Top Hard

by Stephen Booth

  Dave sensibly kept quiet. Or maybe he just didn't understand the question. He was still on Janet and John Learn to Use the Potty, and wasn't quite up to high level theological discussions yet. Besides, Dave thought he'd been put on the earth for only two things, and neither of them involved helping others.

  "I'm considering that for my theme on Sunday," said the Rev, taking our silence for respectful interest. "St Luke Chapter 10. The story of the Good Samaritan, you know - but updated, naturally. One must make certain one's sermons are in tune with the modern congregation. A propos, but de nos jours. Germane to the 90s."

  Congregation? From what I'd seen of the pew jockeys at St Asaph's, the only 90s they could relate to would be the 1890s, which is when most of them were born. They loved the Rev's sermons, mainly because there was no danger of being kept awake. I could see Dave staring at the Rev as if this bloke with a bit of margarine tub round his neck had just descended from the Tower of Babel talking in foreign tongues. The trouble with Dave is that he will listen. Understand, no. But listen, yes.

  "Perhaps you'd like to come along yourselves, gentlemen," suggested the Rev, encouraged by the rapt attention. "I think I can promise you an uplifting experience."

  "Er, we'll think about it," I said, and frowned at Dave. He didn't need much frowning at. He was back at work on the flower beds before you could blink, and I passed the empty mugs to the Rev.

  I set to again, waving my strimmer at a ragged-looking border, thinking what a real plonker that Good Samaritan bloke must have been. What idiot would stop to pick up somebody lying in the street, without knowing who they were or where they'd come from? Try doing that these days. You'd have a gang of yobs screeching off in your car in no time, while you lay bleeding at the roadside, doing an imitation of a hedgehog that hadn't quite made it through the traffic. You wouldn't catch me doing that, no fear. Nowadays the equivalent of the Good Samaritan would be the bloke who's willing to ring for an ambulance on his mobile as he swerves round your body. No use telling the Rev that, though. He'd only look pained and drive about looking for a chance to try it out and prove me wrong.

  I was occupied by holy thoughts like this when an unmarked police car pulled up at the kerb. From the passenger window DI Moxon stared at me without expression. He didn't even bother getting out of the car, but made Wally Stubbs squeeze out of the driver's seat to stumble up the steps into the churchyard.

  "Detective Sergeant Stubbs," he said, flashing his warrant card at the Rev. "Can you tell me how long these two have been here, please, vicar?"

  "Mr McClure and his friend? Since about eight o'clock. They're early risers. Very admirable, don't you think? And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day."

  "Really?"

  Wally looked dubious. Admirable wasn't the word he usually heard applied to me down at the station.

  "It's in the book. Would you like to see it, sergeant?"

  "No, thanks."

  Wally looked at us and the results of our work, no doubt comparing it to what he could achieve in a couple of hours in his own garden back home. Looking at the blubber round his waist, I reckon we hadn't done too badly.

  "We've just been spending a little of our time in discussion of a biblical text," said the Rev happily.

  He was gilding the lily now, I thought. Definitely stretching credulity a bit too far.

  "The parable of the man who fell among thieves," he added helpfully.

  "Oh yes?" said Wally, his ears pricking up. There was a tense silence for a moment. "What thieves would these be, then?

  The silence went on and on, like even the Rev might have realised he'd said the wrong thing.

  "S'Luke," said Dave, surprising us all. "The Good S'maritan."

  "Oh. Right," said Wally. His hand twitched as though to reach for his notebook. His instinct was to get the words down at every opportunity. It could be evidence. He looked at Dave, hoping for more. The big dork could have let it rest there, but it wasn't in his nature. Not Dave.

  "The nose ewer," he said.

  "Eh?" Wally gaped at him, baffled.

  "German to the nighties."

  Dave was giving it his intellectual look. Or maybe he just had indigestion. But that was definitely a little twitch of the eyebrows, just like the Rev does when he's talking at you.

  "What are you trying to tell me, Underwood?"

  "Acro prop the nose ewer."

  "I see."

