by J M Gregson
‘We’ve been through all this too many times already.’ She tried to banish emotion, even irritation. She did not want to show him even the small, irrational spurt of sympathy she felt for his helplessness. That would be the sort of weakness which would lead him on. ‘I was right to leave you. I’ve begun a new life for myself here. I don’t want to come back.’
‘We’re not divorced.’
‘No. We can be, if that’s what you want. Is it?’
‘You know it isn’t.’
‘Because if it needs that to convince you that it’s over, we can do it.’
‘Neither of us has got anyone else.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘But you haven’t, have you?’
‘It’s not your business whether I have or I haven’t.’ For the first time, she wanted him to speak, but he didn’t. ‘Maybe it’s a case of once bitten, twice shy. The last years we had together wouldn’t encourage any woman to get into anything serious.’
‘So you haven’t got anyone serious.’ He looked round the clean walls of the new room, at its neat, modest furnishings, and tried not to think how different it was from the uncaring shabbiness of his own house. ‘It was good for us once, wasn’t it? It could be good again – I know it could. I want you to come home, Margaret.’
She listened to him using her full name, ignoring the Meg or Maggy he had always used between them, and remembered that he had only used Margaret in the presence of her dead parents. With that remembrance, she felt a little, illogical surge of love for him, or was it no more than pity? Before her brain could answer that, emotion was translated into words. ‘Are you very lonely, Darren?’
It was the first time she had expressed any interest in him; both of them caught that thought. He said carefully, anxious not to over-play the moment, ‘I am sometimes, yes. Well, quite a lot of the time, actually. I spend as long as I can at work.’
‘How’s that going?’ She was being drawn in, despite herself. The words might have been the polite phrase of a stranger, but they expressed an interest she had been determined to subdue.
‘Well enough. I have a good staff. I get on well enough with the manager, Robbie Black: we’re different beings with different jobs, but we understand each other.’ He paused, staring straight ahead rather than at her, as if the intimacy of eye contact was something he must avoid. He was treating her as if she were a kitten he could approach but must not frighten. In the good days, they had always discussed his problems at work, but he must not push too hard. Then, without knowing he was going to do it, he voiced the fear he had as yet hardly dared to frame for himself. ‘I feel there’s something going on at Grafton Park that I should know about, but I can’t pin it down.’
She told herself not to take up the carrot, not to ask the inevitable question which simple curiosity as well as her former regard for the man demanded. It was too intimate, too much a request to rejoin that life she had abandoned and been right to abandon. Instead, she fixed on the brutal question which was the only alternative that came to mind. ‘Did you join Gamblers Anonymous?’
After the moves he had felt her making towards him, it came like a blow in the face. He was silent for almost half a minute, feeling tears start to his eyes. Tears not for himself, but for her and what he had destroyed. He wanted to lie, to prove he could keep his promises, could slay the monster which had wrecked their marriage. But he said, ‘No. But I will—’
‘Are you still in debt?’
‘A little, yes.’ He stared miserably at the rug on the woodblock floor, then forced out the truth after a wince of what felt like physical pain. ‘No, a lot really. More than I can cope with on my own.’
‘More than when I left you?’
‘Yes. I need you, Meg.’ He lapsed into the old word in his desperation.
‘It’s not an option, Darren. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that.’
‘If I got it right, would you come back?’
But he’d just said he couldn’t get it right without her. She didn’t remind him of that. ‘You must join Gamblers Anonymous, as a first step.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘How do I know you will? You’ve promised to do it before.’
‘I’ll–I’ll ring you, when I’ve done it. Tomorrow.’
‘No. Get whoever enrols you to ring me. Give him my telephone number.’
‘What if he won’t do that?’
‘He’ll do it, believe me. They’re used to people who can’t be trusted.’
He saw the first wisp of hope drifting across his horizon. He was buoyed by her certainty, as he had been in the old days. ‘I’ll do that. I can still fight it, still beat it, if you help me.’
‘You must do other things. They’ll tell you about that at G.A.’ She paused, knowing she was being drawn into this despite herself, reminding herself anew of the black cloud of the disaster which had driven her here. ‘How long is it since you spoke to the bank manager?’
‘I don’t know. He’s written to me once or twice, but I’ve—’
‘It’s a she now. You must ring her tomorrow.’ She smiled grimly, looking into his face for the first time. ‘After you’ve signed up with Gamblers Anonymous. That will impress her as evidence of good intent.’
‘I’ll do that. I’ll do whatever you say, Meg. I’ll do anything which will get you to come back to me.’
‘You’re doing this for yourself, Darren. For no one else but yourself.’
‘Yes, of course. For myself.’ He knew he should leave it at that, but he could not prevent himself from saying, ‘But when I’ve got myself right, then we’ll be able to consider—’
‘You get yourself right, Darren. It won’t be as easy as you think when you’re sitting here. It will be hell and it will take time. It will take a steady resolution over many months, not just easy words as you sit here.’
‘I know. I know that, I do really.’
‘Then go away and do it. And don’t feel on your own. There are people out there ready to help you. Use them.’
