by J M Gregson
But as the days passed, nothing happened, Eddie felt stronger, and it seemed as if his vague fears were groundless. He realized now that he’d been too ambitious in trying to burgle Thorley Grange, that it was out of his league. A nagging voice beneath his fear protested that he’d almost got away with it, hadn’t he? And those mysterious people up there surely couldn’t want any further revenge on him. He’d escaped with nothing and they’d almost killed him for it. They’d probably forgotten all about him by now.
A fortnight after his failed attempt on the jewellery of Greta Ketley, Eddie Barton was feeling less threatened and more cheerful. It was the middle of February now and after a hard winter the snowdrops in the gardens he passed were making a brave show. In the sun beneath sheltering walls, the brilliant yellow and the deep blue of crocuses were proclaiming that spring was not too far away. He had called at the library and was carrying two of the romantic novels Mum liked and two thrillers for himself. He was secretly proud of the fact that he read, though he tended to conceal it from all but his closest friends.
There was no problem at the job centre. He was patently still unfit for the manual work which was all they could offer him and he had the medical notes to support him. When he threatened to display his wounds, the frosty-faced woman paid him his benefit without even the token reluctance she usually displayed. Money in his pocket always lifted his spirits. Even the pittance the social gave you made you feel comfortable, for a day or two. He’d be able to resume work in a week or ten days, so long as he didn’t undertake any difficult entries. It would be a while before he could squirm through windows again.
He would be glad to get home. The bag with the four books wasn’t heavy, but it was tugging a little against his damaged ribs, and he couldn’t transfer it to the other hand because that was the arm with the healing bullet wound in his bicep. He’d take the short cut by the old gasworks, where the only houses left standing were a few squats. You didn’t go that way at night, but it would be fine at eleven in the morning.
He could walk quite quickly again now; maybe he’d go to the pub on his own tonight. It hadn’t seemed so at the time, but he was coming round to the view repeatedly expressed to him by the hospital nurses that he’d really got away very lightly, considering he’d had two gunshot wounds and a brutal kicking. He was supposed to see his own doctor this week, but he’d probably skip that, if the healing still looked good when he inspected it in the mirror.
He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he scarcely heard the big silver Audi as it glided up behind him. Posh car for these parts, Eddie thought automatically. He didn’t realize that it was stopping until a man was beside him, holding his arm in a vice-like grip. ‘Inside!’ was the single word he said. He put his hand on Eddie’s head and bent it beneath the roof as he shoved him into the car, like the police did with an arrest.
Eddie Barton was too frightened to make any protest. He felt, indeed, as if the breath for words might never come to him again. He could see the back of the driver’s head, with the hair close-cut upon it; the man did not turn to look at him.
‘We wanted a word,’ said the man beside him. He had a Geordie accent, which for some reason made the words sound more sinister to Eddie. He fixed strong fingers and thumb on Eddie’s bicep, finding exactly the place of the healing wound, drawing a sharp gasp of pain from the quivering face above it. ‘You’re lucky you’re still ’ere, mate. You got away lightly.’ He gave the arm another squeeze, as if contemplating what more serious damage he might now administer.
‘First, you don’t ever go near Thorley Grange again, toerag.’
‘I won’t! I won’t!’ Eddie wanted to convince them that nothing was further from his thoughts, but he couldn’t find the breath for that.
‘Second, you keep shtum. Absolutely shtum. If you breathe one word about what you did or what you saw up there, you’re dead meat.’ He accompanied each phrase with another squeeze on the arm, producing a series of terrified whimpers from Eddie. He seemed to enjoy these, for he accompanied his final word with a jab at the plaster which was all that now covered the broken rib in his side. ‘Understood?’
A scream of agony. Then, lest the enquiry should be repeated, Eddie shouted. ‘Understood!’
