The Only Game

by Reginald Hill

‘Hold on,’ said Dog.

  He aimed at a thin section of hedge and ran the police car through it.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Blake as he cracked his head against the roof.

  ‘I told you to hold on,’ said Dog. ‘This’ll do.’

  He left the car hidden from the road behind a clump of trees. They ran to the Popular. Once more Dog got into the driver’s seat. It started first time and he sent it hurtling along the narrow country road at a speed far too high for the conditions.

  Blake flinched away from his window as the branches of a hedge whipped against it.

  ‘I’m sure you have a plan,’ he said. ‘Does death figure large in it?’

  ‘No. That’s in God’s plan,’ said Dog. ‘Mine’s much more short term. To get us out of here. I can drop you off to make your own peace with the authorities if you prefer.’

  The priest sighed and pulled his seat belt tighter.

  ‘I’ll think about it. Look, I’m sorry I went off half cocked back there but I thought …’

  ‘You thought you’d found the boy. Me too. But this Thrale’s too clever for that. He knew the flat had been spotted but instead of running for it, he arranges a switch so that Tench will still imagine he’s got him under surveillance.’

  As he spoke it occurred to Dog again that Thrale must have been very confident that Tench’s immediate strategy was limited to surveillance …

  ‘So where is the boy now?’

  ‘God knows. That’s your department, Father.’

  ‘I’ll keep asking,’ said Blake. ‘Those sirens are getting nearer.’

  ‘We’re getting nearer to them,’ said Dog. ‘That’s the main road ahead.’

  They came up to the junction. A sign post told them they were fifteen miles from Northampton. Dog swung the wheel in that direction. A few moments later they met the first of a line of police cars and ambulances. As they flashed by, he felt a pang of guilt at turning them out on a false alarm on a night like this.

  ‘What now?’ said Blake wearily. The priesthood was fine for long-term optimism, thought Dog cynically, but CID got you more used to short-term disappointments. Then he reminded himself how much purer this man’s motives were than his own and felt guilty.

  He said, ‘If Beck makes it back to England, Mrs Maguire’s his only point of contact. That’s where Tench and Thrale will be waiting for him. The way things stand, Northampton’s the only place to be.’

  ‘You reckon so?’ said the priest. ‘Then so be it. I’m in your hands.’

  ‘I’d stick with the Holy Trinity if I were you, Father,’ said Dog Cicero.

  6

  They didn’t speak at all on the way to Northampton. Dog peered through the windscreen into a mist-shrouded road which seemed a fit emblem of his own future. He found himself examining his recent actions and their motives with that cynicism which is the last boundary before despair. He’d thrown up a career which he’d been ready to junk anyway. He’d set off on a mad quest to rescue a missing child because he’d needed to fill the blank space which lay between him and a featureless horizon. He’d lost the trail with no real hope of picking it up again, and all he was doing now was thrashing around blindly, trying to pretend there was still an immediate objective between him and that emptiness. Not even fantasies of revenge had any power to push back this pressing fog of despair. He imagined having Thrale at his mercy. What would he do? Kill him slowly? Kill him quick? Hand him over to the authorities for judgement?

  Nothing stirred the blood in his veins. He was like a tortoise who has emerged from hibernation only to find it is still winter.

  ‘Isn’t there a bloody heater in this car?’ he demanded, suddenly needing to break the silence.

  Father Blake, who had been plunged into a reverie which seemed as deep and black as his own, said shortly, ‘Yes. It’s on.’

  A mile passed, then Blake said, ‘Look, I’ve been thinking, I need to contact my people and let them know where I am. All this has happened in such a rush that I’ve not had time to put anyone in the picture and they’ll be getting worried about me. So can we stop somewhere with a phone and maybe get a bite to eat and some hot coffee in us while we take a close look at what to do next?’

  ‘I see my turn in charge hasn’t lasted long,’ grunted Dog.

