by Peter Bates
About the author
Peter Bates was born in Blackpool and has lived in the neighbouring town of Lytham St. Annes since being a child. Peter was educated at the prestigious Kirkham Grammar School and joined Williams Deacons Bank (now R.B.S). In his mid-twenties he joined Barclays Bank, before swiftly becoming a manager in their life, investment and pensions division.
Peter subsequently opened his own business in St. Anne’s town centre, providing mortgages, investment advice, and other financial services for the local community. Now retired, he is a member of the prestigious Fairhaven Golf Club and a proud grandfather to six granddaughters who all live locally. He now has the time to write stories — something that has been his lifetime objective.
In memory of Superintendent Gerry Richardson, a superb police officer and wonderful human being who was shot and died in the line of duty.
Old Crackers
Peter Bates
Old Crackers
Vanguard Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
VANGUARD KINDLE
© Copyright 2021
Peter Bates
The right of Peter Bates to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions
of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library.
ISBN (PAPERBACK) 978 1 784659 89 9
Vanguard Press is an imprint of
Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.
www.pegasuspublishers.com
First Published in 2021
Vanguard Press
Sheraton House Castle Park
Cambridge England
Printed and Bound in Great Britain
Dedication
To my wonderful wife, three children, and six granddaughters
In memory of Superintendent Gerry Richardson, a superb police officer and wonderful human being who was shot and died in the line of duty.
CHAPTER 1
Frank Lloyd zipped up his worn and old black leather jacket and turned up the lined, wrinkled collar as he casually strolled along the narrow, cobbled street that split two long rows of Victorian terraced houses. The buildings looked very tired, and with the exception of one or two of them, were urgently in need of some modernisation. Frank glanced at them briefly as he passed by and smiled. He felt in urgent need of modernisation himself, but that was no longer an option. Now in his late sixties, he was simply glad to still be around, and able to walk the streets almost as well as ever. He could have used the electric buggy if he’d wanted to, but earlier, as he had begun the usual search for its key, he remembered the old saying — ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it’ — and inwardly agreed that the saying was quite correct. His weary old legs would get a whole lot worse than they were now without any exercise.
The breeze was only slight, but after returning from two weeks of warm sunshine in Benidorm, the north wind felt decidedly chilly. Before he had taken the holiday, he would probably have thought that today was quite warm. The temperature would certainly be much higher here now than it would be in Preston, just a mere twenty miles or so away down the M55 motorway. Further across the county than that, towards the Pennine Hills and around the East Lancashire area, it would be definitely be even cooler than it was here. The Blackpool and the Fylde coast area certainly enjoyed their very own micro-climate, probably largely due to the nearby Ribble Estuary, and maybe the sheltering effect that Northern Ireland offered from the fierce westerly oceanic winds. Whatever the reason, this was certainly a very good place to live, and despite the slight chill, he happily whistled one of his old favourite tunes to himself as he consciously quickened his steps and jauntily walked along the grey flagstoned pavement.
Frank raised his left arm towards his face, pulled back the sleeve, glanced briefly at his ageing but totally reliable gold Omega watch, and grinned. It was only six thirty, but it was an odds-on bet that his old mates would already be settled in the ‘Dog and Sparrow’, probably sipping and enjoying their first beers of the evening. Earlier in the afternoon, he had seriously thought of giving Terry a quick call, in advance of the meeting, but was very reluctant to fire up his own mobile. He had closed it down at the very same moment that he’d landed on the outward trip to Alicante Airport, and had truly enjoyed its peaceful silence ever since. Maybe he would switch it back on tomorrow, but at the moment he certainly didn’t want to re-join all the numerous clap-trap calls that came in each and every day. Life for Frank Lloyd these days was very simple compared to the previous hectic activity that he had endured for years in the police force, and sometimes not being easily contactable now came as a very welcome relief. Gone were the days when he would receive an urgent call in the early morning and he’d have to reluctantly drag himself out of a warm and comfortable bed.
A dark blue saloon car honked its horn twice as it slid noisily by him, its tyres bouncing along roughly on the stone cobbles, and he twisted sharply in time to see a white sleeved arm fluttering through a small gap in the driver’s window. Frank grinned and raised his right hand, flapping it to and fro briefly as he immediately recognised one of his old friends, Bill Fallon, in the car’s driving seat. Frank smiled again to himself as he steadily walked on. He hadn’t seen his old pal Billy for six months or more, and knew that the man must have been in a hurry to get somewhere as he was passing by; otherwise, he would most certainly have stopped the car and wound down the window for a quick chat. The lad would probably have also offered him a lift to wherever he was going.
