by Pete Trewin
‘Well yes. But the knobheads tried to muscle in and put the frighteners on me like old-style cops. I’m going to make an official complaint. They’re not real cops, they’re contractors. The big one used to be a copper but that’ll only make it worse for them.’
‘Well I would rather you didn’t complain, Roger. It would only draw attention to what’s going on. Best keep everything legitimate and above board. This is a nice little earner for us and for you.’
His eyes gleamed.
‘Yeah. Sales up twenty percent last month.’
‘Which brings me to a delicate subject. I understand you’ve got sixty five staff on the books?’
Hardy opened his mouth to say something then stopped.
‘But according to the tax people there’s only sixty,’ Alison continued. ‘You’re up to something, Roger. I don’t know exactly what it is. But it’s not very nice after we’ve been so generous to you.’
‘Ah, come on, Alison,’ he laughed. ‘You know me, I wouldn’t...’
‘You’re doing well out of this little game, Roger. But don’t forget where we come from at the end of the day.’
Herbie turned and grinned at Roger. He jokingly punched Roger in the chest. Roger winced in pain.
‘So I suggest,’ Alison said. ‘That you get the books in order. Within, say, two weeks. Then I’ll send in an auditor to check for discrepancies.’ She smiled at him. ‘And no complaining to the plods.’
Chris settled into the chair in his little office in the lodge and opened his notebook. He took a swig of coffee then a bite of cheese and tomato sandwich.
Sefton had met someone in the Windermere Towers pub. A good-looking lady in a well-fitting dark blue suit. Dark skin, blonde hair. Probably mixed race. Chauffeured by a big black fellow in an expensive silver Merc. Chris had noted the number of the car and had a telephoto shot of each person. He had considered planting a similar tracking device to the one on Sefton’s car but the chauffeur never left the car. Chris had dropped into the pub for a pint recently. The pub had been empty and the beer, while OK, was four quid a pint. ‘Four quid?’ he remembered himself exclaiming. After the pub they had driven over to Snug as a Bug. The meeting with Hardy in the car. Something was going on but what? He would need to get closer – maybe get inside Snug as a Bug.
The doorbell rang. Continuously. He walked to the front door and opened it. No one there. He shut the door and walked back to the office. There was a loud thud against the front door. He ran this time. A brick lay in two halves on the floor of the porch. There was a splintered gouge in the paintwork of the door.
Something moved in the bushes on the other side of the road, but in the light rain and semi-darkness it was difficult to see,
‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Fuck off! I’m ringing the police!’
‘Fuck off yourself, weirdo!’
Gang of kids on the street corner.
‘Paedo!’ one shouted.
He slammed the door, ran upstairs and checked the laptop. The dot was still at Sefton’s house in Frodsham. He did not call the police.
THIRTEEN
The wind drove the rain horizontally into Chris’s face as he walked along the bottom of Helsby crag. He had to zip his fleece up to the neck and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. Water was already running down the rock, bringing out the luminescent green of the moss which masked the brown-red of the sandstone.
The path was slimy underfoot. His feet slipped on wet boulders. No more climbing today. He had only just started up Time Lapse when it had begun to spot with rain. He’d hoped that it was a break in the weather but it had turned out to be a gap in the showers. It looked like he would never do it. He had wimped out twice now.
The Mersey estuary and Liverpool were hidden by a low mist. What a day it had turned into. He nearly fell where the path ran along the base of a gully, his feet sliding on the wet boulders. He had to pause to catch his breath. There was nowhere dry to sit so he had to stand, his breath pluming out into the damp, cold air.
A large rock came bouncing down. It just missed his head before he had time to react and it smashed onto a boulder at his feet before careening off into the trees.
‘Oi!’ Chris shouted automatically. ‘Watch what you’re doing, dickhead!’
A red face appeared at the top of the gully.
‘Oh no!’ grinned the owner of the face. ‘I’d recognize that mop of curly hair anywhere.’
‘So, there it is,’ Ed said. He coughed and spluttered into a handkerchief. ‘Jesus, I’ve caught a bug or something.’
