Young, Gifted and Deadly
Page 17
Stevens looked pointedly at Brough. “You can be too clever.”
“You’re immune, then,” quipped Pattimore.
“And,” Ball seemed to remember something, “There’s someone to see you. Come in, Charlie.”
All heads turned to the door as Charlie West, a little sheepishly, came in. “Morning,” he touched his brow in salute.
“Morning, Charlie,” Wheeler grinned. “Your assistance last night was the fucking dog’s bollocks. Everybody!”
She put her hands together, inciting the Serious team into applause. Charlie West turned red.
“Thanks. But it ain’t done me no good. Mr Lord’s only been and gone and sacked me. For breaking his bloody wheel.”
“The cunt!” said Wheeler. She looked at Ball, who nodded.
“Never mind him,” said Wheeler, offering Charlie a seat. “We need somebody like you to head things up at the supermarket, take charge of our operations there, keep the PCSOs on a short leash. You’ll have a proper desk in a proper booth, with Wi-Fi and all the resources you need - once you’ve done the relevant training, of course.”
“And the money’s better than your previous position,” added Ball. “What do you say?”
“No pressure,” said Wheeler, “but if you fucking say No, I’ll rip your dick off.”
“In that case,” Charlie grinned back, “I can only say, Fuck yeah!”
“Good man!” said Ball. He encouraged everyone to clap again.
“So, let me see if I understand this,” Stevens stood up, wishing to garner some of the attention Charlie was monopolising, “Somebody made calls to some lads, to get them to cause trouble. Those calls were picked up by the pointy hat of a lunatic who took them to be orders from Satan to kill the people trying to turn a school into an academy?”
“Yes!” cried almost everyone else.
“So, who was calling them then?” Stevens pointed at the evidence bag. “Who was making the fucking calls?”
Wheeler shrugged. “Logan Lawrence claims he doesn’t bloody know. Says the voice was obviously distorted. Money was left in a bin near the boy’s house. They never met.”
“So we don’t fucking know?” said Stevens.
“No, we don’t fucking know,” Wheeler admitted. “Ideas?” She looked around the room. “Any fucking ideas at all?”
Outside a bird sang. In the distance, a lonely car alarm wailed.
Brough smirked. “Beatrice Mooney,” he said.
“Who?” said Wheeler.
“The bucking bronco!” Stevens jeered. “What’s she got to do with it? She was on the victim list.”
“Think about it,” Brough got to his feet and addressed the team like some kind of motivational speaker. “The mystery caller was pulling strings all along. Sending those lads hither and yon. Including the stables where their head teacher ‘just happened’ to be waiting for a rendezvous with a mysterious lover, who doesn’t show up and about whose identity she is keeping tight-lipped.”
“Huh,” said Wheeler. “Keeping tight-lipped is no use to any lover, if you know what I’m saying. All right, go and talk to this fucking fronco woman and get her to prise her lips apart.”
“She’s still here,” said Harry Henry. “Still fuming.”
“Good. Go on then,” she urged Brough, “But, sunshine, you use words like ‘hither and yon’ in my fucking presence again and I’ll break your teeth.”
“Understood,” said Brough. “Come on, Miller.”
“As for the rest of you, let’s go next door. We can watch through the mirror. I know it’s old school but it works and you,” she stabbed a finger at D I Stevens, “Keep your gob shut and your hands where I can see them.”
“Yes, boss.”
The Serious team filed out to eavesdrop on the interview.
***
Beatrice Mooney’s anger had subsided into a mixture of grief and injured pride. She was also deeply annoyed that she had not been allowed to go home and shower. The team behind the mirror was grateful they couldn’t smell the horseshit. Brough and Miller were not so lucky.
“I can’t believe I fell for his lies,” Beatrice Mooney sobbed, plucking a handful of tissues from the box. “He was stringing me along all this time. He was just using me for information. That’s how he found out about the academisation, all the meetings, who was there. He finagled it out of me.”
“The dirty bastard!” laughed Stevens. Wheeler elbowed him just above the belt buckle.
“You know, you meet someone, you think they want you for you but it turns out they ave their own agenda.”
Brough nodded sympathetically.
“Men can be bastards,” Miller interjected. “Some of them.”
“So,” Brough clasped his hands together on the table, then decided this made him too close to Mooney’s manure and sat back again, “Thank you for being so open.”
