The Only Game

by Reginald Hill

  They had exchanged few words. When she came into the room, her mother had looked up and said, ‘Any news?’ And Jane had said, ‘None.’ And the brief flicker of animation had left the older woman’s face.

  She reached forward and took the unresisting hands in hers. They felt skeletal and cold.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she urged. ‘Really it is. Noll’s alive. He’s going to stay alive. We’ll get him back. I know we will.’

  The eyes met hers, in them an intensity of longing to be convinced which almost made her drop her gaze, but she kept it steady as her mind desperately sought for some authenticating gesture.

  She said, ‘And when he comes home, we’d better have his room ready. You sit here and rest, Mam, I’ll see to it.’

  She pulled her hands free and stood up.

  As she reached the door she hesitated, thinking wretchedly that her pathetic effort at stimulation wasn’t going to work.

  ‘Shall I use the blue sheets?’ she said.

  And at last her mother spoke, in a voice as frail as her looks.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said, you can’t use blue sheets with that wallpaper,’ said Mrs Maguire. ‘You never had any sense of colour, did you now? Green’s what you want. The green sheets with the pink flower on the pillowcases.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Where would they be kept?’

  ‘Do you not know anything?’ The voice was almost back at normal strength. ‘I’d better see to it myself. If you want something done properly, do it yourself, that’s what they always say.’

  She got to her feet. There was something over-deliberate in her movement just as there was something slightly stagey in her speech, as though to mark her awareness that this was a charade. No, Jane corrected herself. Not charade, but ritual, like those religious ceremonies performed as acts of faith even though the faith they witness is close to annihilation.

  Jane stood aside to let her pass. It is love of my son that has brought her to this, she thought, and, for the first time in more years than she could recall, felt a gush of pure affection for her mother.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ ordered Mrs Maguire. ‘Make us a pot of tea. That useless item through there shows it a single tea bag and that’s it.’

  The ‘useless item’ was the Special Branch officer who’d let Jane in. She could hear him talking into his radio in the next room. Presumably her arrival was now fully recorded. As she put the kettle on the gas stove, he came into the kitchen.

  ‘Good to see you’ve got the old lady up and moving,’ he said. ‘I was starting to get a bit worried.’

  ‘Not worried enough to have a nurse in? Or get her into hospital?’ she flashed.

  ‘Hang about. She’s had the doctor looking at her and he wanted her to have a nurse, but she told him to push off,’ he protested.

  So she’d still had enough strength left to refuse to let herself be ordered about. This, with the noise of her feet above as she moved about making Noll’s bed, brought fresh reassurance. Jane felt almost lighthearted as she made the tea. Perhaps everything really was going to be OK. Perhaps even as she stood here watching for the kettle to boil, Dog Cicero was hot on the trail of the gang who’d taken Noll.

  Dog Cicero. Why should she place such reliance on him?

  Forget last night. Forget bodies meeting and mingling. Forget promises half made. The answer was simple. There was no one else.

  If Noll was going to be returned to her safe and sound – and she had to believe that or else collapse into a state which would make her mother’s condition seem like rude health – then she had to place her faith in Dog Cicero. To use his own idiom, he was the only game in town.

  The kettle was boiling. She poured the steaming water into the tea pot and wondered what he was doing now.

  2

  ‘Not another one,’ said the landlord of the Snooty Fox. ‘I’ve got work to do as well!’

  Dog put away his warrant card.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Just need to recheck a couple of details. This youth who left with Mrs Ellings, did he seem to know anyone else in the bar?’

  ‘How should I know? We were packed to the ceiling last night. I only noticed him at all ’cos I came up from the cellar as they were going out into the car park.’

  ‘But you remember him ordering Guinness?’

  ‘I think it was the same geezer, yes, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’

  What the hell am I doing here? thought Dog. Answer: backing a hunch. Only fools and Texans back hunches, Uncle Endo had said. But there’s a lot of rich Texans, so if a hunch is all you’ve got, back it.

