“Um, it’s Gary...”
“Perhaps the first one was a rehearsal. Some joker putting hoove prints on the roove... Got out of hand. Went up in flames. Or perhaps, he wanted the other two to go up and all, except they fizzled out. Leaving these tracks.”
“Hmmm,” Woodcock nodded. He gathered up the photographs and nodded to Stevens that they should leave.
“Oh, and see that Benny fuckface here gets some black coffee inside him. And keep him off the beer. Looks like there’s already enough arson about as it is.”
She laughed.
Woodcock smiled uneasily and bundled Stevens out of the office.
Wheeler sat down, still chuckling. Arson about.
Should have been on the fucking telly.
***
As soon as they had left the Serious Crimes building, Stevens perked up. He tapped the side of his nose and nudged Woodcock’s arm with his elbow.
“What?” Woodcock was puzzled. “You’re suddenly sober all of a sudden.”
“Ah, you see, Gary my lad,” Stevens grinned, evidently pleased with himself. “It pays to let the bigwigs think you’re not quite up to it. Then when you deliver the results, POW! Ker-blam! They can’t believe their eyes. Keeps them guessing, you see. They’re never sure what you’re capable of.”
“Hmm,” said Woodcock. “As an approach to police work, I’m not entirely convinced.”
Stevens scowled.
“’Not entirely convinced’” he repeated in a mocking voice. “Hark at you. Mister Competent, all of a sudden. Ever since you took up with that bird -“
“Piss off,” said Woodcock. He got into the driving seat. “Leave Melanie out of this.”
Chastened, Stevens got in. The boy was touchier than he used to be. That bloody woman’s doing. Softening him up.
Stevens kept quiet all the way to the Jolly Collier, apart from crunching a handful of extra strong mints, mainly to annoy his detective sergeant.
They found the pub caught in a spider’s web of scaffolding. Men in baggy dungarees were swarming on the roof, cleaning or replacing the burned slates.
“Here!” Stevens called up. “Should you be doing that?” He turned to Woodcock. “Should they be doing that? Evidence, that is.”
Woodcock made a face.
“It must have been cleared. Besides, evidence of what exactly?”
He intercepted a workman who was about to drop a half dozen tiles into a skip.
“Forensics should be looking at those,” he reckoned.
The workman huffed.
“Go for your life, mate.”
Woodcock dithered. He decided to abandon the slates; Detective Inspector Stevens was already making his way into the public bar. Woodcock hurried to head him off before any drinks could be ordered.
***
Across town, outside the Council House to be exact, Trevor Nock was pacing the broad stone steps that led up to the main entrance. He chewed at the skin at the base of his thumbnail and looked up at the great arched windows, wishing he could see what was transpiring in the council meeting on the other side of the panes.
The sky was turning greyer by the minute and a breeze was gaining in strength and persistence. Trevor zipped up his anorak and put his hands in the pockets. He kept up his pacing. He supposed he could wait in the bus shelter across the road if it started raining, but he didn’t want to miss Gerry when he came out. Trevor wanted to hear from the horse’s gob himself what the decision was. The telephone was no good. Gerry had taken to missing his calls. Trevor was sure that bitch of a secretary had been trained to say ‘He’s just stepped out’ as soon as Trevor said who was calling. And it was no good giving a false name; she always recognised his voice. No; accosting the councillor was the most efficacious way. Gerry had brought it upon himself, being so elusive. Or did he mean evasive?
While Trevor was pacing up and down, wondering which of the two words he meant, the front doors were pushed open and members of Dedley Council began to pour out, with something of the air of schoolchildren being released for their summer holidays. It had been a long meeting.
Trevor had to dodge and duck in order to keep his eye on the doors. He jumped up, straining to see.
A thought struck him. What if Councillor Dixon had snuck out by a side door? Had he looked out of one of those grand arched windows and spotted Trevor out there?
Trevor began to panic.
Gerry wouldn’t do that, would he?
Surely Gerry would want to spread the news and tell Trevor the decision as soon as possible, if only to get Trevor out of his hair - such as it was?
But no; there he was: Councillor Gerald Dixon, standing in the doorway, gazing up at the sky and wondering if he should fish the collapsible umbrella out of his briefcase.
Trevor approached, taking two steps at a time. The councillor only saw him when it was too late to duck away.
“Ah, Mister Nock. Looks like rain.”
“Well?” Trevor was jumping up and down impatiently.
Gerry Dixon looked into Trevor’s eager eyes. The wrinkles at their edges spread in all directions, as though someone had flattened crane flies across the man’s weather-beaten face.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss council business,” the councillor harrumphed. “You know that.”
“Well, yes; but it’s only me. You can give me a nod. Tip me a wink, can’t you? Is it going ahead or not?”
Gerry Dixon sighed. This pest was not going to let him go without some kind of answer.
“The decision has been postponed; that’s all I will say. Good day to you, Mister Nock.”
He skipped down the stairs - quite a feat for a man of his bulk.
“So it’s not going ahead then?”
Oh, God. The pest was following him!
“Not just yet, no.”
