H. R. F. Keating
The Bad Detective
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
Detective Sergeant John William Stallworthy, Jack Stallworthy, gave a groan.
Bloody Monday mornings. And something wrong inside me somewhere. Stomach? Chest? God knows. Probably just how old I am. Fifty-two years of age. Too clapped out for much more of this caper.
No.
He straightened his shoulders, pulled in his belly, raised his head till he could see the incised stone letters Abbotsport Central Police Station. And took the steps up at a trot.
All right, getting on if you like. Worse for wear. But still a bloody good thief-taker.
The swing doors thumped to behind him. To his left the old mahogany counter, still highly polished, brass bits gleaming, young Sergeant Evans leaning his uniformed elbows on it contemplating the day ahead.
‘Morning, Jack.’
‘Morning, Taff.’
On up the broad stairs, heading for the CID Room. Less of a trot now, more of a trudge.
Too old to be showing off to the youngsters. Retirement age. Thirty years’ service behind me. Could put in my papers any time, get pretty well the full pension. Full? Full of shit.
Nothing but that measly monthly pay-out to show for it all. The years and years of putting villains behind bars. All right, there’s the nest-egg safely tucked away. I’ve got that to add to the pension. But, damn it, put together it’s not enough, not nearly enough, to get me and my little Lily the sort of nest I’m entitled to. Sort of comfy nest she’s counting on.
Halt at the turn of the stairs.
So how to get the nest-egg a bit of extra this merry morning? Couple of possibilities. Thank God. Place I tumbled to Friday afternoon. Video Magic. Fancy name, poxy little shop. Dropping in on the unlikely chance they’d have that gardening video I been on the look-out for. The Lovely World of Lilies. For when we get the bungalow in Devon, if we ever do. Go for a garden full of lilies there, for my Lily. Least I can do. And that garden, twice the size of the bit we’ve got out the back now. A garden full of lilies. Pretty as my Lil. Pretty as she is still. Knows how to look after herself, Lily, say that for her.
No Lovely World of Lilies, of course, in that grubby place. Forlorn hope asking, really. When I’ve never seen it anywhere else. Not sure I’ve even got the name right now.
But what did old sharp-eyes Jack see instead? Lovely world of hard-core porn. That’s what. Those unboxed tapes on the counter the slimy shitbag there quickly flipped out of sight.
Not quick enough, though. Not before I’d taken in the labels on them were blank. Bar those tiny letters pencilled at the corners. S/M, Les, Gk, Ped. Or, say it out loud, Sado-masochism, Lesbian love-making, Greek (also known as up-the-bum) and Paedophile. Nasty stuff, specially that last one. Little kids involved. So, if there turns out to be nothing else on this chilly March morning – no, April morning, first of the month, isn’t it? – then a visit to Video Magic, give it a good spin, put the fear of God into the scumbag behind the counter, and there should be a nice little bit to add to the bungalow fund.
But, no. Shit like that fellow don’t deserve to get away with it. Peddling that sort of porn. Kids. Using kids. No, better make that scrote one more for the old arrest record. Put him where he ought to be. Behind bars.
Instead, think I’ll take a quick trip see my old friend Jinkie Morrison, criminal activities strictly confined to break-ins on the creep. Spots a place where some dozy citizen’s left an upper window a crack open. Checks there’s no lights on – bar the one in the hallway, specially left as a certain sign to anyone contemplating entry that there’s a householder waiting with a loaded shotgun—shinnies up a drainpipe like a ruddy spider. In at the window. Picks up whatever’s going and waltzes out through the front door. His MO.
The MO all over the smarmy-posh residence of Councillor Arthur Symes last night. Modus operandi, poncy Symes’d probably call it, making a meal of it. Method of operation, I called it from the first, back at Mansfield.
Police Training College. Jesus, that was a long time ago.
