Deadly Virtues

by Jo Bannister

  In a way, that was what tonight was about. Norbold’s great and good were gathering under the Town Hall candelabra to pay tribute to the vision, determination, and application of one man, and that man was Johnny Fountain.

  He caught his wife’s eye in the mirror. His voice was a low Yorkshire rumble. “You’re not going to embarrass me tonight, are you?”

  She pretended not to know what he meant. “Embarrass you?”

  Fountain sighed. “Well, saying ‘Hear! Hear!’ loudly every time someone says something nice about me would qualify. So would asking the mayor, the assistant chief constable, and Her Grace the Duchess to pose with me for a photograph.”

  From the disappointment he glimpsed in her reflection, he thought he’d already hit pay dirt, and the list was hardly exhaustive. Nor had he any confidence in his ability, or the time frame available, to expand it to include every way she might find to make the evening memorable for all the wrong reasons.

  “But I’m proud of you, dear,” Denis said fondly.

  “Well, that’s nice to know. But can we settle for the occasional smug smile rather than blasts on a feathered whoopee whistle?”

  Behind him her smile was distinctly smug. “I’ll do my best.”

  “No one can do more,” Fountain acknowledged graciously.

  * * *

  She did try. To some extent she succeeded. But her husband, and everyone else who knew her, was aware of how sorely the evening in the Town Hall tested her resolve. Denis Fountain was a woman who had always embraced life, who had no talent for—and saw no point in—playing it cool. She was bursting with pride and didn’t care who knew it. Wanted people to know it. And everyone who stood up to add to the litany of praise heaped upon the head of Norbold’s senior police office only stoked the fires, until his wife was glowing like a small sun with a new hairdo. If only there’d been room in her tiny evening bag for a feathered whoopee whistle!

  And the best thing about it, the very best, was that every word was true. All these people weren’t here simply because it was Fountain’s turn: they’d done the mayor last month and the Paralympic archer who’d come in second at the European championships the month before, and now it was time to do the chief superintendent. The speeches were such music to Denis’s ears because they were an honest acknowledgment of a plain and simple truth: that, like pushing water uphill, and in the first instance with precious little help and no expectation of success, her husband had turned Norbold from a crime black spot into one of the safest places to live in the whole country. Crime was low because people who wanted to make a career of it found better prospects elsewhere. The clear-up rate as a proportion of reported crime was impressively high. As a consequence, the fear of crime in and around Norbold, from the middle-class suburb of Sedgewick to the council estates of Hollybush and the Flying Horse, ran at the sort of levels usually associated with pastoral communities in Dorset. People no longer expected to be the victims of crime, and they knew who they had to thank for that. It had taken him ten years, but ten years wasn’t too long for people to remember what Norbold was like before Johnny Fountain.

  And because this was essentially a testimonial, people were kind enough not to mention his one failure, the one facet of local crime he had yet to make inroads against. In part this was because the people who attend gala testimonials for important local figures are themselves important local figures and tend not to live or work in the kind of areas where drug dealing and drug taking have a major impact on people’s daily lives. So they see it as somebody else’s problem.

  Fountain had slashed the rates of burglary, mugging, damage to and thefts from cars, dangerous driving, and attacks against the person that were not drug-related—all the crimes that respectable, responsible people could imagine themselves and their families falling victim to. For the most part they saw drugs as something other people’s families got involved in; unless of course they knew better, when their focus shifted to hoping the police wouldn’t find out. In short, if Chief Superintendent Fountain had to have a blot on his copybook, drugs was the best page to have it. The great and good of Norbold avoided referring to it because they knew how, to a man conspicuously successful in every other aspect of his work, it must rankle.

  No one had ever counted Nye Jackson of the Norbold News among the great and good, and this was to his credit. There’s something seriously wrong with a reporter who isn’t getting under people’s skin. After the meal and the speeches, as the diners circulated, he made sure a little eddy washed him up against the guest of honor.

