by J M Gregson
She sounded detached, almost disappointed. Martin said, ‘You’ll be relieved that it’s over. And I am, on your behalf. I feel guilty sitting here quietly doing nothing, whilst you have all the strain to endure.’
‘Thank you for that. But we agreed it was best this way, didn’t we? If we can keep you out of it altogether, that will be best for both of us.’ She mouthed the right reassuring phrases, but she resented him sitting quiet and safe whilst she was in the spotlight. She was worried and isolated, despite the knowledge that they were doing the right thing.
‘How did you get on with the CID people?’
‘It went all right, I think. No, I’m sure it did. I got Janey Johnson to sit in with me, as you suggested. The man in charge is very sharp, but he didn’t catch me out in anything. He had a big black sergeant with him. He looked ready for a fight, but I think he was quite a softy, really. Perhaps he hasn’t dealt much with women before.’
After a single short interview, she had put her finger on one of the few weaknesses in DS Northcott’s armoury. Martin Price grinned affectionately: this hard man he had never met would surely be no match for Greta’s wiles. ‘Do they suspect you have a lover?’ He had meant to be diplomatic. He had intended to wrap up his single great concern in softer phrases than this, but in the end the question had burst out in stark simplicity.
‘No, I’m sure they don’t. They didn’t even suggest it. We’re in the clear, my darling!’
She sounded so sure, so content, that it alarmed him. He said tersely, ‘They’ll be back, Greta. They’ll talk to everyone around the place, in a murder enquiry. If anyone has the slightest idea that we’ve been meeting, the police will pick it up. People talk to protect themselves; they’re afraid of concealing things.’
‘No one knows about us, my love. If Oliver Ketley didn’t find out, rest assured that no one else in this house knows about us.’
That was the best guarantee that they were safe, as she said. If Ketley had known about him, he’d have had a bullet through the back of his head the next day. ‘That sounds good. But don’t drop your guard. The police aren’t as stupid as people like Oliver claim they are. They’re hamstrung by regulations, as he never was. But once they’re on a murder hunt, they’re efficient and very thorough. Don’t underestimate them.’
‘All right, I won’t. When can we meet?’ The single question she had been dying to ask since the first shrill of her phone.
‘I don’t know. It’s early days yet. Perhaps at the end of the week, if everything goes well.’
‘If they’ve arrested someone else by then, you mean?’
‘I don’t know quite what I mean, Greta. I just want the heat to be off us before we meet. Once the police discover an eternal triangle, it’s the two left standing who become their prime suspects. That’s only natural – most of the time, they’re right!’
‘I want to feel you against me, my darling. I want to be with you in that bed of yours, running my hands over your back, then clasping you tight as you do whatever you wish to me!’
‘And I want to do that too, my darling! I think about it all the time. Even at the most inconvenient moments!’
He was trying to bring in a little levity, but she scarcely heard him. ‘I want to do everything we’ve ever done together. And most of all, I want to cling on as hard as I can whilst your whole body goes hard and you come inside me!’
‘Oh, Greta, I need you! More than you can ever imagine. But we shall have the rest of our lives to do these things. We shall be able to show everyone openly what we think of each other, instead of stealing hole-in-the-corner meetings and wondering all the time we’re together when they must end. But we must be careful, for just a little while longer. I’ll ring again, whenever I think it’s safe. Same arrangement.’
She flung more intimate, passionate phrases at him before the call ended, and he loved her for it. But he feared as he sat in his empty, luxurious flat that passion might lead to indiscretion, that some slip would bring the police into his life as well as to hers, with much more dangerous consequences.
Martin Price didn’t even consider that he and not Greta might be the source of revelations.
Clyde Northcott’s motorcycle gear was an effective disguise. No one could say what his occupation was once he had leathers and helmet on.
