His taste in music, as with most things, was catholic. He had always taken the view that it was foolish to stint oneself when it came to sampling what life had to offer, having found he could accommodate almost anything that way. If he was totally honest, he had to admit to himself that modern jazz was the exception, but nobody was perfect and he could live with his shortcomings in that regard.
The symphony strode to its uplifting conclusion and Moe sat staring into his coffee. But there was something to be done and now was as good a time as any.
The small bundle of his dad’s letters was still where he had left it that first morning on his return from the melancholy visit to his dad’s small flat. It wasn’t going to go away and now was the time to face the memories its contents would evoke.
Over the years, Moe had come to take his work for granted, come to wear it like a comfortable, well-tailored coat and now he was gratified to find how much it stood him in good stead coping with his own loss. The requirements of the aftermath of death had been completed with a practised efficiency, tinged, it was true, with the ever-present pathos of sudden loss. But everyone he had to see sought the same thing … to get things done quickly and proficiently. And they had been visibly relieved that he spoke their language. Life, even in death, could sometimes be made more bearable. Moe collected the bundle and resumed his seat, prising the letters free from the elastic band.
As he expected, most were demands for payment. From the utilities, or for life’s daily little luxuries … the newspapers, an off-licence account and dry-cleaners bill (trousers await collection) among them. Moe didn’t look forward to completing the latter task.
The junk mail was quickly discarded and Moe made up the bills according to their urgency. Last came the letter to ‘Mr Moe’.
It was, as he had assumed, from Detective Sergeant Swift. Brief but discreet, like the card left on his car. It requested that he call in at Baytown Police Station. No distressing details or pious regrets to upset the unsuspecting. Moe placed it on the top of the pile. He would go along the very next day.
Moe blessed the wind he had been sorely tempted to curse only a few hours previously. It had swept on like some great celestial broom, and was probably depositing the same depressing meteorological mess elsewhere, soaking some other sorely tried souls. The sky was a blanket of pitch, alight with countless twinking sparks that had begun burning in beacons of hope for humanity long before Man managed to stand upright.
Moe sat on the summit of Badger’s Knoll, his gaze dropping from the great curve of the heavens to the sweep of the bay. He had chosen – as best he could with the aid of a torch – the spot where he had sat as a boy, his arms locked around his knees, then as now.
The surge of the sea rolled in a rhythmic rumble over the shingle in the near distance a few hundred feet below where Moe sat. To his left was the glare of Baytown and away to his right in the distance – Lamplight – its lights sparkling like diamonds and rubies against black velvet. And beyond Lamplight was the pulsing flash of the Juniper Head lighthouse standing watch. For Moe, it was a timeless, magical scene.
But he had begun to feel the chill in the clear air, and the damp seeping through the towel. The last thing he wanted at his time of life was an attack of piles. Years of rambling in remote and rain-rocky parts of the country had spared him that much and he had no wish to suffer at the hand of naughty nature now.
Carefully, he eased to his feet and rolled up the towel before picking his way back down the steep slope of the knoll towards the caravan park. Once back inside, a short flight of concrete steps led up to where his caravan – comfortingly lit for his return – stood waiting. The few neighbouring vans were empty, their owners having cleared up and gone for the winter, but a lamp at the top of the steps would light his way.
Moe was only a few yards on from the top step when something caught his eye. Was his sight playing tricks or had someone left a large boulder where it had no right to be – where a trusting soul could trip over it and break his neck? Moe knew that it hadn’t been there when he left not long before. He was staring at the shadowy shape, wondering how on earth it had got there, when it definitely moved. Moe froze, holding his breath in the cold night air so as not to give himself away to whoever or whatever it was. The ‘boulder’ began an erratic, snuffling progress towards Moe until it was a matter of yards from him yet entrancingly oblivious to his presence.