  Wally Stubbs was backing away now, looking up at Dave with dismay, like a man who's just got on a long-distance bus and finds Billy Graham sitting down next to him.

  "You can come if you like! On Sunday. It's my sermon," called the Rev as Wally scuttled back down the steps. "All welcome!"

  Wally got back in the Mondeo and spoke a few words to Moxon, who turned towards us again, his glasses glinting in the sunlight, unbelieving. They drove off with a screech of tyres.

  I looked at Dave with new respect. But he only looked down modestly at his hands, as if it was the fork that had done it.

  15

  Nuala was off work that afternoon, which was handy, because Lisa was due at Hardwick. Trouble was, the new bird was getting suspicious. For a start, she claimed the way I was treating her meant I didn't care about her. Rubbish, of course. But there was worse. Nuala isn't too bright, but she does have that highly developed sense of smell that seems to come with women and dogs. As soon as she got in the car she started sniffing. Well, I could smell the cigarette smoke myself, but that didn't mean anything. What else could she smell, though?

  "Do you like my scent?" she said. "It's Givenchy. It's expensive usually, but I got it at the Sunday market. You wouldn't believe the price."

  I would, probably.

  "You smell lovely, as usual."

  This was the wrong thing to say, but it slipped out. She'd just told me she was wearing a new scent, and those words 'as usual' suggested that it didn't smell any different from the old scent. It was as bad as not noticing a new hair style. You see how tuned in I've got to those subtle meanings that women read into what you say? The only problem is, I don't remember how to do it until after I've already said the wrong thing. The charm usually gets me by. And it's all lost on Nuala anyway. If she's not speaking herself, then no one is.

  "Have you had a woman in the car?" she said.

  "Only in the course of business, love."

  She sniffed. "Well, it's a funny business you run if you have women in your car smelling like that, that's all I can say. My mum always said you couldn't trust a man if you found knickers in his glove compartment."

  With this baffling comment, she opened my glove compartment and began rooting about. There's nothing incriminating in there, honest. I just don't like people poking about. It gets me annoyed.

  "Give over, you silly tart."

  "What did you call me?"

  "You're getting right up my nose now. Business is business, and it's got nothing to do with you. So just keep your nose out of my affairs, and your fingers out of my glove compartment."

  "Oh, something to hide then, have you? My mum always said - "

  "I couldn't give a shit what your mum always said. Will you just shut up for a bit? You're making my ears bleed."

  Magically, she shut up. For thirty seconds.

  "You can drop me off here," she said.

  "Don't be stupid. We're in the middle of nowhere."

  We were, in fact, just passing through a little tea shop village called Norton, where they might not like to be called 'in the middle of nowhere'. But it wasn't somewhere for a silly tart with her skirt up her bum to be walking along the roadside on her own. Nowhere is, these days.

  "I'll hitch a lift," she said. "I can always get somebody to pick me up."

  "I bet."

  "Anyway, you smell of oil. You've been playing about with cars again, haven't you?"

  "Business, duck, business."

  "If you think we're going to have sex in them bushes again, you'v
e got another think coming," she said. "After you speaking to me like that? It's not on."

  I didn't say anything. I'd just noticed how much her skirt had ridden up as she wriggled about angrily in her seat. It was revealing such an expanse of thigh that I couldn't resist just resting my left hand on it for a while to see how it fit. Her leg was smooth and warm, and it moved instinctively under my hand as I stroked it gently.

  After a few more minutes, she sighed. "All right then," she said. "You've talked me into it."

  Making love to Nuala is like walking into a busy nightclub. It's noisy and full of energy, and you have to fight your way through a lot of writhing, sweaty limbs to get to the bar. I hoped there weren't any rare birds nesting in the bushes we'd chosen, because they'd just been disturbed from their habitat, no doubt moving out in disgust at the behaviour of the neighbours.

