by Roger Busby
Fletcher reassured him, “You know our motto, always save something tasty for another day. You're not due yet.”
"So what's in it for me?”
“Insurance Danny.”
“Come again?”
“You play ball with us and we won't tell Bernie's firm what a diabolical stroke you've been pulling with their main man. Because if we did... “ Fletcher took the body tag off his finger and tied it to Hood's big toe...”we might have to make you a permanent reservation.”
“Who put the bubble in?”
“Be your age, Danny.”
Hood breathed a sigh. “All right, you've got me cold.”
Mark Fletcher smiled down at him. “More like on ice,” he said.
The crime squad hit the Desert Island mob handed at four in the morning and lifted Bernie Goodman with the dew still on him. It was a text book operation.
“You should've seen the poor bugger, guv,” Fletcher told his DI when they returned to the station. “Squatting there in his underpants and blubbering like a baby. A few more days of that kind of treatment and I reckon he would've been a goner.”
“You got a good snout on that one all right Mark,” the DI told him admiringly, “do you a bit of good too.”
Fletcher shrugged. “Good intelligence,” he replied, “could have happened to anyone.”
“Pull the other one,” the DI said, “the guv'nor's delighted with you, a real feather in your cap. You could be going places on the strength.”
Basking in the glory of the moment, Mark Fletcher went back to his flat to freshen up. The phone was ringing.
“Quite the little hero eh?” It was Helen's voice, sharp and brittle.
“Helen,” Fletcher exclaimed, “I was going to call you...it worked like a charm...I'm just off to the Yard for a briefing so I've got to dash....”
“You bastard...you bastard Mark!” Her cry cut through him like a knife. “You rotten lousy selfish bastard,” her voice started to break as pent up emotions boiled over. “I just had a call from St Thomas's A and E, they just brought Carol in, hit and run, she didn't stand a chance, dead on arrival.”
Fletcher gripped the phone. “Helen,” he said, “listen...I didn't...”
“You really take the prize, Mark.” She was crying now. “You know that. You killed her as sure as if you'd done it yourself. You signed her death warrant you bastard. You'd stiff your own mother for a pat on the head.”
“Helen, listen to me...”
“And you know what, she was carrying a note in her pocket saying to call me in case of an accident. How's that for a laugh!”
“Hey Helen, you don't think I had anything to do with that,” Fletcher protested desperately. “I never even mentioned her name, or yours either. I kept you both out of it, you've got to believe that. Helen...Helen...” But he was talking to the dialling tone.
Fletcher stared at he phone for a moment, his mind in a turmoil. It must have been a coincidence, a quirk of fate. He thought of calling the traffic officers to get details of the accident that had killed Carol Dunne, contemplating going immediately to Helen and somehow convincing her that he hadn't broken his word. He looked at his watch. He was expected at the Yard. There just wasn't time.
So Mark Fletcher seized his chance with both hands and was whisked off to NSY to join the elite brotherhood of the legendary Flying Squad. It was the sort of once in a lifetime opportunity that any ambitious detective would have happily cut off an arm for. Helen Ritchie was expendable.
Now, sitting in his makeshift study, reflecting upon a glass of whiskey with the benefit of hindsight Mark Fletcher knew it had all been a charade and that his early promise had burned out like a shooting star. Had the guilt which gnawed within him for turning his back on Helen's tragic outburst eventually eaten him away. Was that the answer? At moments like this he would concede the possibility. At moments like this he would sacrifice his home life, career, everything, for the chance to roll back the years and somehow make Helen Ritchie understand that he had no hand in her friend's death.
His wife was calling from downstairs and it was time to cap the bottle and put aside such maudlin thoughts. He couldn't change the past. Never look back, that was the hard lesson of reality. In the morning he would call Dennis Jewel and tell him to forget it.
***************
Other Titles by: Roger Busby
Trafalgar - Dispatches - 2012 – eBook
South Bank Blue (The Reckoning) - 2012 – eBook
High Jump - 1992 - HB
Crackshot - 1990 - HB
Snowman - 1987 - HB
The Hunter - 1985 - HB
Fading Blue - 1984 - HB
Garvey's Code - 1978 - HB
New Face in Hell - 1976 - HB
Pattern of Violence - 1973 - HB
A Reasonable Man - 1972 - HB
Deadlock - 1971 - HB
The Frighteners - 1970 - HB
Robbery blue - 1969 - HB
Main Line Killer - 1968 - HB
Authors Website: Roger Busby.Com
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Biography:
BUSBY, Roger (Charles). British. Born in Leicester, 24 July 1941. Educated at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for Boys; Aston University, Birmingham, certificate in journalism, 1968. Married Maureen-Jeanette Busby in 1968. Journalist, Caters News Agency, Birmingham, 1959-66, and Birmingham Evening Mail, 1966-73. Since 1973, Force Information Officer, Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, Exeter. Lieutenant Commander RNR Sea Cadet Corps 1955 - 2012.