Autographs in the Rain

by Quintin Jardine

  you have our best interests at heart . . . but you still led me on with that

  remark back there about stress in the Command corridor. Come on; I'm no

  security risk. Has Big Bob got another crisis on?'

  'No,' she answered quietly. 'In both the operational and domestic senses,

  DCC Skinner is going along relatively quietly at the moment, thanks. But

  remember. I don't just work for him.'

  Sammy Pye's eyebrows rose, as he grasped her meaning. 'Ah, Mr

  Theodore Chase, our new ACC Ops. Is he stirring things up, then?'

  She looked at him. 'Not a word outside this car, mind you, but is he ever.

  "Come back ACC Elder," that's the word around my office.'

  'Why did Jim Elder go in the first place? It was a real shock when he

  chucked it.'

  'I have no idea. He just walked into my room one Monday morning a

  few months back and told me that he was leaving at the end of that week.

  No reason, no nothing.'

  'Didn't Bob Skinner let anything slip?'

  'Not a whisper. And if he wants me to know something he always tells

  me, so I know better than to ask.'

  She sighed. 'Whatever happened, now we've got the new guy! God,

  he's Supercop, if ever there was such a creature. You know the first thing

  he did?' Fired up, she answered her own question. 'He appointed Jack

  Good as his exec., without consulting anyone.'

  Pye gasped in surprise. 'Eh? He just did it? He pulled him out of his

  other job just like that?'

  'That's right. Jim Elder never had an exec., but that didn't bother Ted

  Chase. He'd been through the door for no more than a fortnight before he

  had one. The worst thing of all was that he did it while the Chief was on

  holiday. Mr Skinner came in one morning and found Jack Good in Neil

  Mcllhenney's office. When he asked him what he was doing there and

  Good told him, he went straight to the ACC's room. I was there at the time;

  Mr Skinner asked him what it was all about nd Mr Chase as good as told

  him it was none of his business.

  'For a moment the DCC looked as if he was about to explode, but he just

  turned and walked out. Next day he had Good moved out of Neil's office

  into a room of his own ... Neil can't stand Jack Good ... but it was on the

  floor below, and Mr Chase complained to the Chief when he came back. So

  a CID man was moved out to make room for him.'

  Pye frowned. 'Remind me. Where.did Chase come from?'

  'He was an Assistant Chief in Cumbria. The job was advertised

  throughout Britain and he applied. Between you and me, I was surprised

  that Mr Martin didn't go for it.'

  'I wasn't, but never mind. Jesus, does this guy have any idea who he's

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  taking on, falling out with Bob Skinner?'

  Ruth shrugged. 'If he does, he doesn't care. You're not going to believe

  what the latest is. Chase has written a paper for the police board; no one

  asked him to do it, he just did. In it, he argues that the executive structure of

  the force is wrong, and that given the nature of the Chief Constable's duties,

  his designated deputy from among the officers within the command ranks

  should be someone with extensive experience across the board.'

  'Meaning him?'

  'You guessed it. He also pointed out that he's been twice as long in the

  Chief Officer rank as Mr Skinner has.'

  'He's after Big Bob's job?'

  'Correct. But I think that ultimately, he's after the Chief's.'

  'The man's mad, then. Mind you, who's going to take any notice of

  him?'

  'The Joint Police Board might, for a start. The DCC has his enemies on

  that body; more than that, he thinks that Mr Chase has a direct route to

  them. He's found out that he has a cousin back in Cumbria who's a Labour

  MP at Westminster.'

  'What's the Chief saying about it?'

  Ruth pursed her lips and glanced at him. 'Nothing,' she said. 'He's playing

  it by the book; when Mr Chase wrote his paper, he sent it to him formally,

  with a covering memo asking him to put it to the Board. The Chief replied

  on paper, asking whether he was sure he wanted to do that. Mr Chase replied

  and said that he was.

  'A couple of days later, the three of them ... the Chief, Mr Skinner and

  Mr Chase ... discussed it in private. Afterwards the Boss told me that the

  Chief thanked Chase and said that he would consider at some length whether

  it should go to the Board. It's on the shelf for the moment, as far as I can

  gather.'

  'Has the Big Man said anything to you?'

  'Only that if Chase thinks he's taking orders from him he's crazy.' She

  grinned. 'That wasn't quite what he said; I've left out the adjectives.'

  Sammy whistled and restarted the car. 'I see what you meant about stress

  levels in your corridor. ACC Chase is either very brave, or very stupid.'

  'Neither,' Ruth replied at once. 'He's simply ambitious. Possibly the

  most ambitious man I've ever met; he wants to be a Chief in a major force

  and to collect the automatic knighthood that goes with it. It's written all

  over him. As for his wife ...'

