Beck le Street

by Tony McHale

  “Found out … How?” There was a coldness in Tyler’s voice.

  “You know … did some digging … Maybe he got a private dick onto it.” Again he looked towards Amos wanting his endorsement of what he was saying. Again none was forthcoming. Lucas knew he’d done wrong.

  “You wouldn’t know who it might be?” Tyler looked directly at Lucas as he spoke.

  “No … we don’t know nothing,” intervened Amos.

  “No – nothing,” reiterated Lucas. “If we found out, we’d sort them out for you Tyler … wouldn’t we Amos?”

  Amos wished Lucas would just shut up.

  “You’d sort them out for me …?”

  “Yeah. I mean they’ve got to be a low life … they need sorting out.”

  “They? You think it was more than one person?”

  If Lucas hadn’t given it away before, the panicked look towards Amos sealed it as far as Tyler was concerned. He was looking straight at the two people that had betrayed his secret to the press.

  “Don’t know …” Lucas was back tracking, “… could have been four or five people … couldn’t it?”

  Amos wanted to shove his fist down Lucas’s throat, because then he might just stop talking.

  “Well if you hear,” Tyler said in a friendly tone, “then be sure to let me know.”

  “We will … we will,” Lucas said eagerly.

  Tyler went and joined Cassie and Georgie as Lucas and Amos went to the bar. Tyler glanced back at them and Amos caught him looking at them, but he was determined to give nothing away.

  “You don’t think he was suspicious, do you?” Lucas whispered to Amos.

  “I don’t think he was, but I think he is now.”

  “Why?” Lucas was genuinely surprised.

  “Because you don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

  Tyler was seated alongside Cassie and Georgie, he glanced once again at Lucas and Amos. Amos was now having a go at Lucas and Tyler guessed what it was about.

  “Well … ? What did those two have to say for themselves?” Cassie had never really had a lot of time for Amos and Lucas, but Tyler had known them since he was a kid and she knew he felt a loyalty towards them.

  “They said they didn’t know the journo’s name.”

  “If they don’t know him, then they don’t know him.”

  “They’re lying. Lucas put his size tens right in it.”

  “Why would they lie?”

  “Because they know who he is, because they told him.”

  “Told him what?” Georgie chipped in.

  “Nothing.”

  “About the journo?”

  “It’s nothing Georgie.” Cassie once again was trying to shut it down.

  “Yeah. The journalist who found out I wasn’t your dad.”

  Cassie flashed a look at Tyler. This is exactly what she didn’t want.

  “You are my dad,” said Georgie his vowels elongating in such a way it made him sound desperate to prove the point.

  “I know I am.” Tyler took Georgie’s hand to show his appreciation.

  “And the journalist ...” Georgie halted as if for effect, but it was really to catch his breath, “ … he was Gary … Turner.”

  “Gary Turner? How do you know?”

  “He rang the house … I answered the phone. He wanted to speak to you or mum. I told him to … fuck off …”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Cassie asked.

  “Because I didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t just tell him to fuck off …”

  “You really shouldn’t use that sort of language Georgie,” said Cassie looking daggers at Tyler.

  “Sorry … I heard it somewhere … I can’t think where.”

  Tyler couldn’t help but smile. Cassie was trying not to find it amusing.

  “This Gary Turner … I said if he rang again I would talk to the press and tell him how he tipped me out of my chair so I would give him information.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that Georgie,” Cassie said reprimanding him.

  “He didn’t ring back did he?” retorted Georgie.

  Cassie couldn’t really argue.

  “Do you still want to talk to him?” continued Georgie.

  “Yes,” replied Tyler.

  “No. We don’t want to speak to him Tyler.”

  “I do.”

  “He’s at the Premier Inn in Scarborough … I think. He wrote an article about this policeman and his wife that was killed. He said the police were just going round in circles and they were nothing but … buffoons. I think he may have a point. He also said he’d been that long on the case that the Premier Inn were feeling sorry for him and giving him a reduced rate.”

  Tyler downed his drink in one large mouthful and stood up to leave. Cassie knew where he was going.

  “Why can’t you just leave it Tyler?”

  “Because I’m not like you Cassie. Someone screws you over, you smile and you take it. I wish I could, I can’t.”

  Tyler headed over to Lucas and Amos. He wanted to make sure he was right.

  Just over an hour later Tyler, flanked by a nervous Lucas and Amos still trying to figure a way out of this, walked into the Premier Inn in Scarborough. There was nobody behind the reception desk, but it was as if they had some sort of telepathic sixth sense, because a plump girl in her early twenties suddenly appeared.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Gary Turner’s expecting us.”

  “He’s expecting you now?”

  Tyler was tempted to say, “No next Wednesday, we just thought we’d turn up now,” but he didn’t. He simply lied and said, “Yes.”

  “It’s just I know he went out about ten minutes ago.”

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “You could try the Brewer’s Fayre, it’s our on site restaurant. They serve food up until ten o’clock.”

  The Plump Girl was obviously going into her sales pitch, but Tyler wasn’t hanging around and just walked out.