  In fact it suited him very well. He wanted to check at the Clareview Motel to see if Jane Maguire had left any message. There was an outside chance she might even be there in person. If so, she’d have to face Blake, whatever she felt about priests. Anyway, this one had surely worked his passage.

  He postponed the problem, drifted southwards on the ring road till he hit the roundabout where the motel was situated, and pulled in, saying, ‘This should do’.

  Blake climbed out and looked with distaste from the scattered blocks of the motel to the solid bulk of the superstore across the carriageway. He said, ‘What happened to the green and pleasant land?’

  ‘All you’ve got to do is scratch the surface,’ said Dog. ‘With a bulldozer. It’s down there somewhere.’

  They went into the reception area.

  Blake said, ‘I’ll make my call. See you in the diner. Order me something, will you? Better make it fish and chips. I’ve lost track and for all I know it could be Friday.’

  He went towards the line of telephone cubicles.

  Dog waited till the priest was out of sight then moved swiftly to the desk.

  ‘Any message for Cicero?’ he asked.

  There was none.

  ‘Do you have a Ms Maguire registered?’

  The clerk checked, shook her head.

  Unsurprised, but disappointed, Dog headed for the cafeteria. He ordered haddock and chips twice and a pot of coffee from a cheerful waitress in a gingham dress. The coffee came instantly but he was still waiting for the food when Blake joined him. He started to fill another cup but the priest stopped him.

  ‘No time,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but they’re not pleased with me. I stood a couple of people up, taking off like I did, and there’s a lot of ruffled feathers to smooth. I really think I should head on to the school and sit down with a phone for an hour or so to put things right. I doubt if there’s anything more we can do tonight, is there?’

  ‘No,’ said Dog.

  ‘Then I’ll probably stay over at the school. I could beg a bed for you too if you like. The boys have gone now and there’s whole dormfuls of the things!’

  Dog shook his head.

  ‘I’m not that tired,’ he said.

  ‘You’re probably wise,’ laughed Blake. ‘Can I at least drop you somewhere?’

  ‘No. I’ll have something to eat then call a taxi if I decide to move on. Thanks for all your help, Father.’

  The priest reached out his hand. Awkwardly Dog stood up and shook it. Blake laughed and said, ‘You’re a good man, Dog Cicero, don’t let anyone tell you different. But what I wanted was the car keys.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  He handed them over and sat down. The priest made the sign of the cross over him, his lips moving in a silent blessing, then he turned and left.

  Dog felt deserted and desolate. For a man who prided himself on his self-sufficiency it had been surprisingly comforting to have Blake by his side. Now with the priest gone, and Charley Lunn dead, and not the faintest shadow of a lead in sight, he felt totally alone.

  He drank more coffee, rolled a cigarette, lit it, drew in the acrid smoke, closed his eyes.

  And when he opened them, she was there, looking down at him, her expression uncertain and wary, as if the slightest sound would send her flying for cover.

  He sought for something to say, rejected everything that came to mind. Then the waitress arrived with two platefuls of fish and chips which she set on the table with a smile.

  Dog Cicero returned her smile and let it spill over to include Jane Maguire.

  ‘I bet you’re starving,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you join me and eat?’

  7

  They
were both surprised to discover how hungry they were and nothing was said till their plates were empty. Dog ordered more coffee. After it came and the waitress had gone, he said, ‘Have you just arrived?’

  ‘No. I got here about an hour ago. I took a room.’

  ‘Not in your own name. I asked.’

  ‘I called myself Smith,’ she said. He smiled and she said, ‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’

  ‘I thought you must have decided not to come,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know whether I was going to or not. I told myself I was driving north to go to my mother’s. I knew her house would be watched, but I didn’t care. There was nowhere else to go, and anyway I knew I had to talk to her. We’ve never seen eye to eye, and I don’t doubt we’ll be quarrelling again soon after we meet, but she loved … loves Noll too, and it’s not right to leave her not knowing what’s going on.’

  ‘So what made you divert here?’

  They were talking politely, only cautiously edging near the doubts and suspicions and accusations which lay between them.

