looking out on a wide elegant street framed by impressive spires.
‘I meant what I said last night,’ Elizabeth told him, between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs with prawns.
‘About what? The hotel?’ Rutter asked.
‘About you,’ Elizabeth answered.
A waiter appeared at the end of the table. ‘More coffee, Mrs Rutter?’ he asked discreetly.
But Rutter could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew she wasn’t Mrs Rutter at all – knew, in fact, exactly who she really was.
And that was inevitable, he supposed. She was a celebrity. Her picture appeared at the head of her column in the Gazette, and sometimes even on the front page.
If things went as he hoped they would, he told himself, he’d have to accept the fact that Elizabeth would not so much become Mrs Bob Rutter, as he would become Mr Elizabeth Driver.
The thought didn’t really bother him. He had carried the burden of responsibility for so long that now he was quite prepared to let Elizabeth bear the weight.
‘I expect you’ll be off to Abingdon as soon as you’ve finished eating,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Yes, I will,’ Rutter said, speaking automatically. Then he thought again, and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think I will go to Abingdon today. I think I’ll tag along with you, if you don’t mind.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Mind?’ she repeated. ‘I’d be delighted.’
He supposed that at some point he should do the work that Charlie Woodend imagined he was already doing. But he did not feel like starting yet, because though he still hadn’t proposed to Liz – there were just a few details he had to tie up first – he couldn’t help thinking of this as their honeymoon.
Big Bazza was standing in a telephone kiosk on the promenade. He was wearing a flowery shirt, shorts and sandals. He was still not entirely comfortable with his new outfit – sandals felt strange after boots, and he was conscious of how pale his legs were in comparison to those of the other people on the promenade – but he was getting there. His hair, too, would soon be starting to grow, and though, for a while, his head would look like a billiard ball which had mysteriously sprouted peach fuzz, it wouldn’t be long before he’d have hair he could actually run his fingers through.
He supposed it was time to make the call. He picked up the phone and dialled the Whitebridge number.
Monika Paniatowski was sitting on a high stool in the saloon bar of the Dog and Whistle. A mirror ran along the wall behind the counter, and through it she had been watching Councillor Ron Scranton – who was sitting at a table near the window with a couple of hard mods – for over ten minutes. And Scranton had been watching her – she was almost certain of that.
The phone rang behind the bar, and the landlord picked it up.
‘There’s a call for you, Councillor Scranton,’ he shouted across the room.
‘Switch it through to the phone in the corridor,’ Scranton said.
He stood up, and so did one of the hard mods. The two of them walked across the room like men on a mission.
Scranton disappeared into the corridor, but his minder did not follow him. Instead, he closed the door, and positioned himself in front of it.
Another customer – a chunky young man in a donkey jacket – had been heading for the corridor himself, and now found his way blocked.
‘Can I just squeeze past you?’ he asked.
The hard mod shook his head. ‘No.’
‘But I need to go to the toilet.’
‘You’ll have to wait till the Leader’s finished with the phone.’
‘The leader? Who the bloody hell’s the leader?’
The hard mod said nothing.
‘I’ve simply got to go,’ the donkey-jacketed man said, half-crossing his legs.
‘An’ I’ve just said you can’t,’ the hard mod told him.
‘Look, I don’t want to have to resort to violence, but …’
The hard mod sneered. ‘Think you could take me?’ he asked.
‘I’d be willin’ to give it a try.’
‘Think you could take me and him,’ the hard mod wondered, gesturing towards his mate who was still sitting at the table.
‘I …’ the donkey-jacketed man said, and then, lost for any suitable reply, he turned to the landlord and complained, ‘This feller won’t let me go to the bog, Mr Hoskins.’
The landlord shrugged. ‘Nothing I can do about it,’ he said. ‘Councillor Scranton needs his privacy.’
Paniatowski clutched the bar counter tightly. As a police officer, she’d been itching to intervene from the very start, and it was taking a tremendous effort of will to stop herself now.
Bazza had become wrapped up in the colourful life that was going on outside the telephone kiosk, and when a voice at the other end of the line said, ‘Yes?’ he almost jumped.
‘It’s me, Boss,’ he said.
‘Avenger!’ the other man replied, sounding delighted. ‘How are you liking Malaga?’
‘It’s great!’
‘I’ll bet it is. No Pakis or tramps to mess things up for you in Spain, are there?’
‘No, Boss,’ Bazza replied.