  Johnny Fountain was a big man. Nye Jackson wasn’t. He was a wiry red-haired Welshman with a chip on his shoulder because he was still working on a provincial weekly at the age of forty-three: too old to be working his way up to Panorama, too young to be coasting toward retirement. He’d been in Norbold for eight years. People serve less time for murder.

  He fought to keep his drink safe from passersby who hadn’t noticed him and inquired of the chief superintendent’s shoulder, “Any progress with that van business, Mr. Fountain?”

  Fountain looked around before looking down for him, smiling like a genial adult pestered by a child. “Hello, Scoop. You clean up nicely. I hope you got all the flattering things people were saying about me?” The North of England accent was matched by a craggy face and lion’s mane of white hair. He was in his mid-fifties now.

  “Pretty much.” Jackson nodded offhandedly. “At least, I got the first speech on tape. I can do the rest with Copy and Paste.”

  Fountain gave a broad, avuncular grin. “And they say the Welsh have no sense of humor.”

  “Oh, we have a sense of humor, Mr. Fountain,” said Jackson, deadpan. “I can laugh myself silly watching what passes for rugby round here. No, I was asking about that business up at the Flying Horse. Burned-out van containing a small portable chemical plant, the charred remains of wannabe drug dealer Sonny Pruitt, and enough party poppers that pigeons flying through the ash cloud were landing in the town square and looking for cats to fight. I was wondering if you’d come up with any leads yet.”

  Fountain nodded amiably. His bow tie had come undone and he made a desultory effort to fix it. “It’s not really me you should be talking to. Can I get DI Gorman to give you a call? It’s his case.”

  “Fine. I left him a message this morning, but I don’t think he must have got it.” He met Fountain’s eye, and both of them knew exactly what had happened to the reporter’s message, and also that Detective Inspector Gorman would now have to respond to it. Maybe Nye Jackson wasn’t a world-class journalist, but he was persistent, and sometimes that’s as good.

  Fountain looked around as politely as he could for someone else to talk to. It was sod’s law that there was no one within hailing distance.

  Jackson looked the way the chief superintendent was looking and saw what he saw, and also knew what he was thinking. He didn’t take it personally; or only to the extent that it seemed to him more like a compliment than anything else. He might, out of kindness, have made an excuse and moved on himself. But kindness wasn’t one of his weaknesses. He helped himself to another drink from a circulating tray and observed mildly, “Funny about the drugs, Mr. Fountain, isn’t it?”

  Fountain sought him out again as if looking from much farther away and much higher up. “Funny? In what way?”

  “Sorry,” said Jackson, insincerely, “I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, especially tonight. You’ve worked wonders in this town. I’ve covered the courts here for eight years, I’ve seen the crime rate go down, month on month. And right across the board, except for that. Wouldn’t you think that, by now, the way law-abiding citizens have been reclaiming Norbold would have worked its way through every aspect of life here? Even that one. What makes the drugs scene so different?”

  Johnny Fountain gave a long-suffering sigh. “Who knows, Mr. Jackson? Maybe it’s just going to take a little longer.”

  “I expect so. And after all,” added the reporter, just a little p
ointedly, “it’s not like Sonny Pruitt’s any great loss to anyone. I mean, no one deserves to get murdered. But some people deserve it even less than others, yes?”

  The chief superintendent knew better than to either agree or argue with that, on the record or off it. He did his police-issue noncommittal smile.

  At which point rescue loomed, in the form—always beloved but never more than now—of Denis, aglow in peach satin and a perm that would have protected her from small projectiles or a modest avalanche. “Johnny? Look at your tie! Oh.” The happiness fell out of her face. “You’re busy.”