He wasn’t going far, and Frank gladly rounded a sharp corner, bringing the Dog and Sparrow into view just a little over eighty yards away on a slightly wider stretch of road. The pub itself was set back quite some way from the road’s surface, but he could see immediately that none of the three outside tables seemed to be currently occupied. Maybe he was early, he thought, quickly glancing again at his watch, or possibly the lads had already camped down inside, well away from the chilling breeze, and already sampling the beer. With a big grin on his face, he realised in a split second that it was almost certainly the latter.
Moments later, Frank pushed open and breezed through the wooden swing doors, the large grin still etched onto his sunburned face. He locked his brown eyes instantly onto three men seated at a table to his right, up against the outer wall of the building, and beneath a very substantial and brightly coloured stained-glass window. The window suitably depicted a large collie dog, its pink tongue hanging out from its open jaw, and sitting by an open farm gate. A little brown sparrow was perched jauntily on the animal’s head.
Apart from the three very familiar faces at the right-hand table, only a dozen or so patrons occupied the bar area and the other various scattered tables. Terry Reid was the first of the group to rise to his feet, spotting Frank instantly and returning his grin, before striding briskly across the room and firmly gripping Frank’s outstretched hand.
Apart from a couple of horizontal age lines on his forehead, and a few strands of silver dotted here and there amongst a full head of hair, Frank could see instantly that Terry had changed very little from his working days. By the look of the man’s tattered blue jeans, he was still wearing the same ones that he had done all those years ago. Even his white T-shirt with a Preston North End logo on it looked vaguely familiar. Surprisingly though, the brown suede casual slip-on shoes appeared to be virtually new. The old highly polished black ones must have finally given way.
“Come on in, Franky,” smiled Terry. “You’d better say a big hello to Roy and Reg.”
Roy and Reg were already standing by this time, both men laughing and holding out welcoming arms to their visitor and old friend. Roy Baldwin was his usual smart but casual self — blue jeans, bright red T-shirt, and sharply polished blue leather shoes. His hair was still brown and now showing more than a few scattered traces of grey, but as ever, it was neatly brushed back from his forehead and also trimmed very precisely at the sides. Reg Carlisle had not changed much either. The old bugger was just as formal as he always had been in his dark blue suit, complete with a matching blue tie, a snow-white collared shirt, and a stylish button-down grey waistcoat. Reg’s hair had almost disappeared completely. These days, a quick brush over with the electric shaver did the trick for him, and easily removed the odd white strands above each ear that still persisted in growing a little each day.
“Bloody hell, lads!” yelled Frank. “What a brilliant welcome.”
“It’s been a long time, mate,” offered Reg, before reaching a long arm out sideways to an adjacent table, pulling over another chair, and lining it up neatly alongside those of his companions.
“It has been a little while, Reg,” agreed Frank, “but it’s really great to see you lads again. Now it’s definitely catch-up time for the old buggers.”
“It certainly is great,” agreed Terry, smoothly pushing a pint of freshly poured beer across the top of the table as he spoke, and then finally halting its slide close to the edge, immediately in front of his old friend.
“What brilliant service,” commented Frank as he raised the glass, took a first small sip of beer, smiled approvingly at the taste, and then beamed broadly again at his three long time pals.
“You guys all look extremely good,” he finally declared, licking his lips as he spoke. “In fact, not one of you look a whole lot older than the days when we were working on all of those bloody incessant police training courses at Hutton.”
“That was certainly more than a few years ago,” smiled Terry. “I think that you’re being more than very kind about how we look, pal. We were all only young sprogs in those days.”
“Well,” added Reg, “those courses must have worked OK for us at least. I reckon that between us four lads, we definitely all locked up a few thousand bad buggers after we had been on them.”
“We have done, Reg, and they were brilliant times,” nodded Roy with a faint and wistful smile. “I really miss those days a lot. I’m dead sure that we all must do.”
“Some of the equipment has moved on quite a bit since our time though. All the fancy technology that they have now. There are cameras and detectors everywhere, never mind the DNA checks that they can do on tiny bits of evidence that were previously unseen when we were around. The job of being a detective must be a whole lot easier now than it was back then,” added Terry, ruefully.
“It might be, mate, but you really can’t beat a human brain, actual eyesight, and a very big pile of intuition. Without those qualities, you are nothing but a robot.”
“Reg is right,” nodded Frank. “As he pointed out, in our day we didn’t have cameras all over the place — no fancy number plate recognition gadgets — and no DNA checks. We just had a big stack of common sense, a load of know-how, and an even bigger feel for the job. Just as Reg pointed out too, we still got most of the bad lads locked away. Some of them will still be inside, I reckon.”