Although, in some ways, he wouldn’t have minded if there had been. Because this wasn’t Whitebridge, where it was a question of ‘them’ and ‘us’. On the coast, everybody seemed to know what they wanted
to do themselves, and were perfectly happy to let everyone else do what they wanted to do.
‘I was driving around the city centre last night,’ the Boss said. ‘The police have cut down on their foot patrols. I knew they would.’
Why did he have to say that? Bazza wondered. Why couldn’t he just let me forget about Whitebridge for a while?
‘I’ve been thinkin’, Boss …’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘An’ I’m not sure I want to do it any more.’
‘You are a warrior,’ the Boss said. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘I suppose so,’ Bazza replied, doubtfully.
‘And like all warriors, you need to rest after a battle. But that rest must have a purpose. It must serve to build up your strength for the next battle.’
‘I know all that, but …’
‘The Movement is growing stronger every day. In a few years’ time, when it has become unstoppable, our followers will look back on these early days, and see you as the hero that you are.’
But Bazza was not sure he wanted to be a hero any more. ‘Haven’t I done enough already?’ he asked.
‘We can never do enough,’ said the Boss, in a voice growing increasingly hard. ‘The Movement demands we serve it unceasingly – to death, if that is what is necessary.’ He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler, more persuasive. ‘One more mission, Avenger. That’s all I ask of you. One more mission, and then you may retire to the glory you deserve.’
‘Really only one?’ Bazza asked dubiously.
‘Really only one,’ the Boss confirmed. ‘After that, there will be other warriors – inspired by your example – who will be more than ready to take your place. Will you do that for me, Avenger? Will you carry out one more mission?’
‘Yes,’ Bazza said, though his heart was not in it. ‘Yes, I will.’
The door to the corridor swung open, and Scranton re-entered the bar.
Paniatowski waited until he was halfway across the room, then turned to the landlord and said loudly, ‘Where’s my next bloody drink? I asked for it five minutes ago.’
‘I’m sorry, love, but if you asked, I didn’t hear you,’ the landlord said.
‘Do I look like a bloody Paki?’ Paniatowski demanded.
‘No, you—’
‘Then don’t treat me like I bloody was one.’
‘Now listen to me, love—’ the landlord began angrily.
Then Paniatowski heard a voice to her left say, ‘The lady’s upset at being kept waiting for her drink, Jack. Why don’t you serve it to her, then we can all have a bit of peace?’
‘Oh, all right, then, Councillor Scranton,’ the landlord said, all signs of anger completely drained from his voice and replaced with an oily obsequiousness.
‘And put it on my account,’ Scranton said.
Paniatowski turned to face him. ‘I buy my own drinks,’ she said.
‘And you seem to have bought yourself quite a few already,’ Scranton said mildly.
‘First of all, how much I drink is none of your bloody business,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘And second of … second of all, you’d drink a lot too, if you had my job.’
‘And what job might that be?’ Scranton wondered.
‘I’m the Filth,’ Paniatowski said. She fumbled in her handbag, and produced her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Monika Paniatowski.’
‘Paniatowski,’ Scranton mused. ‘Is that a Polish name, Monika?’
‘I don’t recall giving you permission to use my first name,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Quite right, you didn’t,’ Scranton agreed. ‘Is that a Polish name, Miss Paniatowski?’
‘It most certainly is not,’ Paniatowski said firmly. ‘The Poles are the scum of the earth.’
‘I would agree with you on that, just as Adolf Hitler would have done. Though, I must admit, they have serious competition for the title of “scum” from some other quarters – especially in Whitebridge,’ Scranton said.
‘Bloody right,’ Paniatowski agreed.
‘So if you’re not a Pole, what are you?’
‘I’m a White Russian!’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed! My grandfather was a count. I could have been a countess, but for the bastard Bolsheviks.’
‘And now you’re a policewoman.’
‘And now, I’m a police sergeant.’
‘And one who evidently doesn’t like Pakistanis.’
‘Do you like them?’ Paniatowski demanded. ‘Because you wouldn’t if you came into contact with them as much as I do. They’ll take over in the end, you know. Unless we do something to stop them, they’ll bloody take over.’
‘Do many police officers share your views?’ Scranton wondered.
‘More than you think,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘And more – a lot more – than would dare to admit it.’ She looked down at her vodka glass, and seemed surprised to find it empty. ‘I’ve probably said too much. I’d better be going.’
