by J M Gregson
‘There’s no need to go over the top, you know. I’m simply pointing out that these junior officers should have followed official procedures. They should have called for back up before they went in.’
‘And I should probably have continued my journey and left them to it. Fortunately, they had called for back-up. The cavalry arrived just when the situation was getting sticky. The prompt and courageous intervention of these young officers had prevented an escalation of violence and probable serious injuries. The arrival of the back-up they had called for not only saved our bacon but enabled us to arrest three of the ringleaders.’
Tucker realized that he’d been set up but, as usual with this adversary, couldn’t quite pin down the moment. He thought again about the dressing-down he’d endured that morning from the CC and divined there might be a gleam of comfort here after all. ‘You say this incident was racially motivated?’
‘One gang was certainly Asian, sir. The other one was extreme right and extreme white.’ He glanced at his chief to see if he appreciated this turn of phrase and then went hastily on. ‘There were at least two National Front members. They recognized me from previous encounters and made themselves scarce.’
Tucker was too full of his own thoughts to pay much attention. He jutted his chin towards some invisible presence behind Peach. ‘We should make an example of these thugs! I was talking to the CC only this morning about the number of such outbreaks which have gone unpunished. Percy, I want you to throw the book at these people!’
Peach usually took the use of his first name by his chief as a danger signal, but this time he scented the prospect of further mischief. ‘This could be a big one, sir. They not only carried potentially lethal weapons but attempted to use them.’
‘Have you a reliable witness?’
‘Very reliable, sir. In my opinion, the most reliable of all. I have to confess to a little bias, but—’
‘Who is this person?’
Percy resisted the temptation to take an elaborate bow and sweep his knuckles across the expensive carpet. ‘It is I, sir! I am the man who arrested this dangerous ruffian who was brandishing a knife at the time. Nearly broke his arm doing it, and I was glad to hear the police siren which meant that the cavalry were arriving, but I have to say that—’
‘You didn’t use unreasonable force, did you?’ Tucker’s pusillanimous soul quailed before the vision of unwelcome headlines.
Peach, not unreasonably, looked a little hurt. A better man than Tucker might have made the safety of his officer his first thought, might even have congratulated him upon his crucial intervention in a nasty situation. But the prospect of alarming his chief was stronger in Percy than any dismay. ‘Nearly broke the bugger’s arm, sir. Sorry I didn’t, in many ways.’
‘Put such thoughts right out of your mind, Peach. I don’t want to have to defend the actions of anyone in the CID section.’
‘Even when an excited young thug had a knife against his throat, sir? Even when a young female officer was in danger of losing her life?’
Tucker brightened a little. ‘I suppose that does put rather a different complexion on it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
‘Yes. If you can assure me that there’s no serious damage, I think we can overlook the—’
‘Glad to hear it, sir.’ Peach was breathing rather heavily, but the man behind the big desk did not notice his struggle to retain his self-control. Percy said between clenched teeth, ‘Do you wish to interrogate these suspects yourself? I think we have a cast-iron case against them.’
Irony was wasted on Thomas B. Tucker. ‘No. No, I shan’t interfere. You must do that yourself, Peach. You are the one who knows exactly what happened.’ He sat suddenly bolt upright. ‘And make sure you throw the book at them. We must stamp out violence on our patch. I’m right behind you on this!’
‘Where you always are, sir. Where I knew you would be.’ Then Percy allowed himself to catch some of his chief’s enthusiasm. ‘We’ll nail them for this one, sir! They’ll squirm a bit before they get out of the interview room, I can tell you. I’ll let Messrs Ahktar and Malim know exactly how you feel about them!’
Tucker, who had risen to his feet to send his chief inspector away with a ringing declaration of his support, was suddenly frozen in horror. ‘Aren’t those – aren’t they – Muslim names?’
‘That’s right, sir. You’re on the ball as usual. I’ll let these Pakistani thugs know that the Head of CID is going to throw the book at them! That Chief Superintendent Tucker simply isn’t going to allow violence on our streets! Thank you, sir, for this ringing endorsement of aggressive policing!’
‘But I thought you meant—’
‘Meant it was our white right-wing thugs? Well, no, sir. Not this time. It was their opponents with the blades, on this occasion. But never fear, sir, we’ll have them for this. Without racial or religious prejudice, as always.’
‘This racial element puts rather a different slant on things, you know,’ said Tucker, subsiding weakly into his big leather chair.
But his minion was gone, carrying the bright torch of battle without fear or favour into the ranks of villainy. Percy Peach, descending the staircase with a smile, noted a little lightening of the greyness, even a tiny patch of blue sky, over the grey roofs of Brunton.
Jim Capstick enjoyed driving the Bentley himself, when the occasion demanded it, as this one certainly did.
It was nice to have a chauffeur, of course. It enabled you to do a certain amount of work whilst you travelled, to prepare yourself for meetings. It allowed you to concentrate your thoughts on those meetings, rather than on the exigencies of traffic and the idiocies of other motorists. When you employed someone with the physique and background of Wally Boyd, you also had a bodyguard, in the now quite rare situations where that was necessary. Most important of all, it impressed people when a chauffeur dropped you off and then drove away to park the Bentley. Even the hard-headed people with whom Capstick did business, who should have known much better, were impressed, sometimes unconsciously, by a man who had his own resident chauffeur.