  ‘This Mrs Ellings, you know her well?’

  ‘Only as a punter. She was in a lot.’

  ‘Liked a drink, did she?’

  ‘Drink and a bit of company. But like I told your mates earlier, she wasn’t on the game. I don’t allow any of that in my boozer.’

  ‘Very moral of you,’ observed Dog. ‘Did she always go for the young stuff?’

  ‘Not particularly. And she didn’t always take ’em home.’

  ‘She took this one home. How would she do that, by the way? You said they were going out into the car park. Did she have a car?’

  ‘Yeah. Banged-up old Maxi. Some of the lads had to give it a push start a couple of times.’

  ‘I see. It was this door they left by?’

  Dog went out into the car park, followed by the landlord. He looked around. It was empty. Litter blew aimlessly around at the whim of a cold gusting wind which was plastering sheets of newspaper against a wire-net fence.

  ‘Was the car park empty when you locked up last night?’ asked Dog.

  ‘Yeah. Not a dicky bird. Except that.’

  ‘What?’

  The landlord seemed to be pointing at a recess in which stood three large wheelie-bins.

  ‘That heap of junk.’

  Against the wall behind the bins, looking like a collapsed marathon runner, leaned an ancient bicycle. Dog went to it and took hold of the handlebars. The metal was rusty, the tyres half deflated and the seat a threat to manhood, but when he tried the pedals, the rear wheel turned with only a mildly protesting squeal.

  ‘You didn’t think it odd for someone to come on a bike and just abandon it?’

  ‘What?’ The man laughed. ‘Oh, I’m with you. But you don’t think anyone actually rode that thing here, do you? Just look at the state of it. No lights, no brakes either I bet, and it must weigh a ton. No, it’s just been dumped. Happens all the time. People bring sackfuls of rubbish in their boots, dump them against the fence, have a pint or two, then drive off and leave their crap for me to clear up next morning. We’re a disgusting lot when you look close at us.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Dog. ‘But I’ll take it just in case.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘Is there another pub in the village? Somewhere a little … older?’

  He looked neutrally at the hectic red brick and leaded-light-effect windows of the Snooty Fox.

  ‘There’s the Compasses in the High Street if it’s spit and sawdust you’re after. Down the hill, turn left.’

  ‘That’ll do me nicely,’ said Dog Cicero. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  He wheeled the old bike out of the car park. Glancing back to make sure the landlord had gone inside, he threw his leg over the cross bar, gingerly sank onto the seat and began to pedal.

  He soon discovered the landlord was right in every particular. The descent into the old centre of the village confirmed that the brakes didn’t work and once the perilous velocity had been absorbed by the slight uphill slope of the High Street, the man’s estimate that it weighed a ton didn’t seem exaggerated.

  The Compasses was as far removed from the Snooty Fox as the bike from a GTi. He ducked his head under a low lintel and wheeled the machine into a narrow stone-flagged passage which led into a broad, shadowy room. There was no bar, only a singl
e huge table which must surely have been built inside these walls for there was no way it could have been introduced along that narrow passage or through either of the two small windows. At the table sat three old men on three old chairs with which they looked to have a common ancestry. In front of them were three half-filled pint glasses.

  Dog leaned the cycle up against the wall, nodded at the drinkers and sat down. Nothing was said. After a while footsteps were heard along the corridor and a fat man in shirtsleeves filled the entrance.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll have a pint of best,’ said Dog. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen would care to join me?’

  The glasses were raised and emptied in a unison which would have won points for a team of synchronized swimmers. The landlord swept them up in one huge hand and vanished, appearing a minute or so later with a loaded tray.

  ‘Good health,’ said Dog.

  ‘Good health,’ said the trio.

  Silence returned. Dog knew about silences and recognized the curiosity behind this one. But he knew also that any sign of a respondent curiosity on his part could raise impenetrable barriers. He emptied his glass, rose and said, ‘I’ll be off. Cheers.’