‘Well don’t look at me,’ Chris said.
He looked around the pub. Early afternoon. Quiet. A lone barman was quietly washing glasses at the end of the bar. This time Chris had bought the drinks and he kept his own glass close to him at all times.
Ed certainly didn’t look well. His face was grey and yellow at the same time. A liver problem? Alcoholism?
Ed took a huge swig of his pint. He had plastered his wet hair back over his skull so that he looked like Count Dracula. And the spot in the centre of his forehead was huge and pregnant. A real mark of Cain. Chris couldn’t take his eyes off it. Purple and obviously painful. You could clearly see a yellow head of puss. It could burst at any time.
‘You don’t look so well yourself,’ Chris said.
‘Just run down. Ever since Vicky left I’ve drunk too much booze and not eaten properly. Can’t sleep. You know I worshipped that woman? Worshipped the ground that she walked on. Would have done anything for her, Trouble is, she was a prude. Wouldn’t have fun. Preferred to be miserable...’
He stared at his pint.
‘Sorry to go on,’ he said. ‘Once I get on my hobby-horse I can go on and on. So how are you getting on with your bullying boss?’
Chris jerked his head up.
‘Simon?’ he said. Nothing to lose now. ‘Not well. Once I was his blue-eyed boy. Now I’m the twat who’s responsible for everything that’s going wrong. Actually, it’s worse than that. He’s got this paranoid delusion that I’m the centre of a conspiracy within the firm to bring him down. When I’ve supported him even though all the staff are against him. Now he’s turned against me. Most likely the drugs he’s stuffing himself with have something to do with it. And maybe his medical problems. He’s got a dicky heart. Had a bypass. That might be affecting his judgement. Yesterday I went with him into Liverpool to help him with a presentation. He went off in a taxi and came back half an hour later. I’m sure he was going off to score.’
‘A taxi?’ Ed said. ‘What’s Simon’s last name?
‘Chester.’
‘Ex-copper? Fancies himself?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I know him. He used to be on the drug squad. Arrested me once. Had to let me go. No evidence. The man’s a cunt. Doesn’t deserve to live. The only solution for cunts like that is a forty-five slug behind the ear.’
He looked at Chris.
‘You say he’s had a heart bypass operation?’ he said at last. ‘A lot of fellers of that age have dicky hearts. It’s common – like an epidemic. I’ve had a flutter or two myself. The doctor says I’m a consultant’s dream. I eat like a hog, smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish. I agree with him and then ignore his advice. But don’t you see? You could put Simon under stress with anonymous phone calls. You could kill his dog and nail it to his front door and he’d have a fatal.
‘Yeah,’ Chris said. ‘But the trouble is everyone knows that me and Simon have fallen out. It would have to be done perfectly. Even the slightest mistake and the plods would cotton on. And I’d be an obvious suspect.’
‘Another pint?’ Ed said. ‘Same again? Fancy a meal? Get some nosh inside you. The fish and chips is great here.’
‘Well I...’
‘Come on, Chris. Surely we can be friends?’
‘Remember the melon in The Day of the Jackal?’ said Ed as they tucked in to the food. ‘When the Jackal practices his marksmanship on it – blowing it to pieces? T
hat’s one of my favourite films of all time.’
‘Black and white films of the fifties and sixties?’ Chris said. ‘You can’t beat them. They were like a different world, another dimension.’
‘Ah,’ Ed said. ‘Nostalgia’s not what it used to be. Now Shane. I loved Jack Palance’s Wilson in that.’
‘Wasn’t that in colour?’
‘Can’t remember. But it should have been in black and white. Never mind the details. Keep the nostalgia coming.’
‘Some like it Hot.’
‘A Prize of Arms.’
‘Attack!’
‘Paths of Glory.’
‘Man of Steel.’
‘Underworld USA.’
‘Night of the Hunter.’
‘The Third Man.’
‘Vertigo.’
‘That was in colour too,’ Ed said. ‘But never mind. Another one that should have been in black and white. Like A Fistful of Dollars. That should have been in black and white like Yojimbo. I loved Clint in Fistful. “Git three coffins ready.” Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! “My mistake – four coffins”.’ His eyes were bright. ‘Psycho.’
