by Tom Graham
‘We need to go through these diaries,’ said Sam.
‘Don’t I get an apology first?’
‘Not a hope, Ray,’ said Sam. ‘Not a bloody hope. Now let’s get this stuff back to the office.’
The discovery of the diaries brought Gene out of his office. Ray emptied the box onto his desk, and Sam picked up the 1965 diary and leafed through it.
‘Anything juicy?’ asked Gene.
Sam turned page after page. It was almost impossible to make anything out at all, there were so many multi-coloured scribbles all over the place. Names and numbers criss-crossed over address details, barely legible beneath a spider network of sketch maps, doodles, drawings of breasts, reminders to get fresh milk in, jokes, shopping lists, and exhortations for United to win the Cup.
‘Hopeless,’ said Sam, passing the diary to Gene. ‘It’s a mess. Illegible. But anyway, if there was anything incriminating in these diaries, Carroll would have destroyed them, not left them sitting about in Lost & Found.’ He shot a glance at Ray. ‘Nice try, Detective Sergeant, but no cigar.’
‘What you talking about, Boss?’ frowned Ray. ‘These things are a treasure trove. Look at all these names jotted down – Andy Axford, Jimmy Chalk, Paul Hutton, Margrove, Taylor, Morten, Fielding –’
‘Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb,’ Sam finished off for him. ‘And what do they mean? Who are they? You could spend the rest of your life trying to chase up all these people and there’d be no guarantee any of them were connected to Gould.’
‘You wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss your bird like that,’ Ray came back at him.
In a calm, clear voice, Sam said: ‘Can we all – all – stop referring to our colleague Annie Cartwright as “my bird”, “my crumpet”, “Bristols”, “the minge” …’
‘Clamp your cake hole, Penelope, I’m trying to concentrate,’ grunted Gene as he perused the diary. He jabbed his finger at one of the pages. ‘Can you read that one, Ray? The name with the circle round it.’
Ray squinted at the chaos of biro marks: ‘Says … “Earles”.’
‘That’s what I thought. And here – same word, again with a circle. And again. And here, and here. First week of every month.’
Gene flung down one diary and grabbed another, opening it at random.
‘The next year,’ he said. ‘Same name in a circle, first week of every month. Earles.’
‘Well?’ said Sam. ‘Who is he?’
Gene rolled his eyes. ‘Well obviously he’s a bloke’s name.’
‘Obviously,’ chipped in Ray, looking for the chance to take a pop at Sam.
‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘And how do we know if it’s important?’
‘It was important enough to Carroll,’ said Ray. ‘And look at the years these diaries cover – ’64, ’65, ’66.’
‘The Clive Gould years,’ said Gene, nodding. ‘But that don’t necessarily connect Earles to Carroll. Could be anyone – his bookie, his mate down the boozer, the name of his arse doctor.’
‘“Arse doctor”?’, Sam asked, pulling a face of utter incomprehension.
Very gravely, Gene looked Sam in the eye and explained: ‘If you’ve suffered from the grapes you’ll know how important it is to get ’em treated regular by a fella who knows his onions.’
Ray nodded sagely at this.
Gene grabbed another diary, a later one. Opening it, he frowned, then peered closer.
‘Guv?’ Ray asked.
‘First week of the month,’ Gene said slowly. ‘March, April, May … A name with a circle round it. But this time it says Duke.’
‘My point exactly,’ said Sam. ‘You’re not going to get any sense out of this stuff. Chuck these diaries away, they’ll just distract you.’
‘Earles …’ Gene said, casting aside the later diary and going back to the first. He furrowed his brow and looked into space. ‘I’ve heard that name, I’m sure. Or seen it. Recently.’
He rummaged through the Lost & Found Room in his head, then gave up.
‘It’ll come to me,’ he said, and threw the diary back onto the table. ‘Raymond, ignore what twonky Tyler says, you’ve done a grand job today.’
‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘See what else you can dredge out of them diaries, and if you can dig up anything on Earles, even if it’s just to eliminate him from the enquiry. Earles, Earles … damn it, I know that name ...!’