  As he reached the entrance to the passageway one of the trio said, ‘Hey’.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  Three heads nodded towards the bike.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Dog. ‘It was lying on the ground outside. I brought it in, in case it got stolen or damaged. Thought it must belong to one of you.’

  They examined the heap of rusting metal which this foreigner had been at such pains to preserve.

  ‘Not ours,’ they pronounced.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dog. ‘Well, as you don’t know whose it is, I’d better put it back.’

  He took hold of the handlebars and made to wheel the machine out. At the last moment the provocation of imputed ignorance worked.

  ‘That’s old Edgar Blackett’s bike,’ said one of them and the others nodded accord.

  ‘Oh. Then perhaps I’d better return it to him,’ said Dog.

  They laughed as at a Wildean shaft.

  ‘It’ll be a downhill ride for sure,’ said their spokesman. ‘Old Edgar’s been dead these three years.’

  ‘That’s a real mystery then,’ said Dog. ‘I’d better leave it with the village bobby. He’ll be able to sort it out.’

  The threat of losing their status as local experts finally got him what he wanted.

  ‘Shouldn’t bother with him today. He’ll be up to his eyes with this murder out on the new estate. Off-comers. Nothing but trouble.’

  ‘Oh yes. So who can help me get the bike back where it came from?’

  ‘Must have come from Edgar’s cottage, I reckon. Grazey Lane Cottage off the Framley road. Went to his daughter but she don’t use it much, living down in London with her fancy man, so she lets it off.’

  ‘And it’s let now, is it? Funny time of year for a holiday.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, mister,’ said the spokesman defensively. ‘Some folk likes a country Christmas. Log fires and all. Mind you, they’ll end up well kippered, the way old Edgar’s chimney always smoked!’

  Dog left on the wave of laughter, wheeling the bike out with him. At the village post office he purchased the OS 1:25000 sheet for the area and found Grazey Lane Cottage marked. As its name suggested, it was situated at the bottom of a green track off an unclassified road.

  He reminded himself this was all still speculation. But when the antes have eaten up your pile, you’ve got to go with whatever you’ve got.

  There was a phone box outside the post office. He hesitated by it. Did he really have anything to tell Jane Maguire? Not yet, but if he did get a line on the boy, it could be useful to have her close at hand. Young Noll was clearly very much at home with Bridie Heighway. He would come running at his mother’s call, but was more likely to turn to his captor if a stiff-faced stranger did the calling. But suppose he’d got it all wrong and Grazey Lane Cottage proved a dead end? Even then, he argued, it might be that Jane herself had picked up something useful and was even now fretting that their agreed line of communication was one way only.

  It was only after he had entered the box and dialled that Dog admitted another, and perhaps the most powerful, reason. He wanted to see her again.

  ‘Hello.’

  It was her voice. Hearing it confirmed his need.

  ‘Is that Mrs Maguire?’ he asked in a gruff brogue.

  ‘No. This is her daughter. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘This is Father Kylie from the school. Is Father Blake there, please?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not.’

  ‘Now that’s a nuisance. Look, if he turns up could you ask him to get in touch? But he’ll need to contact me before two o’clock as I won’t be in after that. Many thanks.’

  He put the phone down. Would it fool the listeners? Possibly. Would Jane be able to slip the watchers? She’d managed it twice already so there was a fair chance. Except of course that Tench’s men would be on their mettle to make sure third time wasn’t lucky.

  He mounted the bike and began to cycle out of the village.

  3

  Two hours earlier Jonty Thrale had been in the same phone box.

  At ten o’clock precisely he had dialled. The phone at the other end had been picked up immediately.

  ‘What’s new?’ he said.

  ‘Maguire’s at her mother’s.’

  ‘Any sign she’s made contact with Beck?’

