Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  “You've seen them, have you? Pain in the sodding backside.”

  “Well, I can see why the family might think there's a cover-up—an off-duty police officer hits out and the man dies? It's not a good look.”

  “No, it's not,” said Jack.

  “It reminds me of that case some years ago—do you remember it, Jack? It must be fifteen or so years ago now, when that Eddie guy worked with you—what was his name?”

  “Eddie Edwards, and you're going back a bit, Jim.”

  “That I am. I can't think of all the details, but they'll come to me.”

  Jack knew exactly what case Jim was referring to. While he’d have liked to say ‘Great minds think alike,’ he wasn’t sure the rule applied in this instance. Why had Jim remembered such a case from so long ago?” he wondered.

  “You must be thinking of Michael Hardesty and the McAllisters.”

  Jack watched as recognition dawned on Jim's face and his podgy eyes opened wider in excitement.

  “That's it! Whatever happened there?”

  “The man is still inside, actually. Still got some time to go. And McAllister's inside too, though nothing to do with that case. He was always in trouble, that one. The whole damn family were, in fact.”

  The clubhouse started to empty out towards the green now, ready to start play.

  “We’d better get going,” Jack said, “but let's talk about this again, if you don't mind. Perhaps I could buy you a pint?” Jack’s gut was good for one thing, and that was knowing when there was more to a tale than was being told.

  Jim had been thinking about the same case as Jack. But why?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  It seemed it wasn't going to be Jack's night—not for winning at lawn bowls, anyway. Jim tapped him on the shoulder as he was about to leave.

  Turning in surprise, Jack said, “You scared me half to death, Jim,” and placed his hand dramatically across his heart.

  “Sorry. I didn't mean to, but I was thinking about what we were talking about earlier. You know, with that old case, that Hardesty bloke. Maybe I could have a chat with you tomorrow? Maybe I'll come to the station?”

  “What's on your mind, Jim? There’s not many people volunteer to come to the station to talk. Wouldn't you rather meet for a coffee somewhere?” Jack was even more intrigued now, and by the look on Jim’s face, he was bothered by something.

  “Yes, probably. Yes, coffee. Let’s have coffee,” he stammered.

  Jack couldn't help but notice Jim seemed nervous, a bit unsure of himself, unsure of his words or what to say. He wasn't making clear, coherent sentences. Something was buzzing around in the man’s mind.

  “I'll call you tomorrow,” said Jack. “There’s a decent greasy spoon not far from the station. They do great bacon sandwiches. I don't get to go often. Amanda hates the place; she prefers McDonald's, though heavens knows why.”

  “Right. I'll wait for you to call me. The thing about being retired is I’ve got plenty of time. So whenever is good for you will be good for me.”

  “I'll call you tomorrow, then,” said Jack. Over Jim’s broad shoulders he could see Mrs Stewart walking towards him; she paused a moment, not wanting to intrude in his conversation, no doubt.

  He was conscious of the time—it was coming up to 9 o'clock already. Now he needed to get across town and meet up with Vivian. He hated being late.

  “I must go,” he said. He bade Jim goodbye and readied himself to walk Mrs Stewart back to her car, as was his custom.

  “Hot date waiting?” called Jim. Jack had to smile at that; the man couldn't possibly know, and while he wasn’t so sure quite what it was, he was excited about it anyway.

  “Something like that,” he called back, smiling, and focused on getting himself and Mrs Stewart back to their cars.

  He waited for her to unlock her own vehicle.

  “Good night, Jack,” she said gracefully.

  “I just want to make sure you're okay,” said Jack.

  “I’m quite alright, Jack. I appreciate your concern, and thank you anyway. And have a nice evening.”

  He waited until she’d pulled away before getting in his own vehicle and heading over to the Baskerville. Ten minutes later he was parking the car once again. He flicked on the interior light and checked his hair in the mirror.