“But it still might?”
“The decision has been postponed, I told you.”
Oh, good. There was Mrs Dixon with the car. The councillor picked up his pace. He was already puffing and panting.
“So, you’ve stalled them; is that what you’m saying? Bought a little time?”
Councillor Dixon glanced around nervously in case anyone was in earshot of this exchange. He fumbled with the handle on the passenger door. That nuisance Nock fellow was right at his shoulder.
“But we paid you to put a stop to it. Put the kibosh on it good and proper, once and for all.”
“Um, good day to you.” Councillor Dixon squeezed himself into the seat, his briefcase on his lap like an old woman’s handbag. He pulled the door shut.
“Hello, love.” Mrs Dixon inclined puckered lips towards his ruddy, sweaty cheek.
“Just fucking drive!” he snapped.
“Well, really!”
“To the hospital,” Councillor Dixon wailed, feeling a shooting pain up his left arm. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
Mrs Dixon whimpered and pulled away, almost into the path of an oncoming bus.
Trevor Nock watched the car go. It wasn’t the result he’d hoped for. Still, a stay of execution, so to speak, was better than those godless idiots giving the go ahead to - to that - that.... Trevor shook himself to dispel the nastiness from his mind.
It looked like his campaign had a little longer to run.
***
D I Stevens was uncomfortable. He felt like a dog in a vet’s waiting room, surrounded by all sorts of animals but unable to stick his nose in any of them. He turned down the landlord’s offer of a fruit juice or a mineral water with the air of a martyr. Being in a pub and being on duty just did not mix.
The landlord, Leonard Dower, was a small man with a body like an international medicine ball smuggler. Stevens wondered how he could get close enough to the
pumps to pull a pint, with that immense sphere of blubber hanging over his belt buckle. He expected the man’s over-worked shirt buttons to come pinging off every time the landlord breathed in. Stevens flinched, a hand ready to protect his eyes, just in case.
Woodcock, by contrast, was keeping his mind on the task at hand. He accepted a still water with a slice of lime, much to Stevens’s disdain, and led the questioning of Leonard Dower with probing efficiency. He gleaned that the Jolly Collier was independent, a ‘free house’ and had been a family run business for generations. Yes, there had been some regulars present when the roof was defaced but no actual witnesses for, as Dower explained with a chuckle, “When I say, which I hardly do, that the drinks am on the house, we all remain indoors.”
Woodcock laughed. It helped to keep one’s witnesses on side, encouraged them to say more. In the corner of his eye he could see Stevens making wanker gestures with his fist.
Woodcock took a list of names, although Dower seemed to know most of his regulars by nickname or what was their usual tipple. This list would be cross-referenced against the roll call of those present at the other boozer at the time of its defacement. Somebody somewhere must have seen someone or something.
“This is all bollocks,” Stevens grumbled as they returned to the car. “This isn’t the kind of thing we should be pissing about with.”
“Not ‘Serious’ enough for you?”
“Too fuckin’ right, it’s not serious. We’re Serious Crime. This is fuckin’ trivial pursuit. Give me a nice juicy murder. Like them at the old folks’s home. That was a proper case.”
“Which Brough and Miller solved,” Woodcock pointed out.
Stevens harrumphed. His opinions of Detective Inspector David Brough were well known.
“Which is why we need a case like that. Show we can do it and all.”
They got in the car. Woodcock nodded to a file on the back seat.
“Have a squint at that little lot. Might make you happier. Turns out that first pub, the um, Duke of Windsor was not unoccupied. There was someone in it. Burned to death, coroner said. Identity a complete mystery. Probably a homeless. Could be a nice crispy murder for you.”
Stevens stretched to pick up the folder. He flicked through it as Woodcock drove them back to base.
This was more like it.
4.
I was taken to Brixton nick. I didn’t see what they did with the van; I imagine they impounded it and confiscated the DVDs - along with whatever else Cleon had stashed inside it. I was kept waiting for hours in a dingy interview room. I made all the right noises, having seen it many times. You can’t keep me here forever. I know my rights. Milk, no sugar. All that kind of thing.
At long last a detective came to question me. He introduced himself as Whiting and the D S to his left as Sprat. It all sounded fishy to me.
“Bit of a mystery man, ain’t you, Mister Tonkinson?” Whiting’s sharp features seemed incapable of expressing emotion. Sprat, on the other hand, looked perpetually on the verge of tears. Allergies, I assumed.
“I’m just me,” I sneered.
“Took quite a bit of searching to get anything on you,” Whiting opened the slim folder on the table.
“You ain’t got nothing on me,” I snapped. “I ain’t never done nothing.”
Perhaps I was overdoing it on the vernacular. I decided to tone it down.
“You’ve been a good boy,” Whiting nodded, “I’ll grant you that. Up until now.”
“I ain’t done nothing!”
“Being found at the wheel of an illegally parked motor that turns out to be crammed with knock-off films ain’t exactly not nothing, is it?”
A brief silence followed as we worked our way through all those tortuous double negatives.
“Not your motor, is it, sunshine?”
I kept shtum.
