by Phil Redmond
‘I can’t wait to be a mother,’ Carol said as she went across to the table to join the others.
Natasha smiled as she collected her tea, not sure control of the Sky Box was worth going through childbirth for but it could be classed as an unforeseen benefit. She decided to try again, quickly, as she saw Carol picking up her phone, heading for the digital exit. ‘So what do you think was going on down at the chippy, Carol?’
‘Dunno. They were really freaked out by something, though.’
‘Fridge exploded,’ Tanya announced without looking up from her phone. ‘According to Henry.’
‘And Nisha’s just tweeted: Dad’s got me behind counter. Big Bingo rush. Chippy closed. He owes me,’ Becky chipped in.
Carol had by now also gone digital. ‘Holly’s saying: Fatman Flops on Fridge.’ She scrolled down the thread. ‘Mia reckons Fatty fell over and smashed into the fridge and shattered all the bottles.’
‘Wouldn’t want him falling on me,’ Tanya added. ‘And that firework came off the hill, according to Zolly. Reckons it’ll be someone off the Riverbeck estate.’
Natasha looked at the Sky remote and then back at the digital news service around her kitchen table. Who needed the TV news? She passed the control over to Carol and headed for the door with her tea. ‘Wait about five minutes as I’ll tell him he should be asleep.’ Then, to Tanya, ‘You all OK now?’
Tanya stood up and hugged her mother, then sat down, without taking her eyes off her phone. Natasha smiled again. And was that worth going through childbirth for? But seeing they were now all relaxed. And safe. Yeah, she thought, it was. And she’d get the full story from Tanya in the morning.
‘But that’s not the full story, Rupert and you know it.’ Sean was on his way out of the public consultation, pleased with the number of nodding heads he had noticed while repeating almost word for word the speech he had given at lunchtime. He was now speaking to Rupert Bronks, local Golf Club owner, part-time scrap merchant and full-time cleavage gazer.
‘It was a good speech, though. Really. And I liked that answer you gave about “if politicians can’t find jobs for people they should find something else to keep them occupied”. That makes sense.’
‘And I believe it. Redefine our values so that what we consider “work” is also about what we do with our time, rather than just working for money.’
‘That’s where you lost me,’ Rupert replied, nearly losing Sean as his gaze wandered towards the ladies’ toilet where another cleavage had just appeared, but he didn’t lose his thread.
‘Seems to me,’ he continued, as he turned to watch the cleavage head back to the function room. ‘That the trouble is too many of them do that already. They want someone else to give them the money so they can have a good time without working for it. But no doubt that’s too simplistic again, is it?’
‘No. Not really,’ Sean responded, waiting for Rupert to turn back. Which didn’t look like happening. So he prompted. ‘It’s about balance, Rupert.’
This seemed to do the trick. ‘Ah, balance,’ Rupert commented as he turned with a smile on his face. ‘Must be some sort of politically incorrect joke about balance and breasts, eh?’
‘Or perhaps not?’ Sean offered, wanting to neither agree nor subscribe to this male-bonding line.
Rupert just snorted. ‘Being PC, are you?’ But he didn’t wait for a response. ‘That’s like balance. I hate that almost as much as I do “impartiality”. I don’t want to be impartial. I don’t want to be balanced. And I don’t want to be a reconstructed metrosexual, whatever that is. I want to do and think what I believe in. And that’s not buying someone a new suit to go for an interview who could get a job digging ditches and save up for a suit. And they’re only a few quid down the charity shop. Plenty of my old things in there, I can tell you.’
‘I’m not really asking you to buy them a suit, Rupert.’
‘I know, Sean. I know you’re not that daft. Just as I’m not as daft as I make myself sound. You want me to look at the reasons they’re like they are. Why they take to drugs? Why they become homeless? Become unemployable?’ Sean nodded. Rupert leaned forward and prodded him on the shoulder. ‘Then you’ll have to adopt them all at birth. Think Sandra would go for that?’