  “What on earth are you doing, Jack?” he asked himself. “You look fine. She knows what you look like. This is not a blind date. In fact, it’s not a date at all. It's a drink.” It didn’t stop him double-checking himself again anyway. Satisfied, he flicked the light off and made his way to the pub entrance feeling like teenage Jack again—on his first date.

  It had been a good long time since he'd met up with a woman for a drink, or for anything, and he felt somewhat out of practice. He opened the door and walked inside. Since he was a few minutes late and the place was heaving, he strained to look over people's heads to spot Vivian. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and a surge of disappointment filled his chest. She’d changed her mind.

  “I'm here,” she said from behind him, making him startle. Relief replaced the disappointment, and he felt himself smiling.

  “I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late,” said Jack apologetically. “I’ve just come from the bowling club and one of the members was intent on chatting to me. But I was really conscious of getting over here and not keeping you waiting. Of all the times to want to talk, but I didn’t want to be rude. I’m sorry.” It came out in one long, exhausting string. He knew he was rambling, but couldn’t seem to slow it down.

  “It's fine, Jack,” she said, smiling back at him. “I’ve only just arrived myself. Now,” she said, calmly placing her hand on his forearm, “slow down. It's me—Vivian. You’ve known me for years, remember? Can I suggest you take a deep breath and start again?” Her eyes twinkled even in the dim light of the bar.

  Jack knew she was right, knew when he was beaten, so did as he was told, inhaling a deep breath and letting it out again, feeling his shoulders drop an inch or two and his heart rate slow down slightly.

  “Does that feel better now?”

  “It does, yes. Thank you. Sorry about that.” He needed to move on and stop being so silly. “Let's get some drinks in, shall we? What can I get you, Vivian?”

  “I'll have a gin and tonic please,” she said, and they both edged over to the bar to order. It was only then that Jack realised what was playing on the sound system—"Last Train to London.” It was on the same playlist that he’d listened to on the drive over. Another of his ELO favourites.

  “Did you win?” she asked.

  “We didn't, actually, not tonight. But that's how it goes sometimes: you win some, you lose some. Anyway, what have you been up to today?”

  “Not a lot, as it happens, actually, Jack. To tell you the truth, I think I need to get a part-time job. Since I've given up full-time work, I appear to have far too much time on my hands, and I need to do something with it.”

  Jack passed her drink to her and paid the barman for the round. “Have you any thoughts on what you might like to do?” he asked before he took a sip of his beer.

  “Not really, no. I've been self-employed for so long. I don't really fancy working for somebody else, being told what I can and can't do, part-time or otherwise. And while I'm getting a bit older, I don't have the skills to work in a do-it-yourself store like people my age seem to be doing these days to stretch their pension out a bit.”

  Jack smiled as they turned away from the bar. “I can't see you in B&Q. Not sure you’d fit in. Too classy,” he said, smiling.

  She blushed and smiled back. “So, I've got to figure something out, though I haven't got a clue what as yet.”

  Jack scanned the room for an available table and chairs. There was one left and Jack nodded with his head that that's where they were headed. When they were both sat comfortably and Jack had taken a long swig of his beer, the conversation carried on.

  “Have you thought about doing some voluntary work?” he
asked. “Is it that you need the money, or are you just trying to fill your time?”

  “Fill my time, really,” she said. “I've done all right for myself over the years, so as long as I don't go mad spending, cut back on the caviar, I'll be fine.” Her eyes twinkled as she teased him. “But I can't rattle around my place all on my own doing nothing all day, so I’ve got to find something.”

  Jack fell thoughtful for a moment. “You know, you've got a lot of knowledge to give back,” he said. “You know your industry inside out, and how it's changed over the years, so here’s an idea. Why don't you get involved with the girls in a support role, on a voluntary basis, educating them on personal safety, and maybe even health issues? If they are going to carry on with their career choice, why shouldn’t they also have access to support and training like anyone else?”