As Chris parked the car at the side of the lodge, someone dodged behind one of the trees in the road. He went over to have a look but had to stop for a passing car and when he got there whoever it was must have gone into the park. He went inside.
He should really put some jacket potatoes on and go for a run. But it was late and he was tired. He had spent several hours at the office working with Jeanette on Simon’s presentation. Simon had gone home early. He was letting Chris stew. Sadist.
If he went for a run in the dark he might trip on a kerb or tread in the dog shit in the dark. He had put in plenty of miles over the winter and lots of traversing and bouldering at Pex Hill quarry, the climbing wall and the stonewalls at Otterspool promenade. Basically, he was living off all this training while all these things were happening to him. You could do it for a bit, but not for long.
So it was a chippy take-away eaten while sitting on a wall and then a couple of pints in the Albert. It didn’t really take that much to become a slob. Just no will-power.
As he walked into the pub he saw Tom Baldwin standing at the bar.
‘Hi, Tom!’ he shouted. ‘Pint?’
A silly question. Tom always wanted a pint. Which helped to contribute to the extra couple of stones around his midriff. This, with his thin legs, made him look like a robin redbreast. He’d once been a good climber but now he mostly talked about it.
‘Hi, Chris. OK, a pint of Landlord, mate. How’s things? Done much lately?’
‘Went up to Helsby a couple of days ago. Almost did Time Lapse.’
Chris almost bit his tongue. He had been watching a large man with a distinctive mop of white hair sitting in the other bar.
‘Time Lapse? But that’s not been done. Not led anyway. Were you trying to lead it?’
‘Solo it. There’s no gear.’
‘Wow! Hey, I should be buying the drinks. It must be E7. And 6c technical.’
‘Probably.’
‘How was it?’
‘Oh, it was good friction and I was moving well. Had a bit of a wobble on the crux and had to come down.’
‘Next time you have a go, tell me and I’ll come along and take some photos. I’ll put it on UKC. You don’t keep a logbook on there do you?’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t, Tom.’
‘Come on, you don’t want to be shy and bashful about it. It would be the hardest route in the area.’
‘It’s not that. It’s just that with my job and everything...’
‘OK, whatever you want. You don’t know do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘There was a strong rumour at the time that Daly made it up. The ascent. No witnesses. He was getting on a bit, almost fifty. Too much booze and dope. Must have tried it and thought – this is death on a stick. If you do it, it’ll be the first ascent.’
‘Yeah but then I’ll have to say he didn’t do it won’t I? I wouldn’t want to do a man down like that. You can’t be certain he didn’t do it. I never liked him but, with no witnesses, if he said he did it then that’s good enough for me.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Tom. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I saw someone acting suspiciously down the side of your house last night. I shouted and they ran away. There have been a lot of burglaries around here recently. Just keep your eyes open.’ He paused. ‘Look, how about a trip to Wales at the weekend? The forecast’s good. We could go to the Pass and do a couple of the classics and have a couple of pints in the Vaynol afterwards, How about it?’
Chris sighed.
‘I’d love to. Tom. But there’s all sorts happening with the job at the moment. It’s a madhouse.’
‘OK, maybe another time,’ Tom said.
He looked over to the other bar where something had caught his attention.
‘Hey, there’s Carol,’ he said. ‘Come on over. She’s with her friend.’ He looked at Chris. ‘Still mooning over Lisa?’
Chris shrugged.
‘It was nasty, Tom. My job involves long, unsociable hours. And my hobbies are solitary ones.’
‘I sympathize, mate. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ He stopped after two paces and turned. ‘E7 6c!’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered and put a finger to his mouth.
Chris took a swallow of beer and watched Tom join the group of which the girl was part.
‘E7 6c, what’s all that about?’ A voice behind him.