‘I know, I know.’ Sean accepted this, but started to guide Rupert towards the door as he saw another group of women heading for the Ladies. ‘But I’m trying to talk about what we do right now.’ He continued: ‘about helping the ones already caught up in it all. Give them a hand to try and do something else with their lives. Give them an option other than the street corner dealer.’
‘And how many addicts do you have working your tills down at the garden centre?’
Sean gave a nod of defeat. He knew that simplistic truth was the killer point. If he didn’t want to take the risk, why should others.
‘Exactly. The approximate number I have at the Golf Club. Might have them among the membership, mind, but I’m after their cash, not letting them get at mine. Sorry, Sean. I never had anything when I was growing up. And I never turned to drugs.’
Rupert headed off for his car but stopped to shout back, ‘Probably because I was too pissed to find them. But, er, not tonight of course.’ He nodded over Sean’s shoulder to where Hilary Jardine was heading towards them. Out of uniform but appropriately dressed by John Lewis. No cleavage. ‘And give my regards to Mrs Nolan. Tell her I missed her. ’Night, Inspector.’
Hilary smiled a goodnight as Rupert headed off and she crossed to Sean. ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this, or something like that?’ She continued walking towards the car park.
Sean followed. ‘Do you think you can get addicted to anti-drug get-togethers?’
‘I get paid for it. Although,’ she hesitated, before saying, ‘And don’t fly off the handle at me …’
‘You’re still wondering why I bother?’ Sean finished the question for her. ‘You and Sandra,’ he added, waving to Rupert as he drove away in his old Jaguar XJR. ‘Someone’s got to try and do something. And if only it was as easy as getting a job digging ditches. Been there and done that. It’s got to be how we think about work, hasn’t it. In an area like this. Where so many people work for the state in some form or other.’
‘Like me?’
‘Yeah. And most of them at lunch. And here tonight. All getting cash from the state, just like people on benefit. I mean, you’re a job creation scheme really, aren’t you?’
‘Never saw myself as that, I have to admit.’ Hilary started fishing for her keys as they had reached her very sensible Skoda Fabia.
‘No, because your job was created a hundred years or so back. When “we”, society, decided we’d rather pay other people to keep the law than have to worry about it ourselves. But, if you think about it, you lot, and nurses, doctors, teachers, the fire service, are all there because we, society, or communities, decided to create those jobs. We didn’t decide to create the job of shoemaker or baker or banker or blacksmith. Or people like me selling plants. They all came because individuals saw a demand and wanted to make a living out of it.’
‘You’re going to end up in politics if you’re not careful,’ she replied, but now with a real smile on her face.
‘You are sounding like Sandra now.’
‘Bet she’s not encouraging you.’
‘And you are?’
‘Well,’ Hilary hesitated, before adding, ‘We could do worse. We probably are doing. And although you’d probably make our life a bit more difficult, we could do with a few more like you.’
‘That sounds like some form of backhanded compliment.’
‘You care, Sean. And that could get us all into trouble.’
Sean smiled. ‘Think you’re mistaking me for my son. Or my brother?’ He saw the smile stiffen again. ‘You don’t seriously think Joe’s up to something, do you?’
He was relieved to see the smile relax again.
‘No. He’s not trouble. Never was, really. Thinks he’s Jack t
he Lad, but he’s only a statistic. I get paid to sort out the likes of your Joe every now and then. But …’ she let it hang, not sure whether to go on or whether she was adding two and two to get five.
‘But?’ Sean prompted. Then took a guess. ‘Luke is from a different set of statistics?’
Hilary nodded. ‘I know his history. Even before. And although Joe has told me he has been a calming influence …’ She let that thought hang with a shrug as she changed tack. ‘Just ask Joey to make sure neither of them becomes another statistic I have to deal with. Which also applies to Noah. Goodnight. Love to Sandra.’
With that she drove off. Leaving Sean to ponder the female hive question. How did all the women in his life seem to say the same things? Was it that intuition thing – or did they really converse telepathically?