  They say that part of Clumber Park is where they re-introduced some Red Kite a few years ago. These are huge birds that died out in England once, but a few kept going in Wales. Now they're back in these parts. I remember a court case once where a farmer got charged with wounding a couple who were having it off his cornfield. He said he mistook the bloke's bum going up and down in the corn for the backside of a rabbit, and that's why he blasted it with his shotgun. I don't think there are folk wandering around with shotguns in Clumber. But sometimes, when I'm with girls like Nuala, I do think of those Red Kite. They've got sharp talons, those buggers. And they hunt rabbits.

  All the way through the proceedings, Nuala kept up a constant running commentary, telling me what do and where, commenting on my performance, cheering and shouting at the exciting bits. It was sort of like John Motson commentating on an England v Germany game. At any moment I expected her to criticise my ball control or my poor finishing. But somehow we always seemed to go into extra time and end up with a nail-biting penalty shoot-out.

  When it was over, there were a few seconds of silence. I started to doze a bit, turning my face up to the sun and listening to the sounds of the birds complaining and the mums and dads screaming and shouting at their kids as they enjoyed a family afternoon out.

  Then Nuala started to talk again. She was recalling a particularly successful sale she'd negotiated recently - a holiday for a retired couple in the Canadian Rockies. Apparently, the trees pictured on the brochure had looked not unlike those around us now in Clumber Park, in that they had leaves and things. The old couple had flown to Toronto from Heathrow and then caught an internal flight to Ottawa before getting on a train to some place in the foothills of the Rockies, and then they hired a car to drive a few hundred miles... Then I fell asleep. I used to think that nodding off after sex was something to do with your body's metabolism slowing down after the release of energy. Not always, though. Sometimes it's just sheer boredom.

  I came round again a few minutes later, blearily thinking that Nuala's drone had became particularly monotonous, as if she was repeating the same phrase over and over again in a sort of peevish, high-pitched tone. This was perfectly likely, so it was a bit longer before I realised that the noise I was listening to was, in fact, my phone ringing.

  I sat up, trying to look as if I'd just been thinking, and saw Nuala was talking to two ducks that had wandered over from the lake on the off-chance we might have some food about us. She looked as though she was getting more response from the ducks than she had from me. They were particularly riveted by a detailed inventory of facilities at the log cabin in the Rockies. A sauna and a jacuzzi? Flap of wings, gaping of beaks. The old couple had been delighted, had they? Flap, flap. gape. But the manager hadn't even bothered to say 'well done, Nuala'? That was enough to drive you quackers.

  "Hello?" I said.

  "Stones, it's Teri."

  "Now then. How are you?"

  "Okay, cut the crap. I had some sort of message. What is it you want?"

  I'd almost forgotten she was one of my calls. I ought to be ashamed of myself. My contacts in the constabulary are down to one, and DC Teri Brooker is it.

  "Aren't you going to ask me how I am, for old time's sake?"

  "No. As far as I'm concerned, you're bad news, Stones. I'm only ringing so I can get you off my back. I don't want you pestering me at work."

  "Now, I wouldn't do that. I don't want to prejudice your career, love. I know you're after a corner of the office to call your own and all that."

  "Yes, and I'm not going to bollocks it all up by being caught talking to the likes of you. You're Reggie Kray and the Yorkshire Ripper rolled into one for some folk round here, you know. I wouldn't give much for your future if they ever got the chance to invite you in for a visit on a long-term basis."

  "I'll bear it in mind. But I need to meet you, Teri."

  "No."

  "Somewhere discreet. No problem."

  "It's too risky."

  "You know I'd run any risk for your sake, Teri."

  "I didn't mean - ." She sighed. "Is it important?"

  "Of course it is. I wouldn't ask otherwise. I can feel the shit rising round me, and if I don't do something about it, your mates might just get that chance you were talking about."

  "Where were you thinking of?"

  "The Dukeries Garden Centre. You know the one, at Welbeck?"

  "You're kidding."

  "It's safe as houses. It's out of your patch, for a start."

  It also wasn't Rufford, where my face might be starting to look a bit too familiar. But I didn't mention that to Teri.

  "None of your lot are going to be sniffing about among all those respectable citizens," I said. "Not unless they're looking for stolen gladioli. We can park over by the far end of the walled garden and nobody will get close. We can visit the art gallery as well, if you're feeling intellectual."