He roared ten miles through countryside to the house he had to visit in Chorley. He enjoyed riding at night, when all you could see was the long beam of your headlight ahead and the dipped headlights of vehicles coming the other way. It concentrated your attention on this narrow corridor of action and excluded the rest of the world. He always thought of himself at night as a racehorse with blinkers, blind to all the world save for this brilliantly lit tunnel where the action took place.
He went much more slowly when he reached the small town, easing the big Yamaha quietly through the narrowing streets until he reached the place he wanted. He eased himself from the bike and stood quite still for a moment in the shadow of the brick wall, waiting for the adrenalin and excitement he always got from a ride to seep through his veins. He had never taken his blood pressure; he imagined it would be high for a while after the bike. He could feel the pulse in his head slowing, even in the minute or so he allowed himself to remove his helmet and gauntlets.
He was an impressive figure in his close-fitting black leathers, which seemed to increase his already huge height. But there was no way anyone could identify him as a policeman. He was merely a formidable biker who rode a formidable machine.
He moved a few yards to the back of a row of council houses. They were not part of a large and noisy estate, but a mere two streets of older buildings from the fifties. No doubt most of them had by now been purchased by sitting tenants and become private residences. There was no sign of life or movement at the rear.
Human movement, that is. The dark shape of a cat flashed across his vision as he stealthily opened the gate at the end of the garden. The darkness and the suddenness of its flight made the movement seem unnaturally swift, so that he was left with the impression of lightning movement, rather than any image of the animal itself. His first reaction was shock. His second one was relief that it wasn’t a rat. Clyde didn’t like rats, and where there was one rat there were usually others. Cats were infinitely preferable.
As if to reinforce that view, a dog barked, three times in rapid succession. Not a large dog, Clyde judged, and at least four houses away. Nothing to worry about, especially when you had your leathers as additional protection. He moved cautiously up the concrete path which his adjusted vision could now clearly distinguish. When he felt his way to the handle of the back door, he found it locked as he had expected.
To the right of the door, where the path ran away round the periphery of the house, a single light showed, dim amber behind thick curtains. He tapped gently on the window. Three shorts, three longs, three shorts again. The SOS sign in Morse code, though he doubted whether the woman behind the curtain would recognize it.
He was back at the door when he heard the bolts being drawn back and the key turned. The woman inside gasped alarm at the silhouette of this black giant, but Clyde said quietly, ‘It’s me, Joey. As arranged.’
She drew back and let him past her, sticking her head out like an anxious bird in the nest to look down the garden and from side to side before she shut the door and followed him into the house. Clyde Northcott stood above her and smiled down at her in the living room. He set his helmet carefully beside his gauntlets on the table, then glanced round the room. Shabby but tidy, the room of someone poor but respectable. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, Joey.’
The thin, angular face smiled at him, very briefly. ‘Not as well as you, Bonzo. But I started later. I’ve got my kid out of care and at the school round the corner. I’m lucky: it’s a good school. And they’ve given me work as a dinner lady. No more than I get on the social, but it’s proper work. The head said there might be a job in the office some time in the future, if eve
rything works out.’
She spoke quickly, as if it was important to give him this summary and have him on his way. Old habits died hard: you didn’t take any more risks than you had to, when you were giving stuff to the filth. And surely Bonzo Northcott wouldn’t want to spend any more time in her house than he had to.
But Clyde seemed in no hurry. He reached out his hand and took her wrist, slowing the movement so as not to threaten her. He eased back the sleeve of her jumper and the shirt beneath it, turned her arm gently so that he could study it under the light. The needle marks and the damaged veins were visible enough; they would always be visible. But the scars were not recent. He looked down into the small dark eyes, but they were quite clear as they stared back at him. No signs of drug usage here.
She said quietly, ‘I haven’t used for two years, now. Not since I came out of rehab. And I never will. I’m not going to risk losing Kate, am I?’
‘Good on yer, Joey!’ He took her small right hand between his huge ones and pumped it so hard that she almost lost balance. His pleasure was genuine. Five years ago, he had supplied drugs to the girl she had been then, and set her on the path which had led so many to dependence, squalor and death. Now he could feel a shade less guilty. One of his customers at least was going to be a success story, like him.