  ‘Not unless she’s a better actress than Bridie Heighway. My guess is Beck’s still sunning himself on some tropical beach. Maybe he hasn’t even seen an English paper yet.’

  ‘You could be right. Fill me in on the rumpus at the quarry.’

  ‘Tench is raging about that. He’d like to make out he knew all the time and he was just playing along to fool you, but you really had him going. Me too. That was a good trick, the switch. You got ’em somewhere safe now, I hope?’

  ‘Safe enough. But I’d rather you lot were still watching the quarry. What sparked it off?’

  ‘That frozen-faced cop from Romchurch. Christ knows what he’s playing at, but I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes when Tench catches him. He’d accessed the computer and must have spotted the surveillance team.’

  ‘And you let him run loose?’

  ‘He slipped us. We reckon that priest, Blake, helped him.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  ‘God knows, but we’ll get ’em. Listen, about my retainer. Christmas coming up and all, how about a big drink on the house? It’s a risky game I’m playing …’

  ‘Me too. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Thrale put the phone down. It was good that Special Branch still thought Beck was out of the country. If that’s what they did think. Tench was a tricky bastard, capable of conning his closest colleagues. Certainly he was capable of spotting a leak from his own team and instead of plugging it, feeding the leaker disinformation.

  Or using him to set his contacts up.

  He stepped out of the box. There were two policemen standing by his car.

  His hand slipped into the broad pocket of his car coat, but only for a second. If this was a set-up, then the two uniformed constables were a mere diversion. There’d be hard-eyed men with high-powered weapons lurking close, ready to blow him away at the slightest sign of menacing movement. But since Gibraltar, they no longer had quite the same freedom of interpretation, so with people on the street and his hands in clear view, he should be safe.

  He walked towards the car.

  ‘This your vehicle, sir?’ asked the older constable courteously.

  ‘That’s right. It’s OK parking here, isn’t it?’ he said, making a play of looking for yellow lines.

  ‘Yes sir, that’s fine. Were you around the village last night? Or early this morning?’

  His mind raced. If this was Tench’s game, the
re was no way out, not for the moment anyway. So play along.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve just driven up from London today. I only stopped to phone my office.’

  They checked his licence off-handedly. It told them he was David Coe with an address in Ealing. If they ran it through the computer, all the details would check, and the car would come out as part of a fleet belonging to one of the country’s largest DIY manufacturing and retailing companies.

  ‘Something happened, has it?’ he enquired, as he put his licence back in his wallet.

  ‘Just an enquiry, sir,’ said the older man, but the younger, with a vain effort at insouciance, added, ‘Murder case. Some tearaway beat up an old lady.’

  ‘I’d not say forty-eight was old,’ corrected the other man, with a grin at Thrale. ‘We’re just interested if anyone in the village last night saw anything or anyone.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. Any leads?’ asked Thrale, getting into the car.

  ‘There’s a chap we’re looking for who might be able to help us,’ said the older policeman. ‘His description’s been on the radio. Young, medium build, blond hair, short and spiky. Jeans and a brown bomber jacket. Could be anyone, I know. But if you spot someone like that trying to thumb a lift, sir, I shouldn’t pick him up. Drive to the next phone and give us a bell. Cheers now.’

  Thrale drove carefully away. Could be anyone, the man said. Yes, it could. But he was recalling Billy Flynn’s unexpected appearance outside the cottage. Out of his window and down a tree when he thought he’d heard an intruder. And he’d actually complimented the youth on his alertness! Something else came to him now. He’d told them about Oliver Beck making contact with one of the Listeners. There was a whole network of these throughout the UK, people whose sole function was to take messages they didn’t understand and pass them on to people they’d never seen. Interpreted, the message had read Beck for Thrale. Woodall Service. First phone. Twelve noon. He’d expected Billy to come at him with some gungho notion of providing cover and taking Beck out as soon as they spotted him. But the youth had said nothing, not even when Bridie had asked, ‘Will you be wanting cover, Jonty?’