  She said, ‘I heard on the car radio about an explosion … it said an officer from Romchurch police had been killed, another injured. It said they thought there was an IRA connection …’

  Suddenly she seemed to take in his appearance for the first time, the bruises and scratches on his face and hands.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it? That’s where you went when you left me? I need to know what happened, I’ve got to know what it means.’

  Her voice began to lilt upwards.

  He said, ‘Can we go up to your room?’

  ‘What for?’ she demanded suspiciously.

  ‘So you can shout at me without an audience, that’s all.’

  He only meant he didn’t want to attract attention from other tables, but her reaction was disproportionately fearful.

  She said in a low voice, ‘Oh God, you don’t think … if he sees me talking to you, God knows what …’

  No need to ask who he was.

  He said reassuringly, ‘I’m sure we’re OK here, but just to be on the safe side. What’s your number?’

  ‘Two one two.’

  ‘OK. I’ll catch you.’

  She rose and left. He paid the waitress then followed.

  The door of 212 was ajar. He went in. It was a decent-sized room with two single beds but only one chair on which she was sitting, very stiff, like a nervous interviewee. He sat on the end of the bed.

  He said, ‘OK. Here’s what happened.’

  He told her the story plainly, factually, without attempting to explain or interpret his own or anyone else’s motives. She listened intensely, her eyes never leaving his face. He finished by saying, ‘As far as Noll is concerned, nothing has changed. They’ve still got him, but he’s just as safe as he was before.’

  It was a feeble and ambiguous reassurance, but as much as he dared offer.

  She said incredulously, ‘So Special Branch knew where he was?’

  ‘They thought they knew,’ Dog corrected. ‘There’d been a switch either en route for the quarry, or more likely as soon as they arrived there.’

  ‘But they knew before that? They knew they were in that flat? And they did nothing?’

  Her voice was on the rise again and he knew he’d been wise to talk up here.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The explosion didn’t come, not yet.

  ‘But why?’ she said helplessly. ‘Why? How could they sit there knowing a little boy was …’

  He tried to sidestep the truth because it would seem monstrous beyond belief, because he could not bring himself to say that to Toby Tench, the kudos of catching Beck rated immeasurably higher than her son’s safety, her son’s life even.

  Instead he said, ‘They’d be waiting their moment, waiting for a chance to move in with minimum risk to Noll.’

  ‘Liar!’ she said with instant scepticism. ‘If that was true, you wouldn’t have done what you did, you and that meddling priest!’

  He said, ‘Father Blake was just doing the same as me, trying to save Noll.’

  ‘Is that so? You, you were there! You actually saw him in that flat and you did nothing, spotted nothing. She talked you out of it! What sort of policeman are you for God’s sake?’

  Her scorn was almost tangible. He felt himself beaten down by it.

  He said defensively, ‘I didn’t believe you, that’s the truth of it. What had you done to make me believe you? I was expecting to find nothing to support your story …’

  ‘So it’s my fault, is that it? Not yours, not the great Inspector Cicero’s!’

  ‘No!’ he snarled. He was wearier than he’d realized and he felt his own self-control close to snapping. He breathed deep and took a grip. ‘No, it’s my fault. I should have worked it out, I should have been sharper. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ she screamed, rising. ‘Is that all you can say? What’s the use of that when if you’d done your job, Noll could have been safe at home now?’

  ‘If I’d done my job, Charley Lunn could have been safe at home too,’ he said bitterly. Suddenly the flow of compassion was cut off. He wanted to remind this woman there was pain in the world beyond hers.

  ‘You stupid, insensitive bitch! Your son’s still alive and well and may yet come home safe and sound,’ he snarled. ‘You think you hurt! There’s a woman and two kids in Romchurch who could tell you what pain really is. He was my friend. He was, God help me, my only friend. So stop pouring guilt and blame on me. Believe me, lady, it’s superfluous to requirements!’

  The passion of his outburst drove her back onto her chair. They sat facing each other with gazes locked, two pale, weary, frightened people seeking strength in anger.