He turned to be met by a round grinning face, with a big white moustache under a mop of startlingly white hair. Detective Sergeant Bert Robinson. He was wearing a maroon suit with wide lapels. Pink shirt. Maroon tie. Pink handkerchief hanging out of the top pocket of the jacket. Pointy brown brogues. The outfit could have dated from the seventies but everything looked brand new. When he was on duty he always wore a scruffy brown mac and green trilby hat as if he was a plain clothes copper in a British TV series from the fifties or sixties.
‘Oh, hi there, Bert,’ Chris said. ‘It’s a climbing thing. E7 means it’s an extremely severe climb. They’re graded E1, E2 etc. That’s for the overall difficulty and risk. 6c is for the hardest technical move. The scale goes from 1A, 1B, 1C then 2A and so on. Except they don’t use the first three scales in practice.’ He paused. ‘I hope that’s clear.’
‘Perfectly. But what’s all this stuff about risk? I thought you had these bolts you clipped into to make it safe?’
‘No, that’s sport climbing. That’s different. This is traditional climbing. There’s no protection on this route.’
‘So let me get this right. You’re trying to climb a route with a great element of risk and technical difficulty?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You must be fucking mad. You wouldn’t catch me up there.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Another pint?’
As they supped their ale, Bert nodded at the group in which Tom and Carol were now deep in conversation, Tom whispering into Carol’s ear.
‘Waste of time all that, isn’t it?’ Bert said. ‘For women the price of marriage is sex and for men the price of sex is marriage.’ He grinned. ‘I bet you get fed up with me going on, don’t you? How’s the job?’
‘So, so. Got problems with my boss. Can’t get to the bottom of the latest assignment. Pretty normal really.’
Bert laughed.
‘That boss wouldn’t be Simon Chester,’ he said. ‘Would it?’
Chris nodded.
‘That feller’s a right cunt,’ continued Bert. ‘I don’t envy you. I once worked with him, you know. Drug squad. He was at it himself. That’s why they let him take early retirement at fifty. With a big pay-off. Rather than be prosecuted and cause a scandal. Brushed under the carpet.’
He took a swig of his pint then screwed up his face.
‘And then they suspend me and refer me to the quacks. Calling me an alcoholic. I fucking hate the police force. What
do the scallies call them? The Filth? Dead right.’
‘Ever heard of a feller called Ed Sefton?’ Chris said, trying to be casual.
‘Not trying to pump me for inside information are ya, Chris?
‘Not at all. Just thought you might have come across him.’
‘Well I wouldn’t try to come across him if I were you. He’s a nasty piece of work. A bully. Works as a glorified bagman for Kenny Mason. Well, Alison, now Kenny and the rest of them are gone.’ He laughed at Chris’s puzzled look. ‘The word is that they were bringing in a consignment in a rubber dinghy to a bay in Cornwall. It capsized and Kenny and all his henchmen drowned. Keep it quiet.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Now I’d make an exception for Alison. She’s not the wicked witch, she’s the beautiful princess. Lives in that big sandstone mansion next to the Sudley Art Gallery. You know the one in Mossley Hill Road?’
‘I know the one. Must have cost a million quid.’
‘And the rest. And watch out for Herbie, her minder. He could have been a boxing champ that feller. He knocked out Bonecrusher Smith and was leading Frank Bruno on points. Used to jog around Sefton Park. There’s a great story about how he was once jumped by a whole gang of scallies. My boss went on the record in the Echo to commend him on his public-spiritedness in leaving all six of them lined up neatly in the recovery position. The thing is...’
He moved closer and whispered.
‘The story is that Kenny Mason fixed the Bruno fight. So it’s like that film On the Waterfront. I coulda been a contender, Charlie...’
‘What does this Sefton do?’
‘Apart from being a twat? He’s a glorified bagman. They’re moving out of the rough stuff and into legitimate business, with the money laundered from drugs. Buying up pubs. The latest was Windermere Towers.’
‘The one with the expensive ale in Penny Lane?’
‘That’s the one. The word is she owns this place as well.’
‘This is more like it. Must be a gold mine. Students. Yuppies.’
Bert grinned.
‘You forgot the alkies. She comes in here regularly on a lunch time. Must be checking it out. I tell you what, Chris. As well as being a babe, Alison Mason is one clever cookie.’