By the time Luke arrived back at the cottage, Matt had showered, changed and was taking the clothes he had been wearing earlier out of the washing machine. As the clothes were the only real chance of anyone tying them to the vicinity of the hide, they were now destined for the charity shop. If they burnt the clothes and the cops did happen to come knocking, then they would find that suspicious, but it was highly unlikely they would go rummaging through the charity shop just on the off-chance of finding a particular colour of jumper that matched a witness description.
Luke immediately started stripping off and loading the washing machine as Matt was searching the fridge.
‘You should have popped in the chippy on the way back,’ Luke said with a grin.
‘Funny that,’ Matt replied. ‘It was closed for some reason. Get the Barrett stowed?’
Luke nodded. ‘I’ll have scrambled.’
‘You’ll get, as my old mum used to say, what you are given.’
That would be one of the one-pan meals Matt had mastered on their global excursions. Whether Palau or Risotto. Or Paella or Ragù. Or Scouse or Cawl. Matt started to slice and dice. ‘You reckon it’s safe under that bridge?’
Luke nodded and reached over for a bottle of water, then nicked a tomato from Matt’s ingredients pile, just dodging a flick from his Blackhawk folding and barely legal Hornet knife. Another souvenir from his time as a US contractor.
‘There’s a local gun club not far down the track. If anything gets found the cops’ll waste a day or two making two and two equal six and harass the law-abiding membership while they hunt for some imaginary gun freak.’ He bit into the tomato. ‘But they’d have to know where to look. We used to hang out up there. It’s a small gap where the bridge supports meet the bridge itself. Some kind of bearing or shock absorber that cushions the load. You’d only know it was there if you worked on building the bridge. Or were bored out of your teenage brain and looking for things to do.’
‘Boldly going where no one else in their right mind would go?’
‘Probably. But then Joe and I did a lot of things out of sheer boredom.’
‘Which explains a lot. And why Fatty and his gang have them queuing down that alley. We going to hit him again tomorrow?’
‘See how bright he is. Whether he figures it out and calls in the troops.’
‘Let’s hope he’s brighter than he looks, then. How’d you want your eggs?’
‘Just as they come?’
‘Good answer.’
Which was something Fatchops hadn’t found. He was still searching for an answer while throwing his clothes into a washing machine: it was part of his POLO as he was actually more concerned about his own forensic residue than that of Luke and the others, as it was more durable than that left by firing a weapon. For this reason he always appeared to wear the same clothes, having a cupboard capable of providing three changes a day. For the lunch, dinner and chucking-out time waves. He walked back into the now spotlessly clean shop and stood looking at the damaged drinks cabinet once more, not quite convinced that a bottle of fake cola could do so much damage. His head was still pounding from the fall. He’d take an over-the-counter drug, not one of his own, and figure it out in the morning.
6
Build-Up
BY THE TIME Fatchops began his search for the real answer to what had happened the previous night, Joey had visited Luton, Birmingham, Stoke-on-Trent and Crewe, reinforcing his twin beliefs that modern transport enabled people to make journeys undreamt of in his grandparents’ age and that they were designed to make Londoners feel safe in their beds, certain that no provincial hordes could descend on them overnight in an orderly manner. Similarly, it was virtually impossible for anyone to escape the outer reaches of the capital beyond 23.30, when all long-distance trains were suspended, unless they already had an escape plan in place. Joey had three. He always had. Ever since starting the weekly commute he had wanted to know how fast he could get back to Natasha and the kids if wanted to. Like now.
The full-on emergency option was taking Benno’s ambulance, but that would mean returning it. And right now Joey didn’t think he would be coming back. By the time he left Benno going after a new world record for snoring, his options had been reduced to one of the other two. The 23.30 overnight bus to Liverpool had gone. That left the half-past midnight service to Manchester, but looking at his phone he knew it would be touch and go whether he could get to Victoria Coach Station in time. Its second stop at Golders Green was also on the edge. He could, however, get to its third stop at Luton Airport by 01.40 by taking a direct train from Blackfriars. After that he’d have to change buses at Birmingham, then drop off at Stoke and catch a train to Crewe, then home. It was part of his weekly routine to check the timetables in the hope of finding a more direct route, but there never was. At least this one allowed plenty of time at each changing point for delays. And pondering. On what he would be walking into when he got home.