A right laugh, really, the business last night. Called out on orders from Detective Chief Superintendent Detch, no less, at damn nearly midnight. Duty bod on the phone. Listen, Jack, that stupid sod Symes, Councillor Symes on the Police Committee. His place has been done. Been on the blower to old Detchie. Howling blue murder. ‘Aren’t you doing anything to protect the citizen from these burglarious acts?’ What he said, if Detchie was passing it on word for word: burglarious acts. So, listen, get round there toot sweet, eh?
‘I don’t know what Abbotsport Police are coming to. A home like ours, fully protected, and when I have to go out to attend a function and my good wife is visiting a lady friend, what does she find when she gets back? The house ransacked. Ransacked. And I’m willing to wager you people never bring the perpetrators to justice.’
‘Well, I hope we shall be able to do that in the course of time, sir.’
Could do it tonight, almost for a cert. If I was willing to stay up till all hours doing the paperwork after I’d brought the bugger in. Spotted Jinkie’s MO soon as I felt the draught coming down the stairs from that wide open window.
‘We shall see. We shall see. What did you say your name was, officer?’
‘Stallworthy, sir. Detective Sergeant Stallworthy.’
‘Well, I shall remember that. And why are you here on your own? Where is the fingerprints team? The - what are they called? - Scene of Crime officers.’
‘Scenes of Crime, plural, we generally say, sir. And they’re not actually called out unless it’s for a major inquiry.’
‘But this is a man. Thousands of pounds worth of property taken. My wife’s jewellery, a very considerable amount in cash, some extremely valuable ornaments.’
‘Very good, sir. So if you can supply me with a full list, our inquiries will be all the more likely to produce a quick result.’
A sniff of disbelief.
Toffee-nosed sod. And what is he, take away that Councillor? Just some minor official, isn’t he?, at the what-d’you-call-it, Fisheries Development Authority place. Pretty tuppenny-ha’penny affair. Not as if he’s an executive at Abbotputers, employing half the people in the city now the fishing’s down to nothing.
Then, while Councillor Arthur Symes was making a big performance out of producing his list of property stolen – How valuable was a mail-order ‘Collector’s Item’ group of three china budgerigars? - into the room comes his wife. And a right sight for sore eyes she was. Twenty years younger than her old man, if a day. A slinky collection of luscious curves under a clinging satin housecoat, where he was a little stick of a fellow in a three-piece suit. Mass of loosely curled dark hair falling to her shoulders. His narrow skull hardly covered by slicked-down, greying strands. She altogether as sexy as a model, if a bit on the large side. And Symes, no doubt about it, a dried-up pompous little git.
‘Two thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes from a locked drawer in my desk. Two thousand at least, plus the necklace I gave Raymonde when she consented to be my wife. Dia— very f
ine stones.’
‘Yes,’ sexy Raymonde had broken in. ‘That necklace cost every bit of ten thousand pounds. I do hope—’
‘No, no. No, dear, not that much. Nothing like that. You know you’ve no head for figures. Sergeant, I’ll give you the full description later. When I’ve looked out the jeweller’s receipt. Now, darling, why don’t you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea and pop off to bed? All this has been a shock for you, you know.’
And, good as gold, off she’d gone.
Must be a bit more to Arthur Symes than there looks. Be able to order about that piece of gorgeousness. Hidden talents in the bed line? That what he’s got? Certainly what he’ll find in the bed when he gets there would be worth exercising the talents on. If he has any.
So, if there’s nothing special down to me, as it isn’t likely there’ll be on a Monday morning, it’ll be off to not very magical Video Magic. Turn the place well over, secure the evidence, arrest the toe-rag from behind the counter. But before that Jinkie, and the usual arrangement. Half the cash should be about right, provided Councillor slimy Symes was telling the strict truth last night about it being two thou.
Make-believe to search Jinkie’s place top to bottom. Rely on him to have everything bar the money well buried. In that cat-smelling backyard of his as per usual. All out of sight, that necklace – no surprise shifty Symes had ‘mislaid’ the receipt, probably cost only a quarter what he’d told sexy Raymonde – her other jewellery, the four Staffordshire figures, the three china budgies. If Jinkie didn’t toss those over the nearest hedge on his way home. And, this time, old Jinkie can go free as air. Only fair not to put him away too often, harmless little bugger as he is.