As he ended his comment, Frank shifted his huge frame, leaned forward, took another gulp of beer from his glass, and then settled back comfortably again in the chair. For the first time in a very long while, he felt truly happy. At the same time, Roy’s dark brown eyes drifted around the table, lingering briefly on the lined faces of his old friends. Roy was also tall, but still the shortest of the group at a height of five feet eleven inches tall. Each of the other men was at least six feet in height, and Frank Lloyd must be virtually six and a half. Barring a few wrinkles on their faces and a quite a bit less hair on top of their heads, they all looked almost as slim and fit as they had done more than five years ago.
“How’s retirement, Frank?”
“It’s rubbish, mate! Gardening, decorating, cleaning the car, shopping for the missus. It’s all a big pile of rubbish.. I wish that I was still doing the job, and back out on the streets doing something that really mattered. It’s my brain that really needs the exercise, not my wonky legs.”
“I’ll go along with that.” joined in Terry vigorously. “We all used to be something quite special, and now we’re nothing but a bunch of old has-beens. Like you, Frank, I wish that we were back on the job, when every single day was important.”
Reg sadly nodded his agreement, and then slowly raised his head again to face the others.
“I was wondering only this morning. Do any of you lads ever keep up with what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” asked Frank.
“Well, do you ever check on what’s happening? What local crimes are being committed — stuff like that. What’s going on these days, out on the streets around town?”
Without answering, Terry smiled, reached a hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, tapped it on, and then expertly pressed several of its keys in quick succession. He stared at the screen for a few moments, his smile instantly disappearing as his eyes scrolled quickly down the page, and then as he clicked onto the next one. Finally, Terry let out a long deep sigh and sat back glumly in his seat.
“What’s up, mate?” Reg asked quietly, quickly noting the obvious concern on his old friend’s face.
“Well, just to show you lads how I can still keep in touch, I clicked on an app that covers all the local Blackpool stuff, and as it turns out, I hit a very bad headline.”
“What’s up, mate? Don’t tell me that the bloody football club’s gone and lost again.”
“No,” breathed Terry, allowing himself a very brief smile. “I really wish that was all it was. It’s a whole lot worse than that.”
“Go on, mate,” pressed Reg, his head moving slightly forward, the concern now showing clearly on his own face.
Terry hesitated a moment before replying in a low voice. “A little boy, aged just ten years of age, was killed last night, in or near to Stanley Park.”
“Oh bugger.” hissed Reg through clenched teeth. “Was it a car accident?”
“No, mate, it’s a lot worse than that. The boy was beaten to death and then left floating half under an overhanging bush at the very edge of the boating lake.”
“For God’s sake, Terry. Ten years old. That’s just crazy.”
“It’s more than crazy, Roy, it’s almost beyond belief.”
“Any arrests?” asked Frank.
“So far, Frank — no. If they have made any, the news item’s not saying.”
“Do they know who the lad is, and where he’s from?”
Terry scanned quickly further down the article. “Yes, Frank. His parents, who live in Blackpool, reported him missing in the late afternoon, after he hadn’t come home from school.”
“Who found him? Does it say?”
Still staring at the screen, Terry shifted his eyes further down the script.
“A local guy, out walking his dog, apparently. The dog wouldn’t come out of the bushes at the edge of the lake, and kept on barking non-stop. When the guy finally gave up and went into the bushes for the dog, he found the boy’s body.”
“Doe
s it say whether the lad had been molested first?” asked Roy, leaning forward in his seat.
“No, it doesn’t, pal. I know that there is some of that sort of stuff going on around here, and he may well have been, but nobody’s saying that at the moment.”
“I wonder if he was taken there later or attacked there.”
“I dunno, mate. I’ve no idea what the camera set up is like around that area, or if there was any sort of past history with the lad that could have contributed to it.”
Roy took a deep sip of his beer, his mind quickly turning over as he swallowed the ale. “Is Chief Inspector Norman Pendleton still operating in the Blackpool area?”
“I think so,” nodded Frank. “At least, I know that he certainly was until very recently. I had to speak to him concerning that re-union do that they were planning.”
As Frank finished speaking, Terry’s phone, the local news app still switched on, buzzed sharply with the latest news item, and he leaned forward in his seat and snatched another quick glance at the screen.
His eyes darkened and his mouth opened wide as he stared blankly at the new headline.
“Fellas,” he spoke quietly. “The local coppers have just been called in to another one. It’s a lad again, and this time the young fella was just nine years old.”
“Two lads murdered, and just nine and ten years of age,” echoed Frank, the blood draining from his sunburned face as he spoke. “That is simply beyond belief. What the hell’s going on?”
CHAPTER 2