  Vivian’s brows knitted. “And how would that work with law enforcement, with all you coppers? Soliciting is an offence. I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “Easy. You wouldn’t be running or encouraging them—you’d be supporting them. There’s a huge difference. The sex trade will never go away as long as there’s a demand. Anyway, it’s only a thought off the top of my head; it may be absolute bollocks.” He concentrated on his beer for a moment, but from her posture, Jack could tell Vivian was mulling it over.

  Conversation between the two of them was as warm and easy as freshly baked jam tart and custard, and they spent the next hour or so reminiscing and talking about their individual future plans. Jack surprised himself with how much conversation he had to offer that wasn’t actually work-related. The extra activities he’d taken up were proving useful.

  Eventually, he needed a pee.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, standing, and headed over to the gent’s toilets near the front door. Idly he wondered how many men had used the toilet excuse for a quick exit on a disaster date and skipped out, leaving the poor unfortunate woman sat there like a lemon waiting for him to return.

  Jack didn’t intend to do the same. He was enjoying himself too much now he’d settled his nerves. It might be too early on in their friendship to wish the night would last forever, as ELO had sung when he’d ordered their first drinks, but like with Jim at the bowling club, a good woman was now putting a smile on his face.

  And it felt good.

  Chapter Fifty

  Jack studied himself in the mirror. White foam covered half of his face. He set about shaving with downward strokes, first one cheek and then the other, then more gingerly around his chin. He looked at his moustache protruding through the foam and wondered whether he should shave it off. It had been there for so many years it was part of his being, and he couldn’t remember a time without it. He wondered if it had tickled Vivian as he’d kissed her cheek last night. Perhaps it was time for a change. Turning his face first to one side and then the other, he decided his moustache could stay for another day at least; there was no need to rush into a decision. He stepped into the waiting shower, and soon the tiny bathroom resembled a Turkish bath house as steam ballooned around the ceiling like warm storm clouds.

  He’d had a good time last night; there’d been no shortage of conversation with Vivian, and they’d both agreed at the end of the night that they’d had a nice time and would do it again. Maybe he'd take her for dinner. Maybe they’d meet for morning coffee or brunch on Sunday. Maybe it was the start of a new friendship, or a rekindling of an old one.

  Once dry, he dressed in a pale blue newish shirt and tie, but before he went downstairs, he dashed back to the bathroom cabinet for his bottle of Brut. He wasn't in the habit of wearing aftershave, so he slipped the top off and tested the fragrance with a deep sniff. It didn't smell too bad. Maybe aftershave didn't go off. He splashed some on to his face and neck, washed his hands and headed down for breakfast. His bathroom smelled like the locker room of a soccer team—thirty years ago.

  Amanda was already at her desk in the squad room, and she looked up as Jack walked in. He noted she didn't look too happy, and he immediately felt bad for not having called her last night to see how it gone after her conversation with Ruth. But his mind had been elsewhere; he'd had a fairly full social calendar for a change. He wandered over to her desk and sat on the corner of it.

  “How did it go?” he asked

  “Not so good,” said Amanda gloomily. “Things got a little heated. She certainly didn't appreciate the questions, even though she knows I've got to ask.”

  “How is she this morning?” he asked.

  “Quiet, but at least we’re speaking. I guess she’s worried about Gordon, too, so I’m trying to give her some space, cut her some slack. She isn’t a suspect, Jack. It’s nothing to do with her, really.” She changed tack. “And Gordon? Did he have much to offer?”

  “Much the same. Nothing he could say, so we’re left hanging out for the autopsy results, see what they throw up.” He was about to get up to leave when Amanda put her arm out to stop him. “Jack,” she said questioningly. “Are you wearing aftershave?” There was a tiny smile on her lips.

  “So what if I am?” he said indignantly.

  “It’s just that I've never known you wear it. It smells like Brut.”

  “That's the detective in you, DS Amanda Lacey,” he said, then stood up and headed for the coffee cupboard for his first of the day. When he'd set his own coffee brewing, he called around the corner of the door to Amanda, “Do you want another?” She waved a hand no and he moved back in to add the milk. When he was done, he started to take his mug back to his desk, but then decided on a quick detour back to Amanda's. He popped himself back on the corner, mug in hand.