She slid away her hand. ‘Thanks, Bonzo. But you’re DS Northcott now. And DS Northcott isn’t here for this. He wants information.’
He nodded quickly, trying not to look at the innocent face of the child in the photograph on the sideboard. ‘What you got for me, Joey?’
She should tell him it was good, vital even, upping the value of what she had to give him to its maximum. Instead, she said, ‘It might be nothing, but you need to know. I’m not looking for work as a snout. This will be the last thing I ever give you.’
He believed her. But she’d given him one thing before, the name of someone well up the chain in the supply of class A drugs, and it had given him an arrest. Joey Harrison, reformed junkie, was a good judge of what was valuable. He didn’t give her his usual stuff about this being of dubious value to him, as you normally did with a snout. He’d treated her like that on the phone, but old times, old guilts and old loyalties came back to you, when you were in this humble room, face to face with a woman winning the war to retrieve herself and her life.
All he said was, ‘Best tell me what you’ve got for me now, Joey.’
‘He wasn’t straight, was he, this man Ketley? He wasn’t the man the newspapers would have us believe he was?’
‘He was a murdering bastard, Joey. There’ll be lots rejoicing that he’s gone and willing to dance on his grave. But it was murder, and we can’t let murder go. We have to find who killed him – probably some villain with a soul as black as his.’
‘What about his wife?’
He hesitated. You didn’t reveal things to the public, even when you were fishing for information. But he wasn’t trading anything here; you could surely say complimentary things about people. ‘She’s as pure as the driven snow, Greta Ketley. So far, anyway. DCI Peach and I saw her on the day after the murder and she didn’t seem to know anything about it.’
He couldn’t resist letting her know that he had a high profile in this already hugely publicized case. She caught that and said, ‘DCI, eh? You’re doing well for yourself, Bonzo Northcott, and no mistake! But your lilywhite lady is playing away, love. Banging away like a boxer bitch, I shouldn’t wonder!’ Joey had no idea whether boxer dogs were more lustful than others, but she had always relished alliteration.
‘Mrs Ketley has a lover?’ Clyde tried not to sound too excited. He failed.
Joey Harrison smiled happily and sat down at the table, motioning her visitor towards the chair beside her. ‘She’s been to his flat near Chorley, I’ve seen her leaving and I’ve seen her going in.’
‘How do you know it was her?’
‘I didn’t, until I saw her picture in the paper yesterday. I was sure it was her. So I checked in the Northern Evening Telegraph. There were two pictures in there; one was full face. It’s her all right.’
‘Who’s the man?’
‘Don’t know his name. He’s quite a looker, though. Short blond hair. Fortyish, I’d say. I can give you his exact address. You’ll get his name from the electoral register.’
He saw now the intelligent and resourceful woman he had never seen when he was supplying her with drugs. ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. You’d probably think of taking a lover, if you were married to a sod like Ketley.’
‘I’d think twice though, wouldn’t I, if Ketley was as big a villain as you say he was? Dangerous business, taking a lover. And even more dangerous for the lover. I’d say they must both be pretty keen.’
He fumbled beneath his leathers and produced five twenty pound notes. ‘Normally I’d say we need to check this out before I can pay. But I’m trusting what you say. If it leads to anything, there’ll be another hundred to follow.’
‘For old times’ sake?’
He smiled grimly. ‘Let’s forget old times, shall we, Joey? This is for the future. Yours and Kate’s.’
‘You’re a good man, Clyde Northcott.’ She’d dropped the ‘Bonzo’, and both of them knew in that moment that she would never use it again.
‘And you’re a good woman, Joey Harrison. I had people fighting for me. And I didn’t have to go through rehab. You’ve fought your own fights, and come through. But it’s going to be worth it.’