  “Not at all,” insisted Fountain, gathering her in the crook of his arm. “We were just discussing the vagaries of crime. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Jackson?” And he swept her off toward the dance floor like a man who has just discovered there are worse ways to spend an evening. A brief but perfectly timed hiatus from the band allowed Denis Fountain’s voice to drift back: “… Perfectly dreadful little ginger hack…” Jackson grinned to himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  THEY SAID THERE was a problem with his insurance. They said his account didn’t tally with that of the complainant. He said he wanted his solicitor present during questioning. They said fine, they’d find him somewhere to wait while they contacted him. No one seemed to have any particular instructions regarding him. Jerome Cardy tried to tell himself that maybe he’d misread the situation, that the worst he was facing was a fine.

  It was a nice modern police station with nice modern cells that were not in a damp basement but up on the first floor, light and airy. The custody sergeant took his details, and his shoes (“Look, no laces! I can’t hang myself with elastic gussets!” “Can’t help that, son, rules is rules.”) and then pulled a face. “Ah.”

  The arresting officer raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Got the painters in one to three. Got a woman in five.” He looked at Jerome. “How do you feel about dogs?”

  Was this it? Was this how it was going to happen? His voice was hollow. “What kind of dogs?”

  “Oh, it’s a nice dog—clean, well behaved. Its owner’s in there with it, sleeping off a thumping. You’d be helping me out if you’d wait in there with them.”

  Jerome was past arguing. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Sergeant Murchison gave a relieved nod and conducted him to cell number four. “You won’t have any trouble here. Look, it’s not even locked. But try not to disturb him. He’s had a rough day.”

  “Do my best,” agreed Jerome weakly.

  “Good lad.” He closed the door but still didn’t lock it, leaving Jerome and the white dog weighing each other up.

  But gradually reality caught up with him. The dog and its sleeping owner might be the perfect companions for an hour in the police cells while his solicitor was summoned, but Jerome Cardy was still in the last place on earth that he wanted to be. The fact that nothing had happened to him yet was no proof that nothing was going to happen. He sat down and considered his options.

  The door wasn’t locked. He could make a run for it.

  He wouldn’t get far, and then they’d have an excuse to treat him as a different kind of offender. Right now all he’d done was leave the scene of a minor accident that he hadn’t even caused. Jerome was pretty sure it was in his own best interests to keep it that way.

  He could ask to see someone who wasn’t a police officer.

  He was too old to need an appropriate adult, too fit to need a doctor, and he’d already asked for his solicitor. If his solicitor arrived, all would be well; if he didn’t, there was no reason to suppose that a message would reach anyone else, either.

  Or he could wake the man snoring gently on the other bunk and explain the situation. Get himself a witness.

  * * *

  Gabriel Ash woke to a gentle but insistent hand shaking his shoulder.

  In spite of what he’d told the police surgeon, he wasn’t all right. His head hurt and every bone in his body ached. His split lip and one cheekbone had swelled up, and there was an unpleasant buzzing in his ears. He had no medical background, but given the circumstances, concussion seemed—to coin a phrase—a bit of a no-brainer. He knew he should be in a hospital; he also knew he wasn’t going to a hospital, and not only because of Patience. If he went into a hospital, they might not settle for stitching his lip. He might be dealing with well-meaning young men called Simon for months.

  Sleep seemed the best alternative. He had laid his aching head on the bunk’s pillow, pulled the blanket over him, and let his eyes shut and his mind empty.

  He had no idea how much time had passed before he was wakened, except that it wasn’t enough to mend his hurts. You only know how many muscles it takes to sit up after each one has lodged a separate protest. Also, he was still dizzy and struggled to make his eyes focus. Patience was sitting quietly, watching him. He raked up a reassuring smile for her, which somehow—her lips never moved—she managed to return.

  They were no longer alone in the cell. A tall young black man was bending over him, his hand still on Ash’s shoulder. His lips were moving, but Ash could make no sense of the quiet, urgent flow of words. He held a hand up as if to deflect a blow, hoping it would work better this time than last. “Slow down. I’m not firing on all cylinders right now. Say it all again, in words of two syllables or less.” Even concussed, Gabriel Ash was an articulate man.

  Jerome was talking fast because he didn’t know how long he had, and quietly because he didn’t want to be overheard. But he was smart enough to recognize that what he managed to say wasn’t nearly as important as what his companion managed to understand. Jerome wondered if he’d be better talking to the dog.