This time he held back, did not voice the cliché that Meg was the biggest help of all. She kissed him briefly on the lips and held his shoulders for a moment before he left. He resisted the impulse to take her into his arms and risk her rejection.
Hope and resolution grew in Darren Pearson’s mind as he drove home. He was on top of his job, everyone thought so. There was no reason why he should not sort out the rest of his life.
SIX
PC Peter Forsyth was twenty years old. He was over six feet tall and weighed fourteen stones. He was impressively fit. His regular appearances as a prop forward for Preston Grasshoppers and various regional and national police teams ensured that.
Pete Forsyth was the man to have beside you in a pub brawl. He was the man every other constable wanted to be paired with when he or she went on street duties: the roughs of the town gave you very little trouble when you had PC Forsyth as your formidable companion. No one in the canteen ever escalated an argument with Peter Forsyth on the other side, not even those on the boxing team. He was not the sort of man you wanted as an enemy.
Today PC Forsyth felt not just like a wet rag but like a very sodden cloth indeed. He remained standing to attention, towering over the man at the desk beneath him, but he now felt he desperately needed to sit down. To slump to the ground, in fact, in some other place, any other place than where Detective Chief Inspector Peach was present.
Forsyth was on the wrong end of one of Percy Peach’s legendary bollockings.
He did a right royal bollocking, did Percy Peach. Everyone said that. But as a uniformed constable, away from the rarefied realms of CID, Peter Forsyth had hitherto been insulated from close dealings with Peach. Today the uniformed inspector to whom he normally reported had called him in and told him that Peach wanted to see him. He had then shaken his head sadly, like a shepherd consigning a favourite sheepdog to be put down.
The bollock
ing was coming to an end, but Forsyth did not know that. It seemed to him to have gone on for a very long time indeed, and he had given up hope of any termination. Peach’s calm voice resumed. ‘You’re a prize fucking prat, lad. Is that agreed?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m a prize fucking prat, sir.’
‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say.’ Forsyth had only muttered yes and no recently, his earlier attempts at apology having been aborted mercilessly by the man behind the desk. ‘You’ve not just jeopardized a cast-iron case which even the Crown bloody Prosecution Service were happy to take to the Crown Court. You’ve shot it firmly up the arse. What have you done?’
‘I’ve shot it firmly up the arse, sir.’
‘There is no longer a case, thanks to your bloody efforts.’
‘No, sir.’
Percy noted the limp exhaustion of the big man in front of him, but did not acknowledge it. He sighed the long sigh of the patient man who has been tried beyond endurance. ‘What the hell were you trying to do, PC Forsyth?’
Peter Forsyth had decided some time earlier, when the Peach diatribe was peaking and his every word was being ridiculed, that the less he said the better. ‘I don’t quite know, sir. I was being a prize fucking prat, sir.’
‘We’ve already established that, PC Forsyth. We’re now trying to establish why you won the prize as the prat of the month.’
Forsyth shut his eyes and tried not to think of the reaction this was going to provoke. He took a deep breath and poured out his statement very quickly, fearful that he might be interrupted and derided before he had made any sense. ‘The man was pissed in the pub, sir. His tongue was loosened. Muslims don’t usually drink, so I thought I might gather more evidence to support our case. That he might incriminate other people as well as the ones you’d charged.’
Another sigh. Forsyth stared resolutely ahead, fearful of catching the basilisk eye of the man behind the desk. After what seemed to him a long time, Peach said, ‘Did you know the man had been charged in the magistrates’ court and remanded to the Crown Court?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And do you know that we have no right to question a man in such circumstances?’
‘Yes, sir. I didn’t think, sir. I was a fucking prat, sir.’
‘Don’t keep telling me that. It won’t alter anything. This isn’t a bloody confessional and I’m not a sodding priest.’
‘No, sir.’ Forsyth found that his mouth wanted to twist itself into a grin and screwed his shut eyes fiercely to prevent it. He wondered if hysteria was threatening him.
‘So why did you do such a bloody stupid thing, PC Forsyth?’
The man in uniform shut his eyes and grimaced fearfully. What he was going to say would bring a ridicule more formidable than ever from the chief inspector, but his brain was too ravaged to furnish him with anything but the truth. ‘I–I was trying to show initiative, sir.’
‘Hah!’
The single incredulous monosyllable rocketed round the walls of the office like a fiercely struck squash ball, echoing so forcefully that Forsyth wondered whether silence would ever return. ‘I–I had the idea that I might like to join CID, sir. Before this happened, that is. Before I acted like a prize f—’
‘Hah!’ That sound again, exploding into his ears, destroying all thought. ‘Fools rush in where even fucking angels fear to tread, PC Forsyth. You should remember that, even when you’ve forgotten the very mild admonitions I’ve given you this afternoon. Do you think you will remember?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I expect you’ll go back and tell your mates in uniform that DCI Peach is a soft bugger, that you can’t believe how easily he went on you.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Oh, you will, I know. I realize that I have a reputation as a soft touch. You can go now, unless you’ve any further gems to offer me.’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Peter Forsyth turned, scarcely able to believe that the ordeal was concluded, and found that his legs still worked. He was reaching out for the handle of the door when Peach said, ‘And PC Forsyth.’