Nevertheless, Jim Capstick still enjoyed the occasional opportunity to savour at first hand the power of the five-litre engine beneath the Bentley’s sleek bonnet. He enjoyed the chance of opening up that power on the dual carriageway which skirted the western side of Brunton, though even at seventy miles an hour he could scarcely hear the engine note. He enjoyed even more the swift, effortless acceleration which took him past three vehicles on an open stretch of the A59 towards Preston, catching glimpses of the drivers’ startled faces as he surged so swiftly past them. A far cry this from his days in the second-hand Austin-Healey Sprite he had thought so dashing thirty-five years ago; he smiled at the memory of those exciting but more innocent days of his youth.
The section of the M6 between Lancashire and Birmingham is now the busiest and most frustrating section of motorway in Britain, but that suited Capstick’s purpose. Anonymity was essential for this mission, not just desirable. This was not the right car for anonymity, of course, but he had planned things carefully to obviate that. Moving south in darkness amidst the dense traffic of the M6, you were just another vehicle, for everything moved at the same pace towards the next hold-up, and you were lucky to average fifty mph.
It would have been frustrating if you had been driving a long distance, but Capstick could afford to be patient, for he had only forty miles of this to endure. Not far into Cheshire, he swung off the M6 and ran for a little while along an A road, which seemed very narrow after the hubbub of the motorway. The bright, squat block of the Travelodge hotel was visible for a mile before he reached the entrance. Seeing someone else drive out, he slid the Bentley into a slot which was not easily visible and yet not far from the entrance.
He had more sense than to adopt the sort of theatrical disguise which made one noticeable rather than obscure. He merely donned the navy anorak he kept as cover for such occasions, not even putting up its h
ood, divining correctly that this would attract rather than divert attention in a context like this. He passed quickly through the reception area of the hotel, nodding briefly at the receptionist. If you knew where you were going, people rarely challenged you; most of them assumed you had already booked in for the night.
The other man in the lift scarcely glanced at him. British reserve ensures that most people treasure their own privacy. Most of them know that attempts at social exchange are not likely to be welcomed in a place like this, where every patron is strictly transient. For his part, Capstick studied the instructions about the operation of the lift and did not even glance at its other occupant.
There was no one in the corridor. He moved swiftly and silently over forty yards of blue carpet and rapped briefly on the door of Room 213. The man gave him a cursory greeting, then shut and locked the door carefully behind him. The room was furnished as were the other hundred and ninety rooms in this functional building. It had two single beds, built-in wardrobes, anodyne prints of flowers upon the walls, a door to the en suite bathroom. There were two small armchairs, which the occupant had moved to face each other at the end of the bed that would not be used.
The man’s language was as efficient and serviceable as the room, but he had a thick Lebanese accent. He studied his visitor for a moment, gave him a quick, mirthless smile, and said, ‘Is all this secrecy really necessary?’
Capstick slid off the anorak, revealing the expensive suit beneath it as if it were a gesture of confidence, a sign that he was now willing to relax and trust this man with the sallow face and very black hair. ‘Probably not. I don’t enjoy the cloak and dagger approach any more than you do. For my other dealings, I do not have to use it. But for both of us, it is a sensible precaution. Any disclosure of what we are about here would make any deal improbable if not impossible.’
The man took a second to digest this before he nodded. ‘All right. I can understand that. It is not a problem for me; secrecy is usually important to the deals I broker.’
Capstick smiled, relaxing a little further, leaning back as far as the cramped little chair would allow. ‘You have the advantage of me there. I have usually been able to be quite open in my dealings.’
The man opposite him doubted that. He knew only a little about his visitor, but that little told him that Capstick had not amassed his millions without some fairly clandestine manoeuvres. ‘I should emphasize that I am not empowered to conclude any deal. My client wishes me to ascertain merely whether a deal is possible, and upon what terms.’
Jim Capstick gave him a practised, experienced smile. He was feeling more at ease with each passing minute. ‘And for my part I must tell you that there can be no firm commitment from me this evening. I also am here to discuss the prospect of a deal, whether it is even possible for us to conclude such a deal, rather than to reach an agreement.’
The Lebanese was at his smoothest, his most emollient. But he was also studiously polite; there were millions in this for him if he could nudge the parties towards an agreement. ‘That is what brokers are for, Mr Capstick. To discuss the feasibility of an agreement, in the early stages. And perhaps, at a later stage, to initiate a discussion of terms and bring the parties together.’
Capstick wondered if this was the way ambassadors behaved. Did they talk around a difficult subject, treating each other like chess players trying to anticipate the next move? He was quite enjoying this game. But he was used to blunt and direct dealings, with cards on the table and a take it or leave it attitude, rather than the obliqueness which seemed to be second nature to this oily operator. Well, the preliminaries were completed now, the terms of the contest were established. He did not want to spend any longer here than was strictly necessary.