  QShe stopped in mid-sentence, slamming a metaphorical door on the

  subject. 'Come on, let's get under way again. I want to get to Uncle John's

  before dark.'

  She smiled at him again, then reached out and ruffled his sandy hair.

  This is moving our relationship forward, you know. Quite significantly at

  that. If I take someone to meet my favourite uncle it's a sort of sign ... if

  only you could read it.'

  'Bugger!' Neil swore quietly as the telephone rang; Lauren, his daughter,

  looked at him severely.

  'Dad!'

  'Come on, kid,' he appealed, 'right in the middle of the football results.'

  'That's no excuse,' the eleven-year-old retorted. 'Do you want Spence

  to use language like that? Or me, even?'

  'What are you talking about? You do already.' Still in his armchair, he

  leaned across and picked up the phone. 'Hello,' he answered.

  'DI Mcllhenney?' a Cockney voice enquired.

  'That's me.'

  'Hello mate. This is DC Crowther, from the Met. West End Central

  Division, Savile Row. I was tryin' to phone your boss, but his mobile

  number's unavailable. He left yours as backup.'

  'Is that right, Constable?' the Scots detective replied, his hackles risen

  instantly. 'Then tell me something. If he'd answered his hand-phone, would

  you have called him "mate" as well?' He paused. 'Not that I'm rank

  conscious, mind.'

  He heard a distinct gulp. 'Sorry, Inspector; it's just that I'm not used to

  dealing with Scotsmen.'

  'Don't compound it, Constable. Now, what's this about? I haven't seen

  DCC Skinner since he left for London on Wednesday.'

  Mcllhenney thought he heard a faint chuckle at the other end of the line.

  'Yeah, he's been busy down 'ere.

  'Your guvnor called in a drive-by shooting last night from Oxford Circus;

  round about eleven. He said that a lone guy took a pop at him with a shotgun

  from a dark coloured Ford Mondeo. I'm just calling to tell him that we

  haven't had a sniff of a result so far. Not a bleeding thing.'

  DC Crowther coughed. 'The thing is, sir,
copper to copper, my guvnor's

  pissed off at your guvnor. Soon as his call came in last night we put a right

  shitload of effort into it; we alerted all our patrol cars. They pulled over

  everything within a three mile radius that even looked like a Mondeo. While

  they were doing that we had an armed robbery in a burger place in Oxford

  Street, a rape behind a pub in Great Titchfield Street, and a stabbing in

  Soho. As a result of your man's call we were late responding to every one

  of 'em, so we didn't feel a single collar.

  'Tough, you'll say, but then we took a look at the scene of Mr Skinner's

  so-called drive-by, and guess what? It was as clean as a whistle. Someone

  takes a shot at you with a twelve-bore, even if 'e misses, you'd expect to

  find traces of it all around.'

  Crowther sighed. 'Nothing. No damage to any shop windows, or to the

  news-stand your guvnor said he dived behind, and no lead shot lying around

  either, none at all. There were no witnesses either, not a bleedin' one.'

  The Cockney seemed to hesitate for a second. Tell me something,

  Inspector. I've heard about your man . . . who 'asn't? Is he the nervous

  type?'

  'Not in the very slightest,' Mcllhenney answered.

  'Well, my divisional commander reckons that he is. He was in here this

  afternoon, effin' and blindin' about wasting police time. He reckons your

  man's shell-shocked, or paranoid, or worse. He's threatening to send a formal

  report to your chief and recommend that your man be made to have psych

  tests.'

  'Is that right?' the inspector barked. 'Just you tell him, from me if you

  like, that he should wind his bloody neck in. If you don't fancy passing that

  on, have your DI do it, but get your guy calmed down somehow or ...

  Commander or not... God help him. If Big Bob said there was a shot fired,

  then there was a shot fired, end of story. If he'd been carrying himself

  you'd have had fucking evidence all right, with a bullet in it!'

  He waved an apology at Lauren, as she frowned at him.

  'You get that report squashed, Constable. You do not know with whom

  you are dealing, and I mean that.'

  Til do my best, sir,' said Crowther.

  Mcllhenney was unconvinced. 'Do that. By the way, what team do you

  support?'

  'Eh? Spurs, as it 'appens.'

  'That's good . . . they got stuffed four-nil.'

  10

  'How long has your uncle lived here?' Sammy asked, as he drew up

  alongside the neat bungalow, the last house in a leafy cul-de-sac.

  'He and Aunt Cecily came to Cumbernauld from Glasgow when they

  started to build the new town in the late fifties. They lived in a flat in an area

  called Kildrum at first, then moved here, closer to the town centre. They

  bought it from the Development Corporation about fifteen years ago, just

  after it was refurbished. They got it for a song too, as sitting tenants.'

  'Your aunt's no longer around, I take it?'