  Finally he rubbed his hand down the frozen side of his face and said quietly, ‘What’s done is done. You’ve got to take what help you can get. From me, from Father Blake, from anyone. Even from Toby Tench. OK, he puts capturing Beck before rescuing your son, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get Noll out if he can.’

  ‘And you?’ she said with equal quietness. ‘What do you put first? When I was waiting in your flat, I found some computer print-outs. I had plenty of time to read them, waiting for you to come back. You must hate Thrale.’

  ‘Must I? I suppose so. I haven’t had time to think about it,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t leave Noll in that flat because I wanted to wait till Thrale was in the net too, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head, tried a smile, and said, ‘I may be a hysterical, obsessive woman, and Jesus! I’ve got cause to be! But my mind still works. I know you didn’t. I just wanted to know, if it came to the point, which would come first – killing the man who ruined your life? Or rescuing the child of a woman you don’t much care for?’

  ‘What gives you that idea?’ he asked.

  ‘I may be a stupid, insensitive bitch, but I can still taste vinegar,’ she said. ‘Do I remind you of her, the one who died, is that it? Trouble with an Irish accent? Trusted like the fox?’

  She was far from stupid, very far from insensitive. He pretended to misunderstand, saying, ‘She had red hair too, yes.’

  ‘Did she? So it’s outside as well as inside that bothers you?’

  ‘Only as much as me being a Brit soldier bothers you. What was it you said? “Bombers and soldiers alike, they’re all scum!” Something like that.’

  ‘You stopped being a soldier,’ she said.

  ‘You stopped being an IRA woman,’ he said.

  He stood up, felt himself stagger slightly.

  ‘Jane,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to be done tonight. I reckon we’re both out of insults. So can we finish this talk in the morning? I’m done in.’

  ‘What’ll you do?’ she asked.

  ‘Go downstairs and book myself a bed.’

  ‘You don’t look like you’ll make it,’ she said. ‘Why bother when there’s a spare one here?’

  She spoke in a matter-of-fa
ct tone with no overlay of sexual invitation.

  He echoed her tone. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘As long as you don’t snore. Or smoke.’

  ‘Snoring I can’t guarantee. Smoking I can.’

  It seemed to make perfect sense. He went into the bathroom, stripped down to his underpants, washed, looked at his face in the mirror and for a brief moment saw in his eyes that this was perhaps not the wisest thing he’d ever done. But he’d waved goodbye to wisdom much earlier that day and he was too tired to renew acquaintance now.

  He went back into the bedroom, slipped into the nearer bed, said ‘Goodnight’ without looking at her, and fell asleep as he closed his eyes.

  Jane looked down at him as he slept. Why had she suggested he stayed? She made no attempt to persuade herself it was a logical or even commonsense decision. A woman who believes that inviting a strange man to sleep in her room is logical needs her head examined. So, was she attracted to him? He twisted in the bed, pushing down the duvet, and she saw again the old burn marks on his chest which she’d noticed as he came out of the bathroom. Scarred without and scarred within. Perhaps that was the attraction, the visible flaws to set against Oliver Beck’s deceiving flawlessness. Or perhaps it was simply the attraction of availability, of proximity. That deep sensuality which Oliver Beck had awoken hadn’t left her with his pretended death. In the months since, she had often lain in bed and yearned for love but had never come close to giving way to the yearning. She had steered clear of men and had foreseen no difficulty in continuing this nun-like regime into the most distant future. What had happened last night with the revolting Billy she did not count at all. Her mind had closed time over it like a skin. It might fester and throb beneath and break out in remembered pain at some later date, but for now it hadn’t happened. All she knew at this moment was that her body had not known the comfort and the pleasure of a man since the eve of Oliver’s death.

  So if Cicero woke in the night and came across to her bed, what would she do? Time enough to decide when it happened, she told herself. She undressed and climbed into bed, put off the light and fell asleep almost as quickly as the man.