  The phone went quiet for a minute, as if she'd covered it with her hand.

  "It'll have to be right now," she said. "It's the only chance I've got. Take it or leave it."

  "I'll be there in half an hour, love."

  Well, of course, Clumber Park is right next door to Welbeck. But somehow I had to dispose of Nuala before I met Teri.

  She'd abandoned the ducks and was hovering nearby, listening to the last part of the phone call. I could see her brain connecting that 'love' with the scent in my car. She opened her mouth to make five, but I got in first.

  "Do you fancy doing some shopping, Nuala?"

  "Eh? Yeah."

  "Come on then. If you've finished with the birds, that is."

  She was in the car in a flash, and just as quickly she was rattling on about clothes and what she was thinking of buying. She seemed to imagine there'd be department stores and boutiques, River Island and Next. I hadn't the heart to break it to her that I was dropping her in Worksop, which is more Oxfam and Help the Aged.

  Even Nuala cottoned on quick when we pulled into the car park at the Priory Centre. When she got out of the car, there was only a canal and the back of Kwik Save, where she'd expected to see the atriums and fancy brickwork of a shopping mecca like Meadowhall or Crystal Peaks.

  "Is this it? Have they got a C&A? Or only a Marks and Sparks?"

  "Neither. But there's a good choice of charity shops. Save the Children have got a sale on."

  She peered down at me through the driver's window. She'd left some of the buttons of her blouse open after I'd adjusted it for her in Clumber. It was a spectacular view from I was sitting. What a pity.

  "So what exactly were you thinking of buying me?" she said.

  I slid a note out of the roll in my back pocket and stuffed it carefully into her cleavage. It was a fifty, so you can't say I'm not generous.

  "There's a place where you can buy almost the entire shop with that," I said. "It's called 'Owt for Next to Nowt' or something like that. They've got a lovely range of plastic kitchenware."

  While she was fishing out the note to throw in my face, I eased the handbrake off and reversed towards the car park exit. When I did my three-point turn I could see her in my mirror, mouth
still flapping. I was getting good at lip reading. But they certainly didn't sell that in Worksop.

  On the way to Welbeck, I couldn't help casting a professional eye at a truck parked by the A60 near the Worksop bypass. It was another with French plates on, and I've learned enough of the lingo to translate the Frog croakings on the side to mean it belonged to an international haulage company based near Caen that specialises in electrical gear. I thumbed a number on the phone and mentioned the location of it to one of the lads, just in case. Business has to go on.

  Did you know that over three thousand trucks are stolen in this country every year? Add an incredible twenty-five thousand trailers, with goods inside them worth about the same as the national debt. This is straight up, too. I read about it in Trucking International. We're not talking peanuts here.

  Someone once unloaded ninety-two thousand pounds' worth of Caterpillar boots after cropping open a container parked in a lay-by on the A45 in Northamptonshire. Three weeks before, seventy-five thousand quid in kids' clothes disappeared from a slashed curtain-sider on the same road. In the course of fifty days, no less than £280,000 in goods went from trucks in that area alone. I wasn't involved in any of that, of course. But I know a man who was.

  Me, I prefer to target the continentals. It's a personal prejudice, but it gives me pleasure. You see all these Scanias and DAFs and Mercs, huge beasts some of them, trundling through our English counties bringing in stuff from all across Europe. There are no barriers now, they say, since they created the EU. So they come in their hordes, complaining that our roads aren't good enough and griping about the food in the transport caffs. Some of these French drivers bring their own frog's legs and picnic together by their wagons like they were too good to eat a plate of pie and chips like the locals do. As far as I'm concerned, if they make the mistake of stopping in Nottinghamshire, they're fair game.

  Employers prefer drivers to park in official truck stops, but they don't always do it. This means they're a bit reluctant sometimes to admit where a load has been nicked from. Hampers the police no end, that does. So can a driver carrying on to his destination before discovering and reporting a theft. Hell, if you can't say where and when it happened, what can you expect the plods do but make an entry on their computer and write another one off to insurance? Victimless crime, see.