‘Drive on,’ said his torturer after a few seconds. He sounded disappointed that his work was over, and Eddie divined that this was a man who thoroughly enjoyed inflicting pain. He didn’t protect his victim’s head from the roof this time, or even leave the car with him. The Audi stopped after a hundred yards and Barton was flung from it into the doorway of a derelict house, his fall on his injured side eliciting a final yell of pain.
He lay still for a long time, as if he feared that any movement would be interpreted as a sign of defiance which would merit further punishment. Not until the sound of the Audi had died away into the generalized hum of distant traffic did he dare to lift his head and look around him. Then, slowly and painfully, he levered himself to his knees and looked at the squalid street around him. It was completely deserted. The rusting gasholder shut out the pale winter sun, making his isolation seem more complete.
Moving in slow motion, like a man who could not believe he had escaped more serious hurt, Eddie Barton gathered the scattered library books and returned them to the plastic bag. Then he limped homewards, feeling as wretched as he ever had in his young and eventful life.
FIVE
Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker looked out of the window of his penthouse office in the massive new brick building which was Brunton police station. He could still remember the old market hall, with the big ball atop its square tower, which had fallen each day when the clock beneath it struck one. He had stood as a small boy with his hand in his father’s to watch the demolition of that tower by the vandal civic developers in 1964. Now he could look out over the town to the countryside beyond, towards the splendours of the Ribble valley, which amazed those visitors from the south who had expected only the grimy terraces of an old cotton town.
Chief Superintendent Tucker was looking forward, anticipating that slowly approaching date when the cares of office would disappear and a fat pension would leave him free of worries. It was true that he had a formidable wife to confront at home, but he thrust aside that unwelcome prospect with the thoughts of carefree days on the golf course, when he would discover the elusive secret of that infuriating game and his handicap would come tumbling down. Like many another hopeless hacker, Thomas cherished the notion that leisure and more rounds would improve his golf. It would be some years before he faced the reality of Anno Domini. That would defeat all lessons and practice and eventually diminish even the very limited prowess Thomas possessed.
Tucker was at once a source of fun and a great frustration to his CID staff. He was a humourless figure, but not as stupid a man as most people thought. He was aware both of his own inefficiency and of his reputation among his staff. The iron rule of rank muffled most opposition. But he knew that there were constant mutterings about the chief whom that offensive man Peach had christened Tommy Bloody Tucker. He couldn’t do without Percy Peach, whatever liberties the fellow took, because it was DCI Peach who produced the crime clear-up rates which had made T.B. Tucker a Chief Superintendent and head of CID.
He sometimes toyed with the notion of retiring ‘on the sick’, as he had seen some of his colleagues do. You claimed stress, which was very difficult to disprove, and spent the last years of your service either absent altogether or appearing only intermittently, with the real responsibility and the real work transferred to others. It was a tempting prospect, but it had one great drawback. Both his formidable wife and those acquaintances at the Lodge and the golf club who had no police contacts thought of him as efficient.
Self-esteem was important to Tucker. He believed that loss of reputation in the Lodge and the golf club were the worst disasters which could hit a man. You could survive many things, but loss of face was not one of them. Without a family, there were fe
w other things left to Thomas but status.
That was a sad thought, and he was in many ways a sad, isolated man. He spent most of his days negatively. He did not try to be constructive, but fought to avoid mistakes, to keep his nose clean. His only consistent aim was to avoid the ultimate humiliation of a dressing-down by the chief constable and the suggestion that he should consider his position. His was neither a happy position nor a happy life. And now the hated Percy Peach, the man who was at once his saviour and his nemesis, was climbing the stairs to see him from the CID section where the real work was conducted.
Chief Superintendent Tucker determined once again to assert himself. One of his many faults was that he rarely learned from experience.
‘I’m very busy, Peach. This is most inconvenient. What is it that you wanted?’
Percy took his time in running his eyes over the vast empty spaces of the executive desk. ‘I see, sir. Still redrafting your memo to all CID staff, are you?’
