“Oh, I don’t know. Two or three days isn’t unknown.”
Swift was incredulous. “In your dreams! And even if such a miracle happened, it would still leave you short. That time ran out in court today.”
“Marie knows about banks, don’t you, love?” Moe gave her the nod.
“I know about bank managers,” she said draining her last spritzer. “And I know my own pretty well … professionally speaking, you’ll understand.”
“Don’t digress,” Moe murmured fondly.
“My bank is on one side of the street and Legge’s is a few yards along on the other. Well … I’ve spent many a morning giving the managers of both branches the benefit of my Nelson eye when it came to their little parking peccadilloes.”
Marie paused, knowing she had them hanging on every word now.
“Under the circumstances, I thought I might have a little word with each manager that day … both lovely men. The short of it is that they were only too happy to put the cheque on fast track for me. I checked this morning and my account is wealthier by a handful of lovely zeros.”
There was silence, but it was only the briefest of interludes.
The stamping and cheering of well-pleased customers brought the pub manager on the trot, ready to present the bill. Believing that he had timed his run to perfection, and seeing how satisfied everyone seemed to be, he sportingly decided to enter into the spirit of the occasion.
“Who’s paying?” he asked jovially.
Swift pointed at Moe. “He is!”
Moe pointed at Marie. “She is!”
The poor man had begun to believe his former fears were well founded when Marie cried ‘Holy Moses! and pretended – very convincingly – to faint from the shock.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
East End Central wasn’t the place he knew.
The building was; the corridors, the offices and public access areas, they hadn’t changed. But East End Central just wasn’t the same.
Moe was self-aware enough to know that it wasn’t the place that had changed, it was him. The sudden, traumatic news of his dad’s death; the events in Baytown, and most of all – and best of all – his relationship with Marie Mee, had served to work on his subconscious, altering his perceptions and creating a new Moe within the old one.
Hickox was glad to see him, that much hadn’t changed anyway. The CI (Ops) was one of the few senior officers in his working life that Moe had time and respect for without reservation. The Chief Superintendent was away, on another career advancement, aimed at achieving the next rank as quickly and as effortlessly as possible. He was cheese and Hickox was chalk; that was how Moe saw them.
Somehow, despite Hickox’s protestations to the contrary, Moe’s relief had survived his absence without managing to drop anyone in the ‘proverbial’. And they had heard about his adventures in Baytown, that much was quickly apparent on his first day’s return to duty. Now only interested in working his way through his notice to quit, Moe wasn’t too surprised to discover that Hickox – never a man for courting or claiming favours – had made sure that it was the 6am – 2pm shift. Moe still found he had the time and the inclination to groan out loud when his alarm clock began clanging in his ear at 5am. Strewth! What sort of time was that to be getting up at his age? Roll on retirement.
Clutching his trusty clipboard and well-chewed police-issue ball pen, Moe reluctantly eased himself into the basement parade room to face the familiar line of soap-shiny faces under their nonsense helmets. Without warning, they began to clap. Moe stopped, unsure what to do next, whether to stand there and accept their enthusiastic appreciation with detached insouciance or stride purposely to his usual position to the front and in the centre of the line and call them to order. Why change now? He chose the latter course of action and just as he was raising his clipboard and calling them to order, a familiar voice piped up.
“ET … phone home.”
Moe grinned inwardly but managed to serve one of his basilisk stares on the unabashed young Grant.
“I always understood ET to mean ‘early turn’ – in which case, it’s far too early to phone anyone – at home or otherwise.” Moe chewed on his pen.
“How do you fancy Horace Barnett School again?” He raised both eyebrows over his clipboard at Grant.
“He says ‘no problem, Sarge’”, came another voice, to giggling in the ranks. Moe was obliging. “Then you can join him, lad.”
That went down well. And suddenly everything was – temporarily at least – back to some semblance of normality.
Moe was yawning in the sergeants’ office, checking another of PC Grant’s reports, and about to attach a note enquiring how it was appropriate to report an undertaker’s hearse for unnecessary obstruction outside a crematorium, when the door swung open and Hickox stood there, blocking out the light as usual.
“Got a moment, Arthur?” he asked. Moe followed as the CI (Ops) led the way to his own office. Once inside, he waved Moe to the other seat and took up residence in his own, reaching down in a familiar way to wrestle with his desk draw.
Moe stared around at the pin-covered maps. They had changed … assumed a different pattern since his previous unhappy visit. Like his own life, Moe mused. He heard the bang as the draw was dropped on the top of the desk and swung his gaze to lock on the half-decent scotch and the tumblers as they were produced by their custodian. But unlike the previous time, they were raised into view with something like a flourish. Moe blinked and looked up at Hickox. The CI (Ops) was smiling. Golly, Moe blinked again, this was certainly different from the last occasion.
“You’re not the only one to be looking at a change, Arthur.” Hickox began pouring the golden nectar into each tumbler. “I’ve decided to see the light too. My three decades will be up soon and rather than hang on year by year becoming more and more curmudgeonly to no useful end, I’m going to join the free world.” He sat back and fixed Moe with his washed-out eyes. “So – I thought you and I could drink to each other’s good luck, good health – and future happiness. A toast – to US! How about it?”