Excitement had been known to enter Moe’s existence, often unwelcome and uninvited. Self-control had constituted his personal code of conduct on the streets. He hadn’t much time for colleagues who went into a spin in times of stress. As for happiness, it was such a rare commodity at best that he seldom entertained the concept. That is, until he clapped eyes on a traffic warden called Marie. Now, he was getting another unexpected visit from the bringer of joy as he stood watching the badger advance.
The nearby glow from Moe’s caravan profiled its sleek, powerful shape, reflecting the creature’s eyes as it lifted its head, sniffing the air cautiously. Moe had heard somewhere that their sight was no great shakes, and – so long as they weren’t cornered – they tended to be very shy and inoffensive animals, certainly no threat to humans. If anything, the opposite applied – with a cruelty that beggared belief and was still found in isolated pockets of persecution.
The brock stopped and began digging with its immensely powerful foreclaws. Go for it, son! Dig for your dinner. There was something primeval in the swaying motion of the animal that struck a responsive chord in Moe and he began to join in – moving but not quite imperceptibly – from side to side. The badger’s head shot up and swivelled in his direction, alert, testing the air, trying to identify the threat. Moe wanted to call out, to reassure the frightened creature that he posed no threat, no danger to its innocent nocturnal activities.
The brock shifted his stance, the digging forgotten. Like Moe, it was changing feet but with increasing agitation as its uncertainty grew. Linked in some strange ritual, copper and creature now in reverse roles of hunter and suspect, swayed in time, locked in an ancient dance. Their music was the surge of the sea and the creak of the trees in what little was left of the wind.
They stared at each other, each in his way a hunter of worms and other low life. A momentary dim spark crossed the divide. Then Moe ruined it. He couldn’t help it. A sneeze won’t be denied. In an answering explosion of fur, the brock showed Moe its substantial rear end as it raced for the sanctuary of the knoll. There was a brief crashing and thrashing in the thick undergrowth as it disappeared.
Moe could have kicked himself. He sneezed again instead. But this time there was no responding rush for refuge. He was alone again. Moe’s disappointment was profound. Despondently, he trudged the remaining short distance to his caravan and climbed the steps to the door. He had no sooner unlocked it and stepped inside than the light bulb blew and he fell into complete chaos.
Bloody hell! Moe wondered whether being circumcised without any anaesthetic could be as painful. It was all too sudden. One minute he was in a world where badgers danced, the next he was base over apex in an unlit and unwelcome entanglement with a moving dagger that threatened to do for castration what Crippen did for poison. Damn and blast! He had completely forgotten the bike.
In a fit of middle-aged machismo, with fond and not altogether accurate recollections of miles travelled in his youth, Moe had once bought a mountain bike, a multi-geared mean machine. But thereafter, it had remained unused, a memento to the male menopause, occupying space in the corridor of his van between door and dining area. It had been there so long that he had become expert at edging past, and had done it so often, it was like second nature. Ignored, it had waited innocently to exact revenge for his years of neglect at last.
From the precarious, painful point of contact, it was plain that the handlebars had invaded his fly, the bike moving back under his weight tugging him with it in an irresistible imbroglio of seduction. His muddy shoes scrabbled for grip on the smoot
h linoleum in an eyewatering effort at regaining his balance, arms flailing, his hands seeking a grip as he swore and groaned in equal measure. He had managed to gain a hold on the door frame to the spare bedroom and was wondering whether he might be able to manoeuvre his way to the nearest working light switch without any further damage when a torch beam pinned him like a moth.
“Having problems Mr Moe?”
Moe instantly recognised the unmistakeable nasal whine of Benny Fitts, manager of Badger’s Bay Holiday Park. What on earth brought him out so late? The licensed bar on site had shut for the season, ages ago.
“C’mon, Patsy. I’ll need a hand.” Oh-oh, Moe thought, say no more.
There was a muffled giggle from the darkness beyond. The beam dipped, receded and lifted again as Benny passed the torch to the willing hands of Patsy Bottoms, office receptionist, and sweetness personified when it came to men; especially Benny Fitts.