  The Brewer’s Fayre was quite busy with people having their evening meals. As they walked in Tyler turned to Amos, “You’ll need to point him out to me.”

  “We don’t really know him.”

  “You were there … when he started on.”

  “Yeah … but …”

  “If you see him you’ll remember him.”

  Tyler scanned the place, looking for someone who could be Turner. Seated in a corner, by himself reading a book as he used just a fork to eat the shepherd’s pie on the plate in front of him, was Turner. Tyler looked at him.

  “Is that him?”

  Amos saw a way out, “No … that’s not him. I don’t think he’s here.”

  At that moment Turner looked up. His expression said it all. If Amos didn’t recognise him, he recognised Amos and Lucas.

  “Are you sure Amos?”

  Not waiting for a reply Tyler marched over to Turner.

  “Mr Turner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Got a mo?”

  “I’m in the middle of my supper.”

  “Do I give a fuck?” said Tyler aggressively.

  Turner wasn’t easily intimidated. He’d been round the block, done more door-stepping than most.

  “When I’ve finished my supper.”

  “Okay … just tell me who told you about my son?”

  “You’re Tyler Samson.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well … Mr Samson, to quote thousands of journos who came before me … ‘I am not obliged to reveal my source.’” And with a smile he scooped up some more shepherd’s pie on his fork and placed it in his mouth.

  “Bollocks!” said Tyler.<
br />
  “You need to chill. The story’s not going to get printed – no one wants it. Besides all I wanted to do was make the self righteous prick sweat a little.”

  “Charlie Ashton?”

  “Yeah … Charlie Ashton.”

  “He’s gone … so I don’t care about him. What I care about is who gave you the information?”

  “You’re not going to get their names from me. Sorry.”

  Amos breathed a sigh of relief. Lucas was scared to even look at him after what had happened in The Black Dog.

  Turner looked at Tyler and gave a little laugh before continuing with his food and his book which Tyler noticed was a copy of Moby Dick. Tyler stood there for a few moments. Amos was willing him to just turn round and leave. Then Tyler spoke again.

  “Lot of harpoons in that book.”

  Turner let out a sigh of exasperation as he looked up from his novel.

  “It’s about whaling, so it sort of figures.”

  “Ever been harpooned by a fork?”

  “What you talking about?”

  Tyler snatched the fork out of Turner’s hand and before he could retaliate in any way, Tyler has grabbed hold of Tuner’s hair and yanked his head backwards and shoved the fork up his nostril – three prongs actually up the nostril and one just on the outside.

  “You’ve got a choice Mr Journalist, you tell me who gave you the information, or I’ll make your nose look like a shredded carrot. So start talking.”

  Now other people in the pub were starting to take notice of this man with a fork up his nose, but nobody was sure what to do. Amos knew Turner had done his best and held out quite well, but he also knew it was only a matter of time before he told Tyler what he wanted to know.

  “It was us,” Amos suddenly announced.

  Tyler looked over at Amos. There was no surprise in his eyes.

  “He offered the money … we took it.” Then he corrected himself, “I took it. Lucas just went along with me.”

  Tyler withdrew the fork from Turner’s nostril and threw it on his plate, whilst letting go of his hair.

  “But you knew, didn’t you?” said Amos.

  “Yeah,” replied Tyler.

  “Amos ..” It was Lucas who was calling his attention to the fact two bouncers were approaching fast.

  “It’s okay … we’re off,” announced Tyler to the bouncers and almost cowboy style, hands in the air; the three Beck le Street dwellers left the saloon.

  In the car park Amos stood facing Tyler.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know … It wasn’t about you or Georgie … it was about him …”

  “Charlie Ashton,” Lucas slipped in.

  “I’ll see you in the Field. Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Tyler got into his pick up and drove away. Amos and Lucas started to walk. They didn’t have enough money on them for a taxi, their ill begotten little windfall long gone and it was over thirty miles back to Beck le Street, so they needed a lift.

  “What was he on about seeing him in the ‘field?’” asked Lucas.

  “Honour must be served. He wants to fight me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what happens when someone goes against the village.”

  “You can beat Tyler any day. How’s his honour going to be served?”

  “Because I’ll have my hands tied behind my back. The longer I stay standing the more he’ll forgive me.”

  “I don’t ever remember anyone doing it before.”

  “The last one was my dad.”

  “What had he done?”

  “He stole a dog from Old Atkinson.”

  “Why did he steal a dog?”

  “It was a pedigree. A German Shepherd. A beautiful animal. Someone wanted it for breeding, but Old Atkinson was having none of it. He said if you bred a dog they lost the loyalty to their owner.”

  “Is that right?”

  “No … it’s bollocks. But Old Atkinson believed it.”

  “So your dad stole it so he could breed it.”

  “No my dad stole so he could sell it. We were starving. No food on the table. So he sold it to this breeder and Old Atkinson found out.”

  “And your old man ended up in The Field.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t go down. The more Old Atkinson hit him, the more he took. At the end Old Atkinson gave up and hugged him. My dad was never the same again. He died six months later - brain haemorrhage.”