Moe needed no second bidding. He took the tumbler that Hickox pushed at him and lifted it high. Hickox joined him. They spoke as one.
“To us!”
They drained their drinks as one, Hickox quickly replenishing them.
“And if you’re wondering what brought this on, let’s just say that with age is supposed to come wisdom. I thought it wise not to chance my luck. Better enjoy some of that other life outside, I thought, before old Father Time wields his scythe. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Moe nodded. But it was still a turn-up for the book.
“In the meantime, Mr Cholmondely will be departing to pastures new. I don’t suppose it will surprise you to learn that he is being promoted to Commander? He’s off to the Yard, hopefully to get lost in the corridors of power. Some position to do with police-public relations, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
Moe sniffed at his refill and shook his head. “He’s a prisoner of the merry-go-round, I suppose.” He suddenly experienced an unexpected rush of generosity towards his old sparring partner. “Perhaps we should drink to his trouble free passage – in the interests of the force and all those who have to carry the flag after us, you understand?”
Hickox chuckled. “Why not?” Both men raised their tumblers but satisfied themselves with a brief sip. Hickox regarded Moe with comradely affection. “What was it that the Chief Superintendent once called you?”
“An ironist.”
“Ironist? That must be smug-speak for sarcastic sod?” Hickox raised his glass again. “Can’t think why he should think that. CHEERS!”
“CHEERS!”
“Now, do you think you could keep your relief out of trouble for the remainder of the month you have left, for both our sakes?”
……………………………
The welcoming beam that Screwy Naylor gave Moe on his next visit to the station was equalled only by the sequence of s
hock and dismay that followed. But Moe was prepared and was soon reassuring the old docker that he and his wife were welcome guests at his caravan once the holiday park was open for the season again. And he quickly followed that with the news that Stan Downes wanted to get in touch … had he done so already?
Screwy shook his head, but he seemed pleased at that and placated by the idea that he would be able to keep up their friendship through the use of Moe’s caravan, notwithstanding access to letter and ’phone. But all that aside, he frowned as he passed Moe his latest racing tip in its customary envelope.
“It won’t be the same. Not being able to pop in like this and have a chat. I’ve always looked forward to it, you see.”
Moe had clucked sympathetically, trying to make things as easy as possible. Besides, he would miss the visits himself.
“You could always think about retiring down there.” It was said more in jest than anything but Screwy brightened visibly.
“The missus would like that, I’m sure.” Then he wilted a little. “But it would need a lot of thought for such a big change. We’ve never lived anywhere but here in this part of this old town.”
‘Maybe so,” Moe jumped in. “But Confucius, he say change is as good as rest.”
“Now you’ve got me confused. Who’s this bloke Confucius?”
“Just an ancient wise man from China or some such place.”
“Beats me what he’d know about moving out of The Smoke.” Screwy scratched his head and went to leave. “But thanks for all the news, even if some of it is a bit of a shock.” He stopped and turned back, his expression neutral but quizzical.
“You must have a good reason for doing what you’re doing. You always seemed to be a part of the scenery.”
“I have … I have.” Moe confided to him. “But be fair. You should remember that the contract between me and this job is for thirty years. Anything beyond that is a yearly yes or no that does nothing for my pension as it happens. My recent bad news just brought home to me how precious time is, and if I’m going to do anything else with my life, this is my time.”
Screwy’s face relaxed into a look of apology. “Sorry. I’m way out of order. Just a bit unexpected, that’s all. See you before you go?”
“Of course. Plenty of time for a few sherbets and au revoirs.”
“Don’t you go confusing me again.” Screwy chortled. “And don’t forget to get your money on that one.” He pointed at the envelope. “You can buy us all a drink.”
Still chuckling, the old docker rolled out through the front door, one arm raised in a thumbs-up salute.
Moe was staring at the envelope when Hickox materialised at his elbow.
“If you were just starting out in the rank, I’d be worrying what you were up to with that,” he said drily, indicating the envelope. Moe grunted and tore it open, extracting the scrap of paper it contained.
“Funny, but what good fortune I have had of late – with one very vital exception – has revolved around bits of paper.”
Moe held it out to Hickox who took it and read aloud.
“Bright Future – Newlands Priory – 3pm.” He handed it back to Moe. “And I thought it was a wad of readies!”
“It’s as good as, if my experience is anything to go by.”
“Then what are we waiting for? We have to think about our future!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Moe had never thought of himself as superstitious. It wasn’t a trait of character often to be met among police officers in his experience. Practicality and a respect and anticipation for the unexpected certainly entered into his thinking, but an irrational fear of the unexplained didn’t. Well, that was before the final weeks of his last month at East End Central.
“I love it when you call like this. I was just thinking of you.” Marie’s voice was huskily grateful in his ear.
“Great minds think alike,” Moe replied, happily engaging in cliché, if not superstition.
“It’s going to seem like forever until you get back,” Marie murmured, “my front door is waiting for your key.”