Gene headed for his office, then paused, rifling his memory banks once again. When the phone on Sam’s desk suddenly rang, Gene made a great mime of having his precious concentration shattered, and went stomping off into his office.
‘A grand job …’ muttered Ray, just loud enough for Sam to hear. ‘And I’m sure he’ll say the same about Cartwright … when she gets back from the Co-Op.’
Sam refused to be drawn. He went over to his desk and answered the phone. It was Chris.
‘Hi, Boss, I’m over at the coroner’s. It whiffs of special bleach or summit. It’s turning me stomach.’
‘Found anything?’
‘You bet. Gould’s death certificate. I’m looking at it right now. I even saw the autopsy report on microfiche. I tell you, Boss, what I could understand of it, it’s turned me hair white.’
‘Why? What did it say?’
‘Too much, that’s what! Somebody shot Gould, right up close apparently, right in the back of the head. His brains came out his eye, Boss! And a bit came out his nose!’
‘No, no, that’s not true, Gould’s not dead,’ said Sam.
‘You must be kidding, Boss!’ Chris gasped. ‘Brains out the eye? And a bit out the nose?! Nobody’s gonna survive that, Boss, not even Charles Bronson!’
‘That death certificate, it’s not the real thing,’ Sam declared. ‘It’s been cooked up to make it look like Gould’s dead.’
‘It’s legit, Boss,’ said Chris. ‘It’s signed and everything. I’ve got it here in my hand, right now.’
‘I need to see it for myself. I can’t just take your word for it.’
There was a slight pause, and then Chris said, ‘You wouldn’t say that to Annie Cartwright.’
‘Chris, I’ve had my bloody fill of people saying that.’
‘“Act like a team”, Boss, that’s what you’re always telling us. But it’s clear you got your favourites, and them you think is dopey.’
‘Please, let’s not get started on this. I wasn’t putting you down and I don’t think you’re dopey, but I really do need to see that certificate for myself.’
‘Boss, I’m not an idiot, and I’m not a liar. This certificate is the real deal. It’s got Latin words on it and everything. And it’s signed by the doc what did the autopsy – F. Enderby. Now that’s a proper doctor’s name.’
Sam’s ears pricked up: ‘Enderby?’
‘Aye.’
‘Dr F. Enderby? Chris, are you absolutely sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure, Boss. I’m looking at the signature right now.’
It was the same non-existent coroner Annie had discovered in the CID files, the name DCI Carroll used to cover the death of Tony Cartwright. Annie had hunted for any evidence that this Dr F. Enderby existed, and had found no other mention of him in the police records. But here he was, turning up again, not in the CID files where Annie had searched but in those of the country coroner. It was proof that DCI Carroll had been as instrumental in covering up what really happened to Clive Gould as he had been in the fate of Tony Cartwright.
‘Boss?’ Chris’s voice called to him down the phone line. ‘You still there, Boss?’
It was all coming together. Gould’s bribes to the police had escalated, but if he stopped the payments he left himself wide open to arrest and imprisonment. So he faked his death, and he bribed or coerced Carroll and Walsh and Darby to make it look legit, leaving him free to disappear with his ill-gotten loot to live a life of luxury under a new identity. But …
‘Boss? Yoo hoo! Can you hear me?’
… Gould’s old life wasn’t to be shrugg
ed off so easily. Carroll and his team knew where all of his skeletons were buried – literally. They could blow the gaff on him at any time. And Gould’s unease at this had grown and grown, made him paranoid, forced him out of the shadows to silence those who could do him harm. And then Annie blundered into the whole delicate affair, asking questions, stirring up the past.
Leastways, that’s how it will all appear here in 1973, thought Sam. This is it – this is my final case. Solve this, and I nail Gould. Solve this, and I have defeated the Devil in the Dark. Solve this, and me and Annie are free to move on, together. Solve this, and everything’s going to be all right. It’s all going to be all right, and Annie will be safe, and WE will be safe, and –
‘Chris, get back to the department,’ said Sam, and hung up. Then he strode across to Gene’s office and stuck his head round the door. ‘It’s official, Guv’nor – Gould’s not dead.’
Gene looked up blankly from a copy of the Racing Post and said, ‘Don’t we knock?’