  “I had a bit of a weird conversation last night at the bowling club,” he began. Amanda was finishing off an email and hardly paying attention, but Jack carried on. “It was with a retired barman. I've known him for some time, but since he retired and I don't go to the pub much anymore, I only see him occasionally—at the club that is.”

  “And what did he have to say that was so weird or interesting?” She was still talking to the screen rather than Jack.

  “Jim—that’s his name—mentioned the protesters out front and the whole police cover-up angle and the dead man, and then he brought up the subject of the Hardesty case.”

  “And you think that's a bit weird?”

  “I do. What would jog his memory about that case, like it did mine? Why would the average guy on the street think about Michael Hardesty from all that time ago? That’s what doesn’t make sense.”

  “I have absolutely no idea Jack. Are you going to tell me?”

  “Well, that's just it. I've no idea. But I am meeting him for a cuppa later on this morning, so I'll let you know how it goes.”

  “Have you found anything out about that case? Because you’ve probably spent enough time on it now.”

  “I haven't as yet. Let's see what Jim has to say later on, though.”

  “You do that, Jack,” said Amanda, then returned her full focus to the screen in front of her. Jack was dismissed. Amanda was in full-on boss mode.

  Jack walked round to the café; he’d texted Jim the name of the place earlier. It was 10 AM, the perfect time for a mid-morning bacon roll, and that’s exactly what the small café smelled of. Jack sat down at a vacant table, positioning himself so he could watch the door and see Jim when he arrived—not that you could miss him. He was built like a gorilla with a balding head. Jack didn't have long to wait before the door opened and said gorilla wandered in and sat down at the table opposite him.

  “Morning, Jim. Can I get you tea or coffee with your bacon roll?”

  “A mug of tea, thanks,” Jim said, and smiled. Jack called their order across to the counter. He was a regular; the Polish owners, two brothers, knew him well. That done, Jack started off the conversation.

  “So, Jim. You’ve got me thinking, got me wondering. What's on your mind about a case from fifteen years ago?”

  Jim picked up the ketchup bottle and started to e
xamine it; it was something to look at other than Jack. A silence separated them until Jim was ready to speak. “There’d been quite a bit of controversy about that case when it went to trial, and I'd always wondered why. Then afterwards, when it was all finished and the guy had gone to prison, it got me thinking. Mac McAllister used to come into the pub quite a lot, but there was somebody else that used to come in the pub quite a lot, too, as well as your good self, that is.”

  “Oh? Who are we talking about?”

  “It was that Eddie guy, Eddie that used to work with you. Edwards.”

  “I thought he used to go to The Rose. I didn't think your place was his watering hole.”

  “Well, that's just it. The Jolly wasn't his hole. And he only came when the McAllisters were there. He never stayed long, usually just had a shot of whiskey. A quick conversation and off he’d go again. But obviously when you weren’t in drinking either. Don’t you think that's odd, a copper drinking with the McAllisters?”

  “I don’t suppose you ever overheard a conversation?”

  “No. I wish I had now. But it was around that time when the case was in the news. I’d say he met up with Mac McAllister probably half a dozen times in the back of the pub. Probably thought no one would notice or think much of it, but I did.”

  Jack touched his moustache, fiddling with the whiskers. He found stroking it therapeutic.

  It could stay a while longer, he thought. Call it a moustache reprieve.

  “And you think there’s something in it?” Jack enquired.

  “Oh, hell, I've no idea. I wondered about it afterwards, but what could I do? I’ll tell you what—a big fat nothing. It was way too late. I had no evidence of anything going on; it could have been totally innocent.”

  “And there’s not a lot I can do about it now, either, to be fair, Jim. But I tell you what I'll do: I'll open the case notes and have a quick look—and when I say open the case, I mean I'll get the file out and have another look.” Jack had already had a look, but he couldn’t think of much else to tell Jim. Nevertheless, Jack’s antennae were working hard and waiting for further signals.