Tucker sighed deeply, trying to demonstrate that he was as long-suffering as any saint under Satanic attack. ‘You’d better sit down, I suppose. What on earth are you talking about?’
Percy’s black eyebrows arched impossibly high beneath his shining bald pate. ‘Your directive about correct pants and bras for our staff, sir. I’ve been holding myself in readiness.’
Enlightenment dawned. Tucker said gruffly, ‘The dress code, Peach? That is still under review.’
‘Indeed it is, sir. Directly so in my case. I’ve been most careful in my selection of boxer shorts since we spoke last week. And I’ve kept a very close check on my wife’s panties also, sir. I must say that in the case of DS Lucy Peach duty has combined with pleasure in a most agreeable fashion.’ He stared reflectively at the ceiling and allowed a beam of ecstasy to steal over his features until his whole frame was suffused with bliss.
‘I see. Well, as I say, I have decided for the moment to keep the matter under review.’
Percy’s face fell. ‘Your decision, as always, sir. But I must admit to a smidgeon of disappointment. Having volunteered my services when you broached the project, I was looking forward to a meticulous examination of the bras and pants of all the female officers under our jurisdiction.’
Tucker decided to try the man-to-man approach. ‘Come, come, Percy! You know very well we’d never get away with such things without claims of sexual harassment.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind, sir. But with the Head of CID prepared to assert himself and provide his usual strong and fearless leadership, I resolved as ever to carry out my orders. I would bring enthusiasm and thoroughness to the inspections, in the knowledge that you would be taking full responsibility for my actions.’
The mention of responsibility was as usual a red light for Tucker. ‘The matter as I say is under review. But I will tell you privately that I have almost decided against issuing any directive on dress.’
‘Ah! In that case I shall continue to conduct meticulous examinations of the front and rear elevations of DS Peach’s underwear, so as to keep myself in practice for any future general order from you. But I shall not extend such tests to the rest of our female officers.’
‘You asked to see me, Peach. What is it you wanted?’ Tommy Bloody Tucker reverted to world-weary resignation. Percy realized that it was time to wrestle with more serious police concerns.
‘A very large criminal fish has swum into our waters, sir. A killer shark, in fact.’
Metaphor usually confused Tucker, but this time he surprised his junior. ‘I presume you’re referring to Oliver Ketley.’
Peach, who could not know that the chief constable had raised this matter with Tucker only that morning, was surprised by this unusual grasp of reality from his chief superintendent. ‘Indeed I am, sir. From the amount of building he’s already commissioned at Thorley Grange, I fear he intends to stay here indefinitely. Which from our view can only be distressing.’
For a few moments, the two were silent, a pair of senior policemen united by the threat of a major menace to life on their patch. Tucker’s reaction was as usual negative. ‘I have to remind you, however, that nothing major has so far been proved against Mr Ketley. As far as the law is concerned, he is an innocent citizen.’
‘But you and I know better.’
‘We may feel that we do, Percy, but there is nothing very much we can do about that.’
‘A burglar attempted to rob Mr Ketley a fortnight ago, sir.’
‘Then it’s our duty to bring that burglar to court.’
‘Indeed, sir. But we cannot provide the Crown Prosecution Service with a case, because the victim, Mr Ketley, refuses to provide us with the appropriate evidence. Refuses even to acknowledge that any such incident took place.’
‘That is unfortunate, but there may be very little we can do about it. No doubt Ketley wishes to keep a low profile.’
‘I’m sure he does, sir. But a member of his staff used a firearm against the intruder, who I am sure did not offer any violence himself.’
‘Can you prove this?’
‘Not yet, sir. But I have not yet taken a personal interest in the case myself. I feel that it is time I did so.’
‘You must be very careful, Peach. Very careful indeed. This man may be a villain, but he has no convictions which declare that to the public. He has the resources to do us considerable harm.’