‘He’s not dead,’ Sam repeated. ‘His death certificate’s a forgery. Michael Carroll and his team were behind it, and now Gould’s making sure they don’t tell anyone. I was right, Guv. I was right all along. Clive Gould’s back. Clive Gould’s our man. Clive Gould’s the one we need to nail. And we’re not going to find him in the bloody racing pages!’
Gene continued to stare blankly at him. Then, very slowly, he folded his paper and lay it down amid the clutter and overflowing ashtrays on his desk.
‘Well, let’s go,’ he said calmly.
‘Go? Where?’
Gene lifted his coat from the peg: ‘Where, Tyler? To get some inspiration. Some divine inspiration. Coz I flamin’ need it.’
CHAPTER TWELVE: GENE, GOD AND THE MEANING OF THE WESTERN
‘I’m surprised at you, Guv,’ said Sam with a smile. ‘Pleasantly surprised.’
Even though the church was completely empty, he still felt the need to keep his voice down. Gene was slouched in one of the pews, all bundled up in his camel hair coat, his legs thrust out into the aisle. He turned his gaze from the stained glass to the vaulted ceiling, then to the serene stone angels atop the columns.
‘Very different from the last time we were here,’ he said in a low voice.
Sam nodded. He glanced at the pulpit where DCI Carroll had stood, forcing the vicar to read the same Bible passage over and over again. And over there was the doorway through which he had then fled, driven by mortal terror, racing up into the spire and flinging himself from the balcony. Sam tried not to think about what had happened immediately after that.
‘Do you want time, Guv?’ he asked.
‘For what?’
‘To have a private word with … you know …’
He indicated upwards. But Gene just scowled.
‘I’ve not come to here to report to the big Chief Constable in the sky, Tyler, I’ve come here to get some peace and bloody quiet. Earles. I know that name. I know it, Tyler, I’ve heard it, I’ve seen it, I’ve run across it in the last few days and I bloody well know it!’
‘Hey, Guv’nor, let’s mind it with the language in here, yes?’
‘He’s heard it all before!’ Gene intoned, and he got to his feet and looked about. ‘There’s a connection between Carroll and Earles, a connection that took place right back in the bad ol’ days when Gould had all them coppers on his payroll. This church is where Carroll came in the end; this is where he bought it …’
‘So you felt it was the place that might somehow jog your memory with Earles?’
Gene shrugged: ‘Perhaps. Perhaps I just wanted to get out of the office. Perhaps I just …’
He trailed off, walked to the pulpit and climbed into it. It occurred to Sam that, strangely, Gene looked very at home there, standing over the Bible on its gold lectern, peering down at the pews from on high.
‘A dog collar would suit you, Guv.’
‘And I’d like to see you in a muzzle. Now zip it, Tyler.’
‘What’s your view on it all?’
‘This place, you mean?’
‘And what it stands for, yes. Higher things. The world beyond. Do you believe in it?’
‘With that toe-rag Sargood breathing down my neck and a psycho-killer running wild out there, I’m a little preoccupied with earthly matters, to tell you the truth.’
‘Sure, but you must have an opinion of some sort.’
Gene leafed idly through the Bible with his black-gloved, string-back clad hand.
‘If there is a fella upstairs in the control room,’ he said, ‘I’d appreciate a helping hand once in a while.’
‘We all feel that.’
‘Why’d He have to saddle us with so many scumbags? What’s the thinking behind that?’
‘To make work for CID, I suppose. If you ran out of villains, Guv, you’d have nothing to do.’
‘Nothing to do?! Telly, boozer, fags, crumpet …’
‘Oh, come off it, there’s more to you than can be sustained by just that.’
‘… Footy, gee-gees, Elvis before he went soft …’
‘You’re avoiding my question. Why won’t you tell me where you stand on religion?’
‘… Motors, dogs but not them little ones, more fags, boozer again, and proper Westerns, not that Chinky abomination with the Stepford Wives running about all over the place.’
Westworld. He was referring to Westworld. The thought brought back memories of McClintock, bloodied and dying, reaching out from the cinema screen towards Annie, as Clive Gould moved in for the kill.