  'No,' said Ruth. 'She died of a heart attack in 1986, a year after Uncle

  John retired. He's been alone since then.'

  'He'll be a fair age then?'

  'He's just turned eighty. But he's very fit; he's been a member of Dullatur

  Golf Club just about all his life. He plays just about every day, hail, rain or

  shine. It's walking distance from the house.'

  'What did he do for a living?'

  'Something on the railways: in the office at the top of Buchanan Street,

  in Glasgow. He retired on a good pension, so he's quite well off, especially

  now that Auntie isn't here to help him spend his money.'

  Sammy grinned. 'Are you looking out for your inheritance, then?'

  She bridled at his joke. 'No, I am not! I may be the only blood relation

  he's got left, but he could be leaving his money to the cat and dog home for

  all I know ... or care. We're here today because I'm guilty, that's all. I

  haven't seen him since his last birthday, in June, and that's not good enough.

  He's an old man, he hardly drives any more, and apart from his golfing pals

  he's all alone.'

  'Come on, love. He must have neighbours who look in on him, or a

  home help, or someone.'

  'No, not him. He's a very private man. Always has been.'

  He opened the car door. 'Let's bring some company into his life then.'

  She smiled as she stepped out, and led him up the garden path. Glancing

  around, Sammy noticed that the rose bushes in front of the house had gone

  to briar and that the beds in which they were planted were overdue for

  weeding. 'Old Uncle John's no gardener, from the look of it,' he muttered

  under his breath.

  Although the short winter evening was almost over, no lights showed at

  the front door of the house, as Ruth pressed the doorbell. They waited, for

  almost a minute; eventually, Sammy patted her on the shoulder. 'You did

  call to tell him we were coming, didn't you?' he asked.

  She looked up at him awkwardly. 'Well, no, I didn't. I wanted to give

  him a surprise.'

  'Great! In that case, the old boy's probably still at the golf club.'

  'No. He always listens to a football match on the radio on a Saturday

  afternoon.'

  'Ring the bell again, in that case. He's probably got the sound turned

  up.'

  'Sammy, he's not in.' She stepped across to the uncurtained living

  room window and peered in. 'I can see his hi-fi set and it isn't switched

  on.'

  'Maybe he's got another radio in the kitchen. Let's take a look round the

  back.'

  As she looked at him, the first pang of fear shot through her. 'Okay,' she

  murmured, following him as he set off down the path which ran around the

  house. The small back garden lay to the east; the dusk, and the tall conifers

  which enclosed it on three sides, made it even gloomier than the front.

  There was no light in any of the three windows to the rear, the kitchen, the

  second bedroom or the frosted pane of the bathroom.

  'Does your uncle see all right?' Pye asked. 'I mean would he normally

  have the light on at this time of day?'

  'Uncle John's always reading something or other. He wears glasses now,

  but his sight's always been fine. Sammy, let's go up to the golf club; the old

  so-and-so's probably there, right enough.'

  He held up a hand. 'In a minute. First of all . . .' He reached out and

  turned the handle of the back door; it swung open, into the kitchen.

  'God,' Ruth snapped. 'He's gone out and left the place unlocked!' She

  stepped past him into the kitchen, and gasped. Looking over her shoulder,

  Sammy could see even in the dim light that the place was in chaos; worse,

  it stank of staleness. Dirty plates filled the sink and were strewn on the

  work-surface beside the cooker. A badly soiled tea-towel lay in the middle

  12

  AUTOGRAPHS IN THE RAIN

  of the floor. A milk carton sat on the small table, surrounded by discarded

  food wrappers.

  'What the hell's the old bugger living like?' she murmured. 'He's always

  struck me as such a neat man, yet this is pure squalor. If this is what happens

  when I don't warn him of a visit, I'll be here every Saturday from now on.'

  She screwed up her face. 'Jesus, the place st
inks!

  'Uncle John!' she called out, listening for a few seconds before turning

  towards the back door. 'Come on. Let's go up there and find him.'

  The young detective handed her the car keys. 'On you go. I'll make this

  place secure; the front door has a Yale so I'll come out that way.' She

  bought the lie and did as he told her, although to be sure he turned the back

  door key in its lock as soon as she had left.

  The smell became more obvious as soon as he stepped out of the kitchen;

  it was thick, and cloying. He had done this job before, but nonetheless he

  was a shade fearful as he moved up the hall and opened the front bedroom

  door. Crumpled clothes were strewn all around, and the bed itself was

  unmade, its sheets so soiled and tangled that they might have won a place

  in a modern art exhibition. But the room was empty.

  He had seen on the way past, through its open door, that the second

  bedroom had been untouched for weeks, either by duster or vacuum cleaner;

  so that left only the bathroom. Hesitantly, he opened the door. As he did so,

  the smell, strong before, seemed to wash out and over him like an ocean