‘It’s already worth it. Take care of yourself, Clyde. You could always do that, but you’re mixing it with some right bastards, by the sound of it.’
Joey stood on tiptoe and placed a brief kiss on his lips. He hugged her tightly for a moment. Then he was out the way he had come, sending the cat flying from the dustbin again with a resentful yowl, watching the lightning black shadow clear the fence and disappear into the night.
‘How’re you getting on with Clyde Northcott as your bagman?’ Lucy Peach called from the kitchen.
Percy continued stacking the plates on the tray, then carried them into the kitchen, where she already had the water running at the sink, waiting for it to come hot. ‘All right. He’s a good lad, Clyde.’
She felt an unexpectedly sharp shaft of jealousy, a sadness for times gone that could never be repeated. ‘I know he is. I’m glad you made him your DS when I had to move on.’
‘Do you want to wash or dry?’
‘I’ll wash. I’ve already got these glamorous rubber gloves on.’ She clattered the dirty dishes noisily into the bowl, stealing a sideways glance at her husband’s impassive face. ‘He’s got different virtues from me, has Clive.’
‘I’ll say.’ Percy took advantage of her position at the sink to slide his hands over her generous rear. ‘I promise familiarity will never breed contempt!’ he breathed into her ear.
‘Behave yourself!’ She spun quickly, flicking hot water over his face before she ran both rubber gloves down the sides of it.
Percy sighed the elaborate sigh of the downtrodden male. ‘He’s a hard bastard, Clive. A man you’d want beside you in a punch-up. When there’s knives flashing and fists flying, I’d rather have him beside me than you.’
‘No competition, in that situation. You’d be thinking of me, I hope, if there was physical danger about – which is presumably why the rules say we can no longer work together. But how often do DCIs put their lives in danger?’
‘Not often, outside detective novels and television series. They send young lads like DS Northcott and DC Murphy out to do the dirty work. Mind you, I do get out and about, leaving Tommy Bloody Tucker to mastermind the strategy from his penthouse hideaway.’
Lucy gazed steadily at the suds on top of the washing-up water. ‘And when you’re out and about, is Clyde better or worse than I used to be?’
He knew that he should say that Clyde didn’t come near her, that he missed her acumen and insights, that they had made a near-perfect team together.
As indeed they had. But that was not Percy Peach’s way and both of them knew it. ‘Clyde’s not better or worse. He’s different.’
‘Of course he is. That’s just an evasion. Take your hands off my belly, please, Percy.’
Percy removed them reluctantly and took up his tea towel again. ‘There’s an example, you see. I don’t even know what Clyde’s belly feels like. Whereas I should be confident of passing the most rigorous exam on yours. From your belly button right down to—’
‘Be serious, please. Is he a big help to you in interviews?’
‘He’s coming on. At present, he probably asks me more questions afterwards than he asks people in interviews, but it’s much better to say nothing than to ask things just to remind people you’re there. He’ll be all right, Clive. He’s a quick learner.’
Lucy was absurdly pleased that the big man wasn’t yet as effective as she had been when face to face with suspects. That was a defensive reaction, she told herself; nevertheless, she smiled quietly into the saucepan before she tackled it vigorously with the pan scrub.
Behind her head, Percy grinned a secret, invisible, affectionate smile. ‘He’s got better snouts than you ever had, has Clive Northcott.’
He felt her stiffen, begin to bridle, than carefully relax. ‘It’s easier for male officers to get snouts. They’re more in touch with low life.’
‘As you have to be, my darling, to pick up valuable contacts. But I make an exception for you. I’m the lowest life I shall ever expect you to touch.’ He polished a teacup reflectively with his towel, then, as she turned face-to-face with him, gave her the most innocent of his vast range of smiles.
She said quietly, ‘How’s the Ketley case going?’
‘Early days, as T.B. Tucker would say under pressure. We’re fully stretched, because there are a lot of people who are delighted to be rid of the bugger. You busy at present?’