McClintock, where are you now? What happened? Were those your final moments that I saw? Did you find Gould, and go up against him, and …
‘It’s a bloody disgrace!’ Gene barked, cutting right across Sam’s thoughts. He slammed the Bible closed with a resounding thump. Yes, he had a killer on the loose, but he still had time to fulminate over Westworld. ‘Yul Brynner! Some sort of Jap-eyed Rusky playing a wind-up cowboy! It was bad enough him cropping up in the Seven, but now they’ve turned him into a ruddy Teasmade in a Stetson! How could they do that to the Western?! I wouldn’t come here and take an Eartha Kitt on this Bible. But somebody, somewhere, dreamt up that ruddy monstrosity and called it a “Western” and …’
Red-faced, enraged, Hunt fumed in wordless dudgeon, gripping the lectern with both hands. He looked like a hellfire preacher.
‘It’s just a film, Guv,’ said Sam.
But far from pacifying him, those words merely focused Gene’s rage into a laser beam of indignation.
‘“Just a film ...”? How dare you … Is that how you’d describe Stagecoach? Or The Searchers? Or High Noon?’
Gene jabbed his finger towards the stained-glass windows: ‘What’s that? Just some coloured double-glazing, is it? And that?’ He now aimed his finger at a sculpted angel. ‘Just a bit of old concrete shaped like a poofter? Roger Whittaker singing New World in the Morning – oh, it’s just some bloke making noises with the hole in the front of his head, forget it, it ain’t worth nowt.’
‘Hey, Gene, cool it, I was only putting things in perspective.’
And now Gene glowered across the lectern at Sam, and his voice rolled around the echoic space of the church. ‘Let me put it in perspective, Tyler. The Western – the true Western – is not “just” a film. It’s an inspiration – an inspiration for men like you and me, men who go out there into a tough world full of tough bastards and make tough decisions with real consequences. Men who spill blood for the sake of what’s right – others' blood, and their own. Men who stand up for something bigger than themselves; a principle, a code, justice, whatever you want to call it. When Gary Cooper walks out into that high noon to face the Miller Gang, that’s you walking out there, Tyler, it’s me – it’s Ray, it’s Chris, it’s every copper who ever walked a beat, it’s every fireman who ever ate smoke, it’s every snotty-nosed kid in every school yard who ever vowed that today, damn it, today he would NOT let them bullies shove him around. Those images on t
he screen, they’re there to instruct us, lift us up, warn us, set us straight. Yes, I know, it ain’t real, it’s just some mincers togged up in costume – but what it means, Tyler, what it all represents shines through the play-acting and the fake blood. It shines through and it burns – it burns into a fella’s heart and mind and it marks him. He sees himself on that screen. He sees what he should be, what he could be, what he ain’t and what he ought to be. He sees what’s best, and what’s worst, in the deepest part of himself. He’s humbled in the presence of the Western – humbled, and raised up, all at the same time.’
Gene’s face changed, pulled into a sneer, as he said, ‘But what the hell can we say about that kiddies’ crap with Brynner? Robots?! Flamin’ cowboy bloody robots?! Is that a worthy emblem for men to be inspired by? Is that what our world now looks up to? And what about that nonce in the lead, the fairy with the ‘tache, the one always running away like a wasp just zapped his nadgers – what in the name of John Ford is that about?! Where’s the dignity in watching that sort of shameless carry on? Where’s the grace, where’s the aspiration? Oh, I’m sure it’s all a big hoot for you college boys, getting the horn over metaphors for society and some crap about machines turning on man – like that’s gonna happen! – but where’s the guidance for the youngsters of today? We need heroes, not ruddy metaphors – and the young need ’em most of all. And heroes are men, not Chinky robots. They bleed. Heroes bleed. And what the hell’s the point in any of us carrying on in this stinking world if we don’t strive to bear our wounds like heroes? The Western is there to remind us of this, over and over. So don’t you ever dismiss them images on the screen as “just a film”, Tyler, or next time I’ll jump right down out of this ruddy pulpit and twist you into so many bends I could use you as a bloody coat hanger! Here endeth the lesson!’
He banged his hand down on the bible. The sound echoed away like a gunshot.
‘That was quite a sermon, Guv,’ am said.