He froze with his fingers on the handle. He should have known he would not get away so easily with his last revelations. His eyes were shut when the chief inspectorial voice said, ‘Don’t give up showing initiative, lad. Just give up being a fucking prat who acts without thinking. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t give up any thought of ever joining CID. There’s one or two in the section who started off as prize fucking prats and learned the error of their ways. That might even be possible for a twat like you.’
The decision to reduce the price of tickets for the cup replay with Carlisle United was a great success. The progress of the FA Cup competition in this year had been heavily affected by a fierce winter, which had frozen grounds at the lesser clubs and played havoc with the schedules for the earlier rounds of the competition. Everyone attending tonight’s much delayed, much anticipated game, was not only anticipating better weather but full of enthusiasm for this particular tie.
The floodlit ground was almost full, with many youngsters adding their shrill, enthusiastic voices to the clamour, making their distinctive contribution to the vibrant atmosphere which a big crowd always brought to the famous old ground. The visitors secured the early goal which always sets pulses racing in this situation, raising as it does the prospect of a success for the giant-killers. Brunton Rovers equalized before half-time. Then a second half of steadily mounting pressure from the home team saw young Ashley Greenhalgh first put the Rovers ahead after an intricate team move and then consolidate the victory with a brilliant individual goal five minutes from the end.
The three thousand away supporters had enjoyed the excitement of leading for a time and giving the big boys a run for their money. The home crowd filed out of the ground buzzing with satisfaction and speculation about the next round and the plum home draw with Aston Villa. The press and the broadcasting media trumpeted two more goals for the golden boy of Grafton Park.
They also nodded their heads sagely and pointed to the healthy ‘gate’ which the reduction in prices had brought to the match. In a time when the nation was tightening its belt through recession, this was the way forward, the pundits, economical as well as sporting, told anyone who would listen. There were even those who spoke romantically of the ten pound entry fee ‘bringing the game back to the people’, of making professional football once again the working man’s outlet it had been in the last great recession of the nineteen thirties.
The people who ran Brunton Rovers were as pleased as everyone else with the success of the night. Ex-chairman Edward Lanchester was full of the warm glow which an emphatic Rovers victory always brought to him, basking in romantic memories of great cup ties from the club’s long history. Robbie Black glowed with the relief which any manager feels when the prospect of humiliation by a lower-division club has been triumphantly banished.
Immediately after the match, he gave an up-beat interview by the pitch to the television cameras, praising the skill and work-rate of his players and their spirit after they had gone behind, insisting that this was the moment to enjoy success rather than look too far ahead to the next round and Aston Villa. The cameras had been delighted to show shots of his glamorous wife in the directors’ box, with a becoming fake-fur hat and the blue and white Brunton Rovers scarf wound prominently over her celebrated bosom. With her two children beside her, Debbie Black waved enthusiastically to the crowd around her and continued to bond with the folk of Brunton.
Darren Pearson congratulated himself on the daring device of reducing ticket prices, which had swelled the crowd and brought in as much revenue as a much smaller ‘gate’ at normal prices. It had also attracted much welcome and highly favourable publicity to one of the smaller teams in the Premiership, and thus to the town where he had lived for all of his life. With the commercial eye which a football club secretary must always keep on finances, he
saw that Ashley Greenhalgh’s goals and the national publicity accorded to them would probably put another million on an already substantial transfer fee. As a supporter, he didn’t really want to see the young man sold; as a secretary, he thought it might be inevitable and wanted the best possible price.
The biggest crowd of the season at Grafton Park dispersed happily and without causing any trouble to the huge number of police officers which the safety regulations had demanded. Not like the days of his boyhood, said Edward Lanchester, when four or five policemen patrolling the edge of the pitch towards full time had been all that was necessary. By ten thirty that night, the labyrinth of offices beneath the main stand of the football club was quiet once again. Darren Pearson toured the familiar corridors, switched off the odd light which had been carelessly left on, then gave his familiar good night to the night security man, who had earlier attended the match with his grandson.
Very few among the twenty-nine thousand people who had been at the match that night realized that the only notable absentees had been the chairman and his wife, Jim and Helen Capstick.
The betting shop was in Darwen, a small town some six miles from Brunton which was being even more badly affected by the present recession in the British economy. It was only four miles from Brunton Rovers football ground and no more than a short drive for the secretary of that club, Darren Pearson.
He preferred to come here, where he was fairly confident that his presence would not be remarked. Secretaries of football clubs, although very important to their efficient operation, are not high-profile figures, and not many people in his native Brunton would have noticed his presence in such a place. Nevertheless, having lived there since he was a boy, he knew that sooner or later his frequenting of betting shops would have been remarked and his addiction become more public.
Caution had become habitual to him now. That was as much a reflection of his own shame in his gambling addiction as of the need to keep these transactions private. There was a parking space near the betting shop, but Pearson parked the blue Vectra in the next side street and walked the hundred yards through slanting rain to the shop’s entrance. He glanced furtively through the dusk to left and right before he went through the door. Such movements were more likely to attract than to divert attention, but this was conduct which was by no means abnormal among the patrons of betting establishments.