For a moment, Moe wondered where he’d put it. Then, with relief, he remembered she’d insisted that he keep it in his wallet since that held the other things nearest to his heart: his dad’s photo – and his money. It had given him peace of mind – and pleasure – when she had offered him the spare room in her own home – until he got himself sorted in Baytown. Her brother, who kept her company once in a while, had himself a girlfriend and would be busy elsewhere, leaving the room free now.
It was strange but as the fleeting thought of Harry Mee entered Moe’s mind, he heard Marie saying something – but not, it seemed, to him.
Moe guessed correctly that the brother had arrived. Marie’s voice came back, but with a note of urgency this time.
“Arthur… Arthur … are you there?”
Moe said that he was and she hurried on.
“Harry’s here. He wants to talk shop! I’m giving him the ’phone. Ring me tomorrow.” With a long squishy kiss, she was gone and Harry Mee’s voice came on instead.
“Arthur, it’s me.”
“I know your name!” Moe joked.
“Carter is on the loose, Arthur.”
“What?” The news took a second or two to sink in.
“It’s true.” He got away from his escort at hospital - psychiatric assessment or something. Decked his doc, nicked his white coat and sauntered past the security boys who were too busy exercising their hormones chatting up a nurse in the corridor outside.”
“Not so mad after all then?” Moe observed wryly.
“The DCI is hopping – err … mad about it. Did you get anything official about it up there?”
“Nothing I’ve seen.”
“Well, maybe it’s as well I got you. Swift said I should make sure to tell you.”
“Nice of him to care.”
“He said to remind you that Carter has your address.”
“What?”
“Your statement … remember? The defence are entitled to a copy. East End Central is as good an address as any to look for someone.”
Now Moe could see where Swift’s reasoning was leading. If ‘mad’ was giving way to ‘bad’, then it might be that the gravedigger was still set on his promised vengeance. Moe wasn’t especially worried, but he was pissed off – especially at the security escort that lost him.
“Tell your excellent DS that I’m grateful to him … and also to you. Do me a favour. If Marie has been listening …”
Harry Mee broke in. “Don’t worry. She’s in the kitchen making us a cup of tea.”
Moe sighed, relieved that she wouldn’t be worrying needlessly.
“Thanks, Harry. You’d make a good brother- in-law.”
“Law twice over in my case. Take care, Arthur. I know it’s a long shot but from what I saw of him the night you caught him, I’d not put anything past that bastard
“Well, I’ve got plenty of bodyguards … occupational perk of the job. Thanks again – and give your sister a big kiss from me.”
“On the cheek, of course.” The phone went down at the other end, leaving Moe considering the bad news. Baytown was a long way from his bit of London, even without half the county police after you. And then there were the problems of getting hold of fresh clothing, let alone money. Moe was really appreciative of their thoughts for his safety but the chances of Carter taking either the journey or the risk appeared pretty slim. But nonetheless, it was a trouble he could well do without. And especially at this, the fag end of his service.
CI (Ops) Hickox was a happy man. Each time he saw Moe, he would nod and wink hugely as he passed. Their bet on ‘Bright Future’ had paid off just in time for him not to have to worry about where his part of the cash for their intended ‘leaving-do’ was coming from.
Under the circumstances, encouraged by their equable working relationship over a long period, Moe and the CI had agreed to hold a joint party to mark their farewell from the for
ce. The date had yet to be set, but it was considered convenient to both men that it should happen during Moe’s final weekend. That way, Hickox could ensure that their duty obligations allowed them to attend, in Moe’s case because his last shift would be over anyway, whilst Hickox could fix his own hours to suit.
But in the meantime, Moe had other things to occupy his attention. His own career with the police might be winding down rapidly but the public weren’t to know that and he found himself as busy as ever, both out on the streets and inside the station.
It was during one shift as custody officer that he experienced a strange sense of déjà vu. Once again, it was PC Grant who was involved. The youngster had arrested a foreign seaman for being drunk and disorderly. The man was resisting the efforts of the officer to search him while leering at a new young WPC who was watching from a safe distance, wide-eyed with fascination and just a little trepidation.
“They hide their matches anywhere,” Moe heard himself saying, ‘I don’t want an immolation in my cell”
“What’s an immolation? Grant asked without hesitation.
It was towards the end of his second week that the next blow struck. Moe had given occasional thought to Carter being at large, but no more. And having heard nothing else, either from Harry Mee – even though Moe was in daily touch with his sister – or Swift it was soon out of mind.
Which was just as well, since it enabled him to cope with the shock of Screwy Naylor virtually collapsing across the front office counter one miserable afternoon. It was by extraordinary kind fortune that no other member of the public was there then, for it would have only exacerbated the old man’s torment as, in choking sobs, he told Moe that his dear wife, saved by Moe so long before, had died suddenly that day.
Grabbing a passing PC and telling him to fetch a cup of tea – “Make sure it’s strong and fresh” – Moe helped the distraught man into the adjacent empty interview room and sat him down.
It took some minutes for Screwy to regain some composure, helped by the speedy arrival of the tea, which he gulped down gratefully. His eyes blearily bloodshot with grief, Screwy told the tale of his tragedy.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 19