Moe felt the manager’s hands under his arms, trying to hold him up as the bike retreated even further, exerting an exquisite pull on Moe’s private parts.
“Hey, be careful, will you?”
“Could’ve been nasty,” Benny clucked sympathetically.
“What do you mean ‘could’ve been?’ It is!” Moe wanted action not words of sympathy. With utmost care, he adjusted his position.
“You POOR man.” Patsy’s face emerged from beyond the beam as she held the torch aloft over one shoulder. Moe suddenly felt even more vulnerable. Patsy’s other hand was flicking at the duff light-switch.
“Try the next one … over there.”
The beam swung every way, leaving the two men in a dark limbo until there was a click and the interior was immediately flooded with light. Patsy was elbowing Benny aside in her eagerness to give a hand to Moe in his parlous predicament. But too late; he was free now. He sighed with relief. Patsy just sighed.
Moe went into fast forward mode into the bathroom, snatching a towel from the door to wrap around his middle and cover his flapping fly.
“Just as well we were around,” Benny Fitts called just as Moe re-appeared, modesty restored. Moe looked at Patsy. “Wasn’t it just?” She jumped as she realised she was pointing the torch beam at his towel.
“Better be on our way then, eh Patsy?” Benny coughed.
She handed him the torch and turned to Moe.
“You have a couple of messages, you know.” Moe hadn’t known. He’d forgotten to check the message board outside reception in passing.
“One from a Mr Hickox – such a nice man. He said it wasn’t urgent,” Patsy gurgled happily. “The other caller said he was screwy.” Benny pushed her towards the open door of Moe’s van. “Always glad to be of service,” Patsy managed and was gone into the darkness with a flash of light. Moe was inclined to call “Hi-Yo Silver and away!” With a nod Benny followed, hurrying to keep up with the wayward torch beam, the door clicking shut behind him. Moe waited for the beam and the burble of voices to fade, then he went to check at length for damage.
Three in the morning is a dead and alive sort of hour for anyone to be woken up without warning. Moe rubbed his eyes and squinted at the dull luminous numerals of the alarm clock. Sure enough … 3am. His head slapped back on the pillows and he lay there trying to work out just why he was awake.
To his right, penetrating the gap at the top of the drawn curtains, the spindly street lamps on the Baytown-Lamplight road showed off in all their orange obscenity. Whilst he had become inured to their intrusive vulgarity, he would have happily strangled those responsible for such misplaced monstrosities in seriously special scenery.
The rain hadn’t helped either at first, rattling on the roof at night in a staccato of sharp nails, until he had got used to that too. But this was different. It stayed with Moe as he slipped out of bed and reached for the bottom corner of the nearest curtain. There it was again … almost directly beneath the window. Moe reached for his table lamp and brought it close to the lifted curtain before thumbing it on to throw a spread of bright light across the grass beyond. There was uproar outside, a frantic snorting and scratching, followed by a familiar shape in full retreat. Moe grinned and went back to bed. Bloody badger!
CHAPTER SIX
Baytown Police Station was the sort of building that was loved by its architects and loathed by its occupants.
Built with all the flair of the more adventurous public convenience, it resembled a number of boxes laid end to end and piled three deep. The ground level was a depressing granite grey, its boredom broken only by the entrance door and narrow windows of thick opaque glass that were marginally more decorative than functional. The upper floors also had windows, grudging in number and like the rest of the design, short on a sense of enlightenment. Double-glazed and shut tight, each contained a faded shutter-blind imprisoned between the panes of glass. Moe was only too familiar with the working conditions. He imagined that he could hear the hum of the air-conditioning, circulating the germs with merciless efficiency.