Once at Stoke he knew Natasha could collect him within forty minutes, but that would mean her getting up early, not being able to do the school run, and that would escalate her anxiety. Better, he thought, to jump on another local train to Crewe and be home before she got back from the school run. Then he would be able to calm her down face-to-face. So at 07.00, just after purchasing his ticket to Crewe, he sent a holding text. HOPE THINGS BETTER THIS MORNING. TRAVELLING. TALK LATER. LXXJ. He then tapped his favourites and found Benno’s number. Time to tell him what he was up to.
Neither Mercedes nor Fatchops were in the best of moods as they came through from the back of the chippy. Fatchops was fiddling with a large crêpe bandage that was now wrapped round his head. Mercedes was fiddling with the drawstring on a pair of definitely non-designer baggy, and chequered, catering trousers. Their depression was deepened by the knowledge that no matter what had happened last night, they had lost most of their product to the deep-fat fryer and while that had had to be cleaned out, the money for the product would still have to be accounted for.
Waste was a term with only one meaning in their business and if they didn’t pay up it would be applied to them. While a grumpy Fatchops moved to start getting things ready for the day, a sullen Mercedes unlocked the external door then threw both the keys and a killer look back at the counter. Giving a last irritated look at the baggy trousers, he opened the door and stepped out, pulling his coat around him against the wind as he hurried to his car, grateful for the keyless entry that would allow a quick exit before anyone with any fashion sense could see him.
Whether Matt had any real views on the subject was open to question and if he did they were probably directed more towards Joey’s sartorial companion Benno, but the sight of Mercedes scurrying up the road made him laugh.
‘He doesn’t look like a happy bunny this morning,’ Matt’s voice announced in Luke’s ear. They were now using Motorola MT352 walkie-talkies with voice-activated headsets held securely in place with surgical tape as they were wary of using the pay-and-throws for extended periods, or of relying on the vagaries of the mobile networks for instant communication. The Motorolas had an advertised potential range of 35 miles across 22 channels, each with 121 privacy codes. The 35 m
iles claim was always followed by an asterix, of course, meaning don’t rely on it, but they would cope with a few miles round Highbridge. And they might not survive being dropped out of a helo or Warrior, like their usual comms kits, but they came with a few other advantages. They were really cheap, licence free and could be bought for cash. And while their expensive encrypted kit was designed so no one could eavesdrop, that always assumed someone was trying to listen. The other great advantage of the MT352s was that their frequencies were illegal in the UK, so the chances of someone else having one and stumbling across which of the 2,662 potential channels they chose to use was remote.
While Matt was back on the hill, Luke was sitting in an old Transit van just down the street from the chippy. It was parked so he would have a clear line of sight from its side door, although at the moment it was closed and he was sitting watching the Mercedes start to move away on a small colour monitor he had taped to his thigh. It may not have been as sophisticated as the chippy’s CCTV, but the small inspection camera at the end of the flexible optic tube they had wedged into the door seal gave a clear view of the whole street.
‘It’s not bad, this. How much was it?’
‘Seventy quid in a sale from Maplin. Got it for sixty-five for cash,’ Matt replied. ‘Says it’ll do night vision too. But only at 1.5 metres.’
‘Useful to see who you’ve tripped over, then?’ Luke asked as he slid back behind the Barrett.
‘Think they had inspecting your drains or hidden wiring, rather than target spotting, actually, Carlton. And something you might find in a crappy builder’s van.’
Luke had the Barrett on a tripod so he could shoot from a sitting position. He was wedged between side racks of chaotically stacked trays filled with electrical fittings and plumbing pipework, along with all the screws, nails and general bits and bobs that make up the organised chaos of any typical builder’s van. To the casual eye. To the more experienced viewer it would look exactly what it was. A collection of junk and scrap. For two weeks, alongside scoping the chippy, they had been scavenging skips, taking full advantage of the throwaway society.