With some apparent effort, she clambered down off her stool, only to find that Scranton had placed a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘You’re a rather short, middle-aged man,’ Paniatowski said. Then, before Scranton could reply, she held up her hand to silence him. ‘For God’s sake, don’t be offended,’ she continued. ‘I’ve always had a very soft spot for rather short, middle-aged men.’
Scranton smiled. ‘Well, it is a relief to hear you say that,’ he said. He reached into his pocket, took out a leaflet, and handed it to her. ‘Have you ever seen one of these before?’
Paniatowski squinted at it. ‘British Patriotic Party,’ she read.
‘Have a look at it, and if you like what it says, we’ll talk more,’ Scranton told her.
‘But where will you …?’
‘You can usually find me here. And if I’m not here, the people behind the bar will know where I am.’
Paniatowski scrunched the leaflet awkwardly into her handbag. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and began to walk slowly, and with great concentration, towards the door.
‘And even if you’re not too keen on what you read, I’d still like to see you again,’ Scranton called after her.
Part Two
Laying Down the Burden
Eighteen
The calendar on the wall of Woodend’s office already had five days crossed out, and now, with a frustrated slash of his pen, the chief inspector made it six.
‘It’s Tuesday!’ he said in disgust.
Paniatowski and Beresford nodded. They knew it was Tuesday, and were already anticipating what the chief inspector would say next.
‘On Wednesday – which is tomorrow – Barry Thornley gets back from Spain,’ Woodend continued. ‘It would be nice to arrest him at the airport, wouldn’t it? Only we don’t have anything like enough evidence for that, do we?’
The other two shook their heads. They had all been hoping that while Big Bazza was away, they would get their big break in the investigation – finally have the tool in their hands that they needed to open the can of worms. But the big break was yet to appear, and the simple truth was that while the wheels of justice had undoubtedly been turning in Bazza’s absence, the only thing they’d really been grinding against had been each other.
‘Tell me what’s been happenin’ with the hard mods, Colin,’ Woodend said.
‘To be honest, there’s not much to tell,’ Beresford admitted. ‘I never realized how much of a leader Bazza was to them until he went away. They’re quite lost without him.’
‘And Councillor Scranton?’ Woodend asked Paniatowski.
‘I’m going to nail the bastard!’ Monika said vehemently.
‘But you’re not close yet?’
‘I’m getting there. He’s so eager to find his way into my knickers that eventually he’ll tell me everything I need to know.’
‘Neither of you have asked me how Inspector Rutter’s gettin’ on,’ Woodend said.
‘We … er … thought if there was anything we needed to know, you’d tell us,’ Paniatowski said awkwardly.
‘It appears that he’s gone down with a bad case of the flu, so he hasn’t been able to do much actual investigatin’ as yet,’ Woodend said.
‘Well, let’s hope he’s soon back on his feet,’ Paniatowski replied.
From the way she’d said it, it was clear she didn’t really believe that Rutter was sick at all, Woodend thought – and neither did he.
‘Bazza’s the key,’ he said aloud. ‘He always has been. Once we’ve cracked him, we’ve cracked the whole case. And that’s mainly down to you, Colin.’
‘I can handle it,’ Beresford said confidently.
‘I’m sure you can,’ Woodend agreed.
And he hoped to Christ that was true – because if things went wrong, they would go badly wrong.
The personnel officer in RAF Abingdon had a large bushy moustache which served as a more than adequate thatch for the generous, amiable mouth which lay beneath it. But he was also graced with bureaucrat’s eyes – narrow and distrustful – and looking at him across the desk, Rutter realized that getting anything out of him was going to be uphill work.
That was the problem with choosing to cut things fine, the inspector thought. You had to assume, when you made that decision, that once you finally got around to doing the job you’d been sent to do, everything would go without a hitch.
But the truth was, he had not been consciously cutting things fine at all. The truth was that he had been having such a good time with Elizabeth that the days had just slipped by, and it had come as a shock to him to realize there was only one left before Barry Thornley returned from Spain.
‘The problem is, I don’t quite see how I can help you,’ the personnel officer said.
‘I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear,’ Rutter told him. ‘We’re conducting a murder inquiry, and I’m doing a background check on one of our prime suspects.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite understand that,’ the officer agreed. ‘But these are military records, you see.’
‘Which means, I’m sure, that they are both comprehensive and clear,’ Rutter said ingratiatingly. ‘I’m always telling my chief inspector that we could learn a great deal from the way the military keeps its records.’
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