  Amos stuck his thumb out as a lorry passed them. It didn’t stop.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  About five miles outside Beck le Street there’s a small cottage on the edge of The Moors. The cottage was bought by an actor as a retreat from his arduous life of remembering lines and pretending to be other people. At first the actor used it frequently, but after a year or so the novelty wore off. On the edge of desolate moorland there were surprisingly, no casting directors and nobody he could impress with his ability to mime walking against the wind like Marcel Marceau, so he decided to rent the place out, mainly for summer visitors. He did have people staying over the Christmas period, but late autumn, most of winter and early spring the place stood empty. So Charlie had no problem renting it for the whole of November.

  Charlie caught a train to Scarborough where he rented a Volvo 4 x 4, bought a air of binoculars from Currys PC World, a mountain bike from Halfords, along with a bike rack for a car and headed for the cottage. His time in London hadn’t been wasted. He’d joined a gym and when he wasn’t taking photos he was getting fit.

  One thing the actor had made sure of in his cottage was that there was Wi-Fi. Charlie set up his laptop and iPad on the table in the living room. He made sure they were working properly and tested them by sending e-mails to Carl, his agent. He’d already explained to Carl what he was about to do and asked him to be ‘the keeper of all information.’ In other words anything he had on his laptop or iPad Carl would also have a copy. It was Charlie’s way of backing up what he was about to do.

  When he told Carl of his plan, Carl made no bones about it and said he was way off course, but he also knew there was no stopping him. Charlie needed to put this to bed once and for all.

  His first stop was at the local police station where he asked to see PC Ryan Ridley and Sergeant Paul Armstrong. Neither was available and the civilian on the front desk, with a slightly unfortunate attitude, couldn’t say when either would be available.

  Charlie put a call into Wood, conveniently forgetting to mention that he was back in North Yorkshire, but asking him about Ridley and Armstrong. Wood informed him both officers had been suspended pending an inquiry. The rumour is that Naylor made various promises to them, promises involving their career moves, if they carried out errands for him. Paint work on the smashed BMW has been matched with paint found on the crashed hire car Devika was driving. People are now beginning to surmise the Naylors’ demise was linked to Devika’s accident. The CPS were involved and will certainly be bringing charges against Elaine O’Hara. They suspect other charges will follow.

  “Armstrong and Ridley … have they said anything about why Naylor wanted Devika running off the road?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” replied Wood. “Armstrong actually offered up the information. Apparently his girlfriend had told him about the sexual harassment she’d had to put up with from Naylor, so he decided he wanted to discredit the guy as much as possible. He also figured the more blame he could dump on Naylor, the less time he might have to serve.”

  “He killed someone. He should go down for life.”

  “He will do. But he’ll be hoping by coming clean, the recommended tariff will be nearer ten years than twen
ty.”

  “I’d like to see him do nearer fifty.” There was a suppressed anger in Charlie’s voice.

  “Sorry - I don’t make the rules. Just do me a favour Charlie,” Wood pleaded, “forget you heard this from me and … let us handle it. Don’t go getting involved. We’re all over it. We’re going to get a result.”

  “Do they know who killed my mother? Has Armstrong or Ridley said anything about that?”

  “No,” Wood had to admit.

  “Do you know why…? Because they don’t know. They don’t know who killed her, or Kyle, or Naylor and his wife. Because that person isn’t a police officer, but I bet you anything, they are a resident of Beck le Street.”

  Charlie hung up. These two officers were responsible for Devika’s death, he wanted to see them hung out to dehydrate and scorch to death in the midday sun. But he was as certain as he ever could be that they didn’t kill his mother.

  Charlie knew for now he had to leave that, let the police concentrate on that section of the crime. Naylor was not the snake’s head that was still alive and spitting venom.

  The next move Charlie had to do was find out about the £2,000 that had been paid by his father to Farrah each month. He’d decided to approach Farrah first, but of course he couldn’t do this in a way that drew attention to himself. The last thing he wanted was Tyler coming after him again. He would have to wait until after dark, before approaching her. He wouldn’t even tell her where he was staying.

  But he thought he’d try out his bike in daylight. Work out a covert route to the village. He went into the bedroom and changed into his black wet weather gear. He had a balaclava, which just revealed his eyes and his binoculars in his waist pouch. He was pretty certain that if anyone saw him, they wouldn’t recognise him. Slipping on his gloves he climbed on his bike and set off on a path mainly used by serious ramblers in the Summer.

  This was the start of his mission.

  * * * * *

  In The Field the majority of Beck le Street gathered. The likes of Jed and Jenny Pearson had been around when Old Atkinson had beaten Amos’s father over a dog, but the majority of the people had never been a spectators at one of these brutal events. Word had travelled fast though and even the likes of Barbara Bergin and her Farm Hands had turned up for the spectacle. The notable absentee was Old Atkinson himself. He’d never really come to terms with the fact that he killed a man over a dog. Or maybe he never came to terms with the fact he’d killed a man. Shooting out a tyre proved his continuing allegiance to the village, but he’d sworn to himself that he’d never step back into The Field again and he never had.