“Can’t even drive, can you, sunshine?”
I may have pouted a little.
“Not legally, in any case. There’s no record of you ever having a driving license. And yet, there you are, at the wheel of a bloody great van.”
“Van wasn’t exactly moving though, was it? Atishoo.”
“Yes, yes; thank you, Sprat. When I want your contribution, I’ll give it to you.”
“So you can’t actually do him for driving, can you?”
“Thank you, Sprat!”
I sent the D S an amused but grateful smile, but he was too busy blowing his nose to see it.
“The vehicle is registered to one Cleon Brookes. Do you know this gentleman, Mister Tonkinson?”
I said nothing.
“You was sitting in his van...”
“Mister Brookes reported his van stolen, you see.”
Now that did surprise me. I thought he’d just gone for a piss.
“Mister Brookes reported his van stolen at fifteen oh five this afternoon. Said he’d gone out to fetch his dear old mum from the day centre and there it was: gone.”
My surprise must have registered on my face. I took more control of my features. Keep it neutral, I told myself. Don’t give anything away.
It was a set-up! Cleon had reported his own van stolen and then stitched me up good and proper. The swine!
My blood was boiling but I fought to keep a neutral exterior.
Why would he do such a thing?
I thought he liked me!
The interview was interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniform came in without waiting to be invited. He bent forwards and whispered in Whiting’s ear.
Whiting nodded to Sprat and the three of them went out.
Another couple of hours passed. I was bursting for a piss by this point. I kept my mind distracted from my bladder by trying to work out why Cleon had dropped me in the shit. What had I done? And why would he surrender a vanload of merchandise, worth thousands of pounds, to get rid of me? What if I spilled the beans? What if I blew the lid off the entire operation?
Ah, but what beans were there to spill? I only knew about the unit on the industrial estate and my guess was that would have been shut down hours ago. And, of course, nobody likes a grass. I would be putting myself into mortal danger if I uttered a word...
I just couldn’t understand why Cleon had done this.
It made no sense.
And then Whiting and Sprat returned. They apologised for detaining me for so long and for wasting my time. I was free to go. Would I like a lift - in an unmarked car of course?
A little stunned, I declined the offer but I did ask for the Gents. Whiting and Sprat couldn’t have been more apologetic for the discomfort I must have suffered. Sprat escorted me to the toilet but thankfully didn’t go in with me.
As I pissed - is there a better feeling than a long-awaited piss? - I tried to guess what was behind this latest turn of events. A set-up and now an unconditional release.
Someone on high must have intervened. Someone must have said I was not to be detained.
This could only mean my cover was compromised; the more people that knew about it, the more danger I was in and the less likely I was able to do my job.
While I was glad to be let go, I didn’t like the way it had come about. I didn’t like it one bit.
Sprat was in the corridor, waiting for me to emerge. He showed me to the main exit and apologised again. It had been an honest mistake, he said. I just wanted to get away. It would not do to be seen at the police station.
I zipped up my jacket and head down, scurried away. Me and that Cleon would have to have words. Sooner rather than later.
***
Of course, of bloody course, the unit on the industrial estate was empty. It had been cleaned out. There was no sign of recent human presence. Cleon had done a thorough job.
What did this mean? I was out of t
he game? All progress I had made, from Cleon’s best customer to invaluable DVD-pirate, had all been swept away. I was back to square one. Worse than square one because now I was known to ‘them’, whoever the fuck they were.
I wondered aimlessly around the area, gradually working my way back to Brixton. I had a drink in the Lion, nursing it for over an hour, as I watched the door. Cleon didn’t show up. I bought another drink and downed it. Of course he wouldn’t show up.
I went home.
I forced myself to use the communal bathroom, shutting my mind off to its horrors. I went to bed but didn’t sleep.
Perhaps I should try to see my Ealing contact. If my cover was compromised, perhaps I had better come in, mission abandoned.
I decided to give it a couple of days. I would stick to my routine and I would only cross the river when I was expected to. That way at least I’d be sure that my contact would be receptive or at least be anticipating word from me.
But he would know, wouldn’t he? He would know I had been picked up. Wouldn’t he? He would have been the one to pull the plug.
Wouldn’t he?
It is difficult to put a jigsaw puzzle together when you don’t have all the pieces or even the picture on the lid.
***
The days passed. My signing-on time rolled up and off I went to do my fortnightly duty. When I stepped out of the dole hole, feeling skittish as usual, my path was blocked by a familiar figure. His arms were spread wide as if to greet a long lost brother.
Cleon!
I tried to dodge past him, even though I was burning to talk to him, but, you know: appearances.
“Hey, don’t be like that, guy!” Cleon swung around to grab my arm. “It’s good to see you, man. Out and about.”
I gave him a look of withering disdain. He didn’t wither. He carried on grinning and didn’t let me go.
“I got my van back,” he announced proudly. He steered me towards where it was parked - legally, this time.
“Get off me,” I roared. His grip tightened.
“Chill, man. Just chill. I’m very pleased with you. We’re all very pleased with you.”
The Footprints of the Fiend Page 4