“That’s what he said,” giggled Stevens. Wheeler stamped on his foot.
“But, there’s one thing we must know. His name.”
Beatrice Mooney sniffed. “I can think of plenty of names for him.”
“His real one will do,” said Miller.
Beatrice Mooney blew her nose, a forlorn foghorn keening in pain. “Morris Madeley,” she said softly.
Behind the mirror the team looked at each other. The name was new to the investigation.
“And where might we find this Morris Madeley,” said Brough.
Beatrice Mooney glanced at her watch. “He’ll be at school,” she shrugged.
“He’s a kid?” gasped Miller.
“The dirty mare!” gasped Stevens. “Mare! Do you get it? Because she had a saddle on!”
He dodged Wheeler’s flailing fist.
“No!” Beatrice Mooney was scandalised. “He’s the head.”
“Head boy?” said Miller.
“Head teacher,” Beatrice Mooney clarified. “Of Hangham High.”
Wheeler signalled to Stevens and Pattimore to go and pick him up.
“My pleasure!” grinned Stevens.
“That can wait until you get home,” said Wheeler.
“Oh, it all makes sense now,” Beatrice Mooney hung her head in sorrow. “He was always on about his school and mine. How mine was always well thought of, because of its history and standing in the town. He must have wanted to stop the investment in my school because that’s what he wanted for his, admittedly, rundown building.”
“So, by hiring kids from your school to cause trouble in their uniforms, the school would get a bad reputation. Investors like Dennis Lord and Paul Barker wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. And they’d invest their money in Hangham High.”
Beatrice Mooney nodded. “That’s what I think too, Inspector.”
“Of course, we’ll know more when we speak to him,” said Brough.
“May I go home now? I must look a fright.”
“Yes,” said Miller. “I mean, you can go home. Can’t she, sir?”
“I should think so,” said Brough. “We’ll be in touch.”
***
“So,” said Miller, handing Brough a cup of coffee; the barista had executed a perfect Q in the foam. “Somebody’s big day.” She pulled out a chair and joined him in the booth.
“Big day for all of us,” said Brough. “The end of another case.” He scowled at the coffee - Miller knew he took it black.
“You know what I mean,” she said, fishing out an envelope from her pocket. “Here.”
“But you’ve already given me a card, Miller. When you picked me up this morning, remember?”
“It’s not from me.”
Brough examined the handwriting. He would recognise it anywhere. It was Pattimore’s.
“Oh!” he said.
“Why didn’t he give it to me himself? Perhaps he feels a bit awkward.”
“Oh, he feels awkward all right.”
“I can imagine,” said Brough. “So,” he put the envelope to one side. “You’re off to the States.”
“Yes! Isn’t it exciting? It’ll be nice to get away.”
“Yes. And, Miller - Mel - I was wrong about Darren. Sorry about that.”
Miller pulled a ‘doesn’t matter’ face.
“Do you know,” Brough went on, “I might take some time off myself.” “You should.”
“I will.”
“So, doing anything special, you know, for your big day?” Miller sipped at her tea.
“Not much,” said Brough. “Dinner with Mum and Dad is on offer, but I might give it a swerve.”
“You should make the most of your parents while you’ve still got them,” Miller admonished.
“All right! I don’t need a third parent, Miller, for fuck’s sake. I’m a grown man of forty.”
Miller finished her tea and got to her feet. “Right, I’m off. Get my hair done, pack my suitcase.”
“Have a great time, Mel. I mean it. I was wrong about Darren.”
Miller smiled. “Thanks for that.” She nodded at the envelope. “Don’t go getting your hopes up, OK?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“I mean it, David. Really. Don’t go getting your hopes up.”
She went.
Brough looked around Queequeg’s as though someone might be watching. He picked up the envelope with Pattimore’s handwriting and gently prised open the flap.
It was a card but not for the celebration of Brough’s birthday.
It was an invitation. To a wedding. The wedding of Jason Pattimore to someone called Martin Davies.
Brough gaped at it. Martin Davies... Who the fuck...
Then he remembered. Jason had mentioned a Martin from his anger management classes.
They’re well suited then, Brough sighed.
“To David Brough, plus one,” said the invitation.
Oh, shit, thought Brough, feeling like the biggest fool in all of Dedley.
Happy birthday to me.
THE END
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