After all something’s got to be done on behalf of the nest-egg. Still a bloody sight too far off the total I’ll need when my time’s up, even to buy the Devon bungalow. If that’s still for sale. Let alone to cater for the mad notion Lily’s got in her pretty head about what she’d really like when I’ve turned in the warrant card. The sort of sum that’d need doesn’t even bear thinking about.
Chapter Two
It was not as simple as he had envisaged. As soon as he entered the CID Room the Guv’nor beckoned him over.
‘Got anything on this morning, Jack?’
Show a bit of caution. Don’t want to get tasked with some complicated nothing when I’ve plenty of fish of my own to fry.
‘Yeah. Well, I got to follow up that Councillor Symes break-in. Looks as if it may be down to Jinkie Morrison. His MO, more or less. Thought I’d go along to Jinkie’s place, St Oswald’s Estate. See if he’s left any evidence about. Probably too fly, our Jinkie, but you never know. Then there’s a video shop down by the docks I happened to pop into Friday. Got an idea the fellow there’s doing a line in porn. Some of it paedophile, if I’m right. Worth a look.’
‘That’s my Jack. You may be old enough to be my grandad, but, by God, you’ve still got a pair of eyes on you. Go to hire a film for the weekend and come out with a nice likely arrest none of us had a sniff of.’
‘Well, I don’t know about a pair of eyes. But I have got ears. You weren’t asking if I’d got anything on, not without having something up your sleeve you want me to do.’
‘No, no. You go off right away, give Jinkie’s place a going-over. It’s just that I’d like you to take one of the Aides with you. Let a learner see a real old hand at work.’
‘If I must. Who is it? That young Spencer? He looks as if he might have the right idea. In about ten years’ time.’
‘No. It’s not him. It’s WPC Lane.’
‘The woman? Oh, come on now, guv. That ain’t fair.’
‘Why not? She’s a bright kid, Jane Lane.’
‘Jane Lane, Jane Lane. Daft bloody name, daft bloody girl, you ask me.’
‘No, no. She may still be a bit green round the edges. Thinks it’s all playing Sherlock Holmes. But she’s bright, she’ll learn. And no better way than hanging on your coat-tails.’
‘Guv—’
‘No, that’s an order, Jack.’
From behind him in the big room, at the nearest of the four clumped-together desks, someone of the morning shift – it sounded like Pete Hoskins – gave a donkey-bray of a laugh.
‘April Fool Jack.’
‘What – what – is this some sort of a con?’
‘No way, Jack,’ the Guv’nor said. ‘When I give an order, it’s an order.’
Turning away, the words April Fool abruptly jogged something in his mind.
Yeah, horse called that. Running at Uttoxeter this afternoon, two o’clock, if I’ve remembered the paper right. Would be today, come to think. April the first, All Fools’ Day. Owner probably entered the nag just because of that. Still, might be worth putting on a quid or two. Could have been trained for just that race, after all. Odds probably pretty short, lot of silly money on it. But if I get a moment, I’ll give it a try.
He looked round the room. Aide-to-CID Jane Lane was aiding the CID in the best possible way. Her back to everybody at the broad shelf running all along the far wall, she was putting on the kettle to make tea.
With a groan of a sigh he went over.
‘When you’ve brewed that, darling,’ he said, ‘you’re coming with me. Do a bit of real detecting.’
‘What’s this, then?’ she asked, accent a bit posh, pretty face, snub nose, clear complexion, sweep of gleaming blonde hair.
He told her what he had worked out at Councillor Symes’s place. The current of chill air pouring in from the upper landing window, Jinkie Morrison’s invariable MO.
She took it in, no fuss, no stupid questions. The Guv’nor was right. A bright kid. Graduate, hadn’t somebody said last week when she’d arrived?