He said brusquely, ‘I am the majority shareholder in Brunton Rovers. It is not a public company, as many of the clubs in the English Premiership are. I can do a deal without reference to third parties, if it suits me.’
‘That is a point of interest for my client. That is one reason why he would consider buying your club, when there are other, more successful clubs available.’
‘It would need to be an attractive deal, for me even to consider selling the club.’
The Lebanese nodded and smiled, preparing to cloak his first harsh words of negotiation with an amiable veneer. ‘You mean you want a sizeable sum for the club. My client also would need to find the deal attractive, if he is to follow up this initial interest. He would also need the confidential information about the present state of the club’s finances which would enable him to decide whether to make any bid at all.’
‘Of course. That will be available to him at two days’ notice whenever he requires it. Provided of course that you can satisfy me tonight that this is a serious approach.’
‘This is most important. Before he considers such an approach, my client will need the very full account of the debts and assets of the club which I have just mentioned.’
Jim Capstick was surprised anew to find that he was enjoying this cautious fencing, as the two opponents moved around each other in a narrowing circle. ‘I understand that. I agree that no firm offer can be either made or entertained until your client has made a detailed examination of our finances. Nevertheless, I should emphasize to you at this stage that any Premiership soccer club is an attractive proposition. The Sky television fees alone will be thirty million for the bottom club in the league this year. And we do not intend that the bottom team will be Brunton Rovers.’
‘Of course not, Mr Capstick. That would mean relegation, and an absence from the Premiership. My client would not be interested in any such club.’
‘Of course not. But Brunton Rovers will not be in that position.’ Capstick stood up, sensing correctly that no further progress could be made without the detailed financial analysis they had agreed. ‘I am sure your client and his advisers will be gratified to see the sensible lines on which the club has been administered during the last few years. For my part, I am happy to state formally that I am prepared to consider a substantial offer for the club.’
The man in the other chair took his cue. ‘“Substantial” is an interesting word, Mr Capstick. But a vague one. What sort of sum were you envisaging?’
‘Ah! I too would obviously need to give the matter considerable thought in the weeks to come. There is more than mere finance for me to consider, of course. I am attached to the club and to the town. Sporting allegiance and the sheer excitement it brings can never be measured merely in money.’ Jim wondered if he should have said that. It sounded hollow, even in his own ears, and he wondered if this suave man from a different culture would even comprehend the sentiments, let alone believe them. ‘But I would have to say that no figure of less than a hundred million would be of interest to me.’
He said it firmly but casually, as if he had been mentioning the sale of a second-hand car. The man opposite him said that it was much too early to discuss figures, that he would need to take an account of this very preliminary discussion back to the man he represented, that the detailed examination of the club’s books they had agreed would form the basis of any offer. But he did not reject the sum of one hundred million out of hand.
Driving the Bentley back up the M6, Jim Capstick tried ineffectively to control his excitement and optimism.
FIVE
‘March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Some hope!’ Agnes Blake drew back the curtains in the low-ceilinged bedroom of the cottage and looked accusingly at the clouds flying swiftly over the top of the long mound of Longridge Fell.
Her daughter rubbed her eyes and struggled to raise herself in the single bed. She had only dozed for the last half hour, clinging to that drowsy euphoria between sleep and full consciousness, the sensation which overtakes one when one wakes in a familiar place with pleasant associations. She had slept in this bed in this room when she was a girl, snuggling beneath the blankets as she heard the familiar voice of the father she had loved and wh
o had loved her. That father had been dead twelve years now, but the sweet, sad memories this place held were one of the joys of sleeping here. One of the reasons why she still enjoyed spending the odd night here, even though she had long since asserted her independence and acquired her own snug modern flat in Brunton.
She looked out at the more limited view of fell and sky she could see from her bed. ‘At least it’s fine, Mum. Be thankful for small mercies! I might take you out for a pub lunch later, if you behave yourself.’
‘Fat chance of doing anything else, at my age!’ Agnes came and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, as she had been used to do when her only child was young. She poured the tea from the pot into the two china cups on the tray. ‘Am I to see the wedding dress this morning?’
‘Isn’t there some superstition that forbids that?’ teased Lucy. ‘I wouldn’t like to break any of your old folklore rules.’
‘There’s no such nonsense!’ said Agnes indignantly. Then, realizing her daughter was not serious, ‘The only rule about wedding dresses is that the grooms mustn’t see them until the day of the wedding. And you’ll not be flouting that, my girl, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t suppose any dire curse would fall upon me if I did, but I wasn’t proposing to let the man see it before the big day, no.’
‘Percy Peach wouldn’t consent to look at it, anyway. He’s more respect for tradition than some people,’ said Agnes huffily.
She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it thoughtfully. ‘The replies to the wedding invitations are coming in. It seems nearly everyone is able to make it, despite the short notice you allowed them.’
‘I told you they would.’
‘No thanks to you, our Lucy. If it had been left to you, we wouldn’t have had a wedding at all!’
‘That’s not true! It wasn’t that I had any doubts about marrying Percy. You know that. I just didn’t see any need to rush into it so soon.’