On one side of the approach to the entrance door was the visitors’ car park, and adjacent to it, other parking bays ostentatiously marked Authorised Personnel Only, some occupied by newly washed patrol cars, their county force liveries gleaming in the weak sunshine of the November mid-morning. One was occupied, its crew turning to give Moe the once-over as he drove into the visitors’ car park. He didn’t bother looking round. He knew that habitually curious eyes were following his progress. He’d have done the same. A couple of minutes later found him standing in the open-plan foyer waiting his turn.
“Yes sir, can I help you?” The time honoured opening gambit. He explained the reason for his visit and was promptly shown into an adjacent interview room. Moe sat down. There were no windows and only the one way out. Intimidating. He rested his elbows on the matte green tabletop and examined the various initials scratched in the wood trim that surrounded it. He could have been back at work, except that there was something missing. It came to him quite suddenly. The noise … the constant hubbub of humanity from a steady stream of people pouring off the dockland streets, most passing through – some stopping longer than they would have liked – in East End Central. Here, everything was decorous, like the whispering confines of a church. Even the tap at the door was decorous. But Moe already knew that DS Swift was a considerate sort of fellow.
The CID officer wore an expression of regret above a suit that looked sorrier still. But the handshake was firm and friendly, the honesty of sentiment needing no apology. He sat down opposite Moe and deposited a small property bag on the table between them. Moe could make out his dad’s name and part of a list of its contents.
“Thought you might appreciate a cuppa. Be here shortly.” Swift pushed the bag to one side and took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket, spreading it on the table where the bag had been. He ran his finger down the entry and then checked the writing on the bag. Then he spun the paper around so that Moe could see the receipt box awaiting his signature for a number of items marked ‘A’ which his practised glance told him tallied with the list of the bag.
“When you’ve checked the items in the bag perhaps you’d sign the box – there.” Swift indicated. Moe opened the bag. It was a moment’s work to agree and do as he was asked.
“Funny, isn’t it? We’re both in the job with more years service that either of us would care to admit, but when it comes to our own we’re in the same boat as everyone else.”
Another knock heralded the arrival of the tea, accompanied by a cheap and pungent fragrance that was far stronger than the brew itself. Before Moe could look up, a familiar full sweater filled his field of vision.
“Thanks, Juliet.” Swift was grinning like a fourteen-year-old finding a stash of Playboy magazines. Moe felt strangely light headed.
“You’re welcome, Sarge.” The voice was lower than the shriek heard in the cemetery. Moe ran a hand over his face and nodded his thanks. Juliet-whoever didn’t even look at him and instead swayed back out the door, her
rear as eye-catching as her front. But the scent stayed.
“Nice girl, Juliet. One of our more obliging clerical assistants,” murmured Swift, handing Moe a steaming cup of better than average looking varnish. Moe agreed that she did indeed seem most obliging. Swift passed over a matching saucer containing two sachets of sugar, followed by a spoon with the force crest. Officers’ dining room issue.
“I gather your father was a sporting man?”
The old euphemism for racehorse punter appealed to Moe. And he appreciated Swift’s choice of phrase, a gentle word for a gentle old man.
“That’s right. He liked his little flutter. But strictly small stakes stuff. He cut his coat according to his cloth.”
Swift slowly stirred his tea and nodded affably.
“Minimum expenditure … maximum profit. That’s what I say.”
“He would have agreed with you.” And added, “needs must”.
Swift took a sip of tea and watched Moe over the rim of his cup. “Did you know that he was taken ill in a local bookies?”
Moe had to admit that he hadn’t known, but the laws of average pointed in that direction. Swift went on.
“An old pal of his happened to visit the place right at that very moment. Went with him to hospital and was there to the end.” Swift put his cup down. “Thought you’d want to know. You met him … at the service.” Moe remembered.
“He never said he did that. Never said much at all.”
“Didn’t think it was the right time, I expect. He and your father were regulars in Legge’s – that’s the name of the bookmakers. They liked to sit in the corner just inside the door … it was their lucky spot, Downes told me. That’s his name – Downes, Stan Downes.”
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 4