  He might have been. Ash was doing his best, but it didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t sure it would have made sense if he hadn’t been concussed. Britain didn’t execute convicts any more, and when it had, it didn’t do it for traffic misdemeanors. “I’m sure you’ve got this wrong…” he began.

  “No, listen,” insisted the young man. “This isn’t about the shunt with the car. It’s about getting me in here. Any excuse would have done. Now they’ve got me, they won’t let me go.”

  Ash was pretty sure you couldn’t get a life sentence for careless driving, either. Agitation, paranoia, the sheen of sweat on the young man’s face … “Have you taken something? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  Jerome would have slapped him if he hadn’t been afraid of scattering what was left of the man’s wits. “No! I think I’m going to die in here. And God help me, you are my only chance that it won’t be written off as an accident. Remember what I’m telling you. When you get out and I don’t, find someone to tell.”

  “But why…?”

  The shutter in the cell door opened and a face glanced in. Then the door opened. “Come on, Jerome, we’ve freed you up a comfy little bed-sit all of your own.”

  Whatever he’d been trying to say to Ash, he wasn’t prepared to say it in front of the policeman. He made one last desperate attempt to stay where he felt safe. “I like dogs.…”

  The officer remained where he was in the corridor, waiting patiently. “Mr. Ash and his dog aren’t actually supposed to be here. There’d be hell to pay if you got bitten. Or fleas.”

  Ash began indignantly, “My dog doesn’t—”

  But Jerome interrupted. His lips smiled, but his eyes were focused intently on Ash’s and there was the sense that he was saying, or trying to say, more than the actual words. “I never asked you. What’s its name?”

  “Patience,” said Ash, surprised.

  “I had a dog once. Othello. That was its name. Othello.”

  “Really?” Ash didn’t know what else to say. “What sort of dog?”

  “A sniffer dog. Like you see at airports.”

  Ash frowned. There was something very odd about this conversation. It wasn’t often, these days, that Gabriel Ash felt to be in the company of someone less in contact with reality than himself. “A spaniel?”

  “Yes.”r />
  The policeman was growing restless. “Come on, Jerome. You can talk to your new friend and his dog after you’ve finished here. Your solicitor will be here soon. Till then, let’s leave Mr. Ash in peace, yes?”

  There seemed nothing else for it. Jerome Cardy went with the officer, who closed Ash’s door behind him. A moment later Ash heard another cell door close, and this time also lock.

  He sat on the edge of his bunk for some minutes, puzzling over the encounter. Patience had no suggestions to offer, and finally he came back to his first conclusion, which was that Jerome Cardy had been indulging in illegal substances. Satisfied with that, at least mostly, he pulled the blanket over him again and went back to sleep.

  * * *

  Again, he had no idea how long he’d slept, but he stirred to the urgent entreaties of the dog, which was whining and scratching at the door and butting his hanging hand with her nose. He blinked himself awake. “Do you need to go out?”

  But Patience was—when not dealing with thugs—a civilized dog, discreet about her personal requirements. This was different. Something had alarmed her.

  Ten seconds later, the whole of the cell block was in an uproar.

  * * *

  Every police station has a supporting cast of regulars who shouldn’t really be part of the criminal justice system, who wouldn’t be if there was any other agency to take responsibility for them, and Meadowvale was no exception. Old ladies who shoplifted because, having outlived their families, being arrested for theft gave them a brief respite from the crushing loneliness. Old men who weren’t so much drunk and disorderly as confused and still fighting battles they’d won sixty years before. Heroin addicts who, when they asked for help with their addiction, were put on a waiting list eighteen months long. People like Gabriel Ash, wandering around the town, mumbling to his dog, until he annoyed someone enough to take a swing at him. And people like Barking Mad Barclay.

  Barking Mad was not, of course, the name on his birth certificate. That was a much more prosaic, much less descriptive Robert.