He was being warned off. But whatever Peach’s shortcomings, he really cared about crime; he hated it with something approaching a missionary zeal. That was the thing which made him respected as well as feared by the entire CID section. He now pointed out to Tucker Ketley’s known involvement in drugs, in prostitution, in gangland killings – known to the police, but so far unproved in court, because it had been impossible to persuade key witnesses to bear witness in court against him.
Peach spoke with a passion that reduced even the pusillanimous Tommy Bloody Tucker to silence. Then he mentioned the worst crime of all, in the minds of most policemen in Lancashire. Worse even than straightforward murder, for most of them. Worse than anything except the abuse of children, because the victims of this crime were numerous and almost as helpless as children. A crime committed as long ago as 2004, yet still in many respects unsolved.
Chief Superintendent Tucker listened aghast, and was quelled. All he said as he dismissed his DCI was a fearful, ‘For God’s sake mind how you go, Peach!’
It was still February. Everyone knew that there must be hard frosts still to come. There might even be more snow; indeed, from the higher parts of the course, you could still see whiteness upon the top of Ingleborough. But golfers, like most sportsmen, are optimists when it comes to weather, as in most parts of Britain you need to be.
The North Lancs Golf Club was the best one in the area. It was one of Chief Superintendent Tucker’s permanent resentments that while DCI Peach’s application for membership had been immediately accepted, his own had been turned down. The membership committee had politely pointed out that Tucker’s handicap of twenty-four was not low enough for him to be considered, and his most intensive efforts over the years had not succeeded in reducing it.
On this crisp, bright Saturday, the present captain of the golf club, a local solicitor who had been a member since he was a boy, was playing one of his captain/pro challenges against two members. These were friendly encounters which led to a good deal of banter in the clubhouse; those pairs who beat captain and pro enjoyed congratulations in the clubhouse and entry to a small competition for all the winners at the end of the year. Those who lost made a modest contribution to the captain’s chosen charity. These light-hearted, pleasurable occasions allowed the captain to play with people he might otherwise not have encountered on the course.
The professional played off scratch and the other three received the appropriate stroke allowance, according to handicap. The challengers this time were a new member, Oliver Ketley, and the man who had introduced him, a local bookmaker. This man had realized that he could n
o longer compete with the big boys and sold his three betting shops to Ketley’s organization. The captain was glad that the bookmaker, whom he had known for years, was part of the four-ball, for he had found conversation with the new member difficult.
Oliver Ketley was not a natural communicator: he had found little need for it over the years. As his power and his reputation had grown, the men around him – save on the few social occasions he allowed himself, it was always men – had adopted the habit of speaking only in response to some enquiry of Ketley’s. Unless Oliver initiated conversation, there was very little of it around him. The pro was a taciturn individual who when on the course concentrated upon producing his best golf. For eighteen holes, the conversational exchanges were largely between the captain and the bookmaker. If Ketley noticed that things were socially rather strained, he did nothing to alleviate that.
The captain found him a difficult, intimidating figure. New members were traditionally nervous in the presence of their captain; he had grown used to easing their tensions and lightening the atmosphere. Oliver Ketley had no need for his assurances that this was only a game and not to be taken too seriously. He seemed indeed to be a serious man. With his commanding physical presence, the shorter clubs looked like toys in his hands. He generally hit the ball straight, if not with quite the distance you would have expected. He accepted congratulations on his better shots with the merest nod and the smallest of smiles. His pale blue eyes registered no satisfaction, but they did give the impression of taking in everything around him. He did not seem to approve of much that he saw, though his mouth when it spoke uttered conventional phrases. He won the match with a solid par on the eighteenth, then shook hands with the briefest of smiles.
In the clubhouse, Ketley bought the first round and unbent a little over the drinks. The captain had many other people to talk to here, lots of cheery greetings and golfing chatter, so it was easier for him in the club lounge. Oliver was drinking brandies, but they seemed to have no effect upon him. When someone mentioned drink and driving, he said that his driver was picking him up and offered a lift to anyone who thought they might be unsafe to drive. No one took him up on his offer.