Too bright? he wondered. Would she clock on to what he was up to when he took Jinkie aside for a quiet word? And if she did, or had her suspicions, how would she react? Want her cut? She’d be likely to have a fairly fancy life-style. After university. Probably running a flash motor. Plenty of party-going, and the clothes for it. Constable’s pay won’t go very far. Or would she get up on her high horse? Middle-class morality. Our duty as officers of the law, keep strictly within the law.
Never mind. I can see a nice neat little way round that if it comes to it.
Jinkie Morrison. Built like a monkey, slightly stooping back, long arms, bandy legs, not much more than five foot tall, round bunched-up nut-brown face. Cautiously opening the door, peering out. No shoes or socks on, trousers half unbuttoned at the front. Strong odour of bed frowstiness.
‘Jinkie, me old pal. Want a word.’
‘Yeah? But, listen. Listen, I got to go out. Just on my way. Promised the old lady I’d do some shopping.’
‘Off in your bare feet, are you? Well, you’ll just have to tell the old girl you’ve got what they call another engagement.’
‘But she’s out.’
‘Doing the shopping, is it?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Well, she is, like, but there was something else she wanted extra. I said I’d get it.’
‘Come off it, Jinkie. We’re going to have our little chat, like it or not. And let me introduce you to this nice young lady, come to visit with me. Constable Jane Lane, just joined the CID. Dare say you’ll be seeing plenty of her as time goes on.’
‘Miss.’ Jinkie ducked her a dip of his head. ‘But don’t you listen to Mr Stallworthy, miss. I ain’t none o’ your ‘abitual criminals. Take my word.’
‘That’s right, Jane. Believe every syllable our Jinkie breathes. Then do the other thing.’
‘Mr Stallworthy.’
‘Come off it, Jinkie. Less of the innocent. You know why we’re here, don’t you?’
‘Me? Know? Why should I? How should I know what Abbotsport CID takes into their heads to do?’
‘How about because someone went inside Councillor Arthur Symes’s place last night?’
‘That wasn’t me, Mr Stallworthy. Straight it wasn’t. Don’t even know where his place is.’
‘But you know who he is, don’t you, Jinkie? Recognized the name right off, didn’t you?’
‘Well … Well, why shouldn’t I, then? Councillor, ain’t he? Name in the paper an’ everything.’
‘Oh, yes. Name in the Argus often enough. And address in the phone book. Not to speak of the Argus saying there’s some big bash, Sunday evening. Whole Council on the invite list. So anyone planning to pay Mr Symes a visit can be sure no one’s at home.’
‘Yeah, but, Mr Stallworthy, that’s no time to go in there, Council affair. Got a wife, ain’t he, Councillor Symes? Fancy bitch, half his age. You go in there when he’s out on Council business, an’ you find you’re face to face with some big hunk of a lover boy.’
‘So you know all about Councillor Symes’s home life, Jinkie? Wonder why that is. Suppose you’re going to tell us you didn’t keep an eye on his house Sunday evening? Waiting to see if the lady wife was going to trot off to that lover boy. Or to one of her girl friends, believe that’s what she told her old man.’
‘And bloody cold it— No. No, Mr Stallworthy, I never done nothing like that.’
‘Oh, no. Never, never, never. So why don’t we come in now and take a look-see. Just in case you happen to have three fine-china budgies about somewhere, or four Staffordshire figures, shepherds and shepherdesses. Or even a necklace, may or may not be real diamonds?’
‘You can’t come and turn over the place just like that.’
‘No? Done it before, haven’t we? Don’t know how many times. Now, out of the way. There’s a good lad.’
And as soon as they were inside he turned to Jane Lane.
‘Suppose you go up to the attic, love. Likeliest place for our friend to have stashed away all those ill-gotten gains of his.’
‘Not the bathroom, skipper? That necklace you talked about, tucked in the loo cistern?’
‘Learnt your stuff, haven’t you? Every word you were told in training. But, trust me, I know Jinkie’s little ways. I’ve been up in his attic myself, more than once. Don’t let all the dust there put you off. Give the place a right spin. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you don’t come down with half the stuff on that list old Symes made out.’
The Bad Detective Page 1
