All the same, Donald Fraser found himself warming to the man, even liking him, begrudgingly. He cast a sort of spell on everyone who worked with him. Maybe it was his single-minded passion to get things done; maybe it was his unwillingness to cow tail to anyone; maybe it was because he said things as he thought them and didn’t gloss over anything; or maybe it was because men like him didn’t come around that often, were a law unto themselves, represented something of a distant past that had been irretrievably lost.
‘So what did your nark have to say?’ said Fraser, sucking on the cigarette.
Hawthorne wrinkled his nose and frowned. ‘Is that a new aftershave?’
Fraser narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, sir. What of it?’
‘Can you not wear something a little less girlie in future? It smells like I’ve got a ruddy shirt-lifter standing next to me.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘Says you.’ Hawthorne squinted at Fraser. ‘You’re not are you?’
‘Not what?’ Then Fraser got his meaning. ‘Christ, sir, no I’m not! Not that that’s any business of yours!’
‘Damned business is mine – it’s still illegal, you know. Get you banged-up in prison.’
Fraser sighed heavily. ‘I’ve got a bloody girlfriend, sir. I showed you her photograph only the other day.’
‘She looks butch, Fraser. Butch like a lesbian.’
‘That is downright insulting, sir!’
‘I’m only helping you, Fraser,’ he said. He tapped his nose. ‘I can sniff these things out better than anyone, trust me.’
‘She is not butch! She has a square jaw, that’s all.’
‘Damn well is butch. Want advice? Dump her. You’ll thank me in the end.’ He turned to the board again while Fraser fumed silently.
That was the other side of Hawthorne: he could turn on you in an instant and leave you feeling like you’d been bludgeoned without being able to respond. The man really was a double-edged sword.
‘So what did he say, your nark?’ said Fraser, breathing deep to settle himself.
‘Nothing.’
Fraser gave a tiny laugh. ‘Literally nothing?’
‘Literally nothing.’
‘I thought you said he talked, you had a conversation. You’ve got to say something in a conversation; it’s a sort of given.’
‘I asked him questions; he basically replied he didn’t know. Nothing worked on him.’
‘Ever thought that maybe he didn’t know anything?’
‘He knows, all right. He always knows. Only this time, he’s keeping his trap shut.’
Fraser shook his head. ‘Forgive me, sir, but what has this man not saying anything got to do with these three on the board? And what have they got to do with the Grainger robbery, more to the point?’
‘It’s just the sort of job they’d be involved with.’
‘Except they’re behind bars.’
‘Precisely!’ Hawthorne chimed.
‘Precisely what?’ he said, growing frustrated. ‘You’re not telling me anything here.’
Hawthorne threw up his hands. ‘You youngsters, you haven’t got the brains you were born with, in spite of all that college education and your clever qualifications spouting out your arse like a ruddy fountain.’ He thumped the board. ‘It’s plain for everyone to see.’
‘Care to explain, sir?’
Hawthorne shook his head. ‘It’s not who’s mug is up there, Fraser; it’s who is not. There’s a power vacuum with these three miserable bastards out of the way, and someone’s going to take their chance and rush in to fill it. We end one turf war and another is about to start up, mark my words. You can’t stop a woodlouse crawling into the damp if you don’t sort out the damp. We’ve removed some of the biggest bugs, but there are plenty more that are out there just waiting.’
‘You’ve got a bug in mind?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got one.’
‘Care to share?’
‘Eddie Bates.’
Fraser knew Bates well. Everyone did. Not up there with the likes of the three Hawthorne had pinned to the board, but a nasty piece of work nevertheless. And as slippery as the proverbial eel, because they’d not managed to pin anything solid on him for years, even though they knew he was at the centre of a number of gangland operations. His fortunes, if they could be called that (because generally the fortunes belonged to someone else), were on the rise, and the absence of the three main players would open up tempting new territory and opportunities for him.
‘You think he’s behind the robbery?’
Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Grainger Forges is in Billy Joe Kidman’s territory, and pretty few of his remaining, scattered mob would have the know-how or the audacity to carry out such a job. Eddie Bates is another matter. With the fence down, he’s the only one left standing with any real clout, the one most likely to get in there and make a success of it.’
‘Shall I bring him in?’ asked Fraser.
‘We’ll pay him a social visit this morning.’ Hawthorne drew in a breath, the air wheezing through clogged pipes. ‘One other thing bothers me: why was he left out of the equation? Why is his face not up there with the others?’
‘He’s a tricky one, sir. Not your average thug. I’ve seen his file: making anything stick on Eddie Bates has been an issue for the force for nearly twenty years.’
Hawthorne made a thoughtful humming noise as he stroked his chin. ‘A regular thorn in our ruddy sides,’ he said.
Fraser studied the man, whose forehead was creased in concentration. ‘What else is going on in that head of yours, sir? Some other thing bothering you?’
He shook his head quickly. ‘Just got itchy thoughts, Fraser; thoughts that I can’t scratch.’ He pushed his shoulders back with a purpose. ‘We’ve got things to do, Scottie. No sense in hanging around here wagging our ruddy jaws.’
Fraser said, ‘Eddie Bates?’
‘Who else?’
Hawthorne rushed out of the office and down the corridor, Fraser grabbing his coat and hat and following. Hawthorne paused at the doorway to an office in which a woman was just sitting down at a typewriter. ‘Ah, Beth, can you get someone to drop in a bunch of grapes or something at the hospital, emergency ward 10?’
‘What? For who?’ she said.
‘It’s for whom, you dithering mistake for a secretary, not who.’ Hawthorne gave a little shrug. ‘They’re for my nark; he fell down the stairs and didn’t come out of it too well. You know him, that slimeball Buddy Cochran. The grapes are to say sorry.’
Fraser rolled his eyes as Hawthorne swept from the room, his long coat billowing in his turbulent wake.
8
Wrong Road
‘Who the hell goes and leaves their car parked across a gateway like that?’
Bryn Jones was not very happy. The many years farming in all weathers had turned his face and bare arms to tanned brown leather, his eyes of pale blue looking like they’d faded in the sunlight. The breeze teased a lock of silver hair under his dirty hat. He brushed the annoying thing under the hat out of the way, his hands coming to settle on his hips.
‘I’ll bet they’re English,’ his son said, already looking like a thinner, younger version of his father. They both stood there with the same hands-on-hips stance, nodding in the same sage way.
‘It’s always the English,’ said Bryn.
In truth, it was a gateway that was hardly ever used, which is why they wouldn’t have discovered the parked Ford Anglia hadn’t David Williams the postman alerted them to it. But that wasn’t the point. It was the inconvenience that it would pose, if they were ever to use it, and that indicated inconsiderateness and downright bad manners, and someone who clearly had no idea about country ways.
‘City folk out on a jolly,’ said his son, rolling spit around his mouth and letting it fly so that it landed near the car’s rear wheel.
‘Can you see anyone?’ David Williams said.
‘No one. Not a thing
, Da,’ his son replied. ‘Do you reckon it’s been stolen and dumped here?’
‘I reckon so, son,’ he said. He tried the door handles. ‘Locked, and no sign of it being broken into. Well, whatever happened to get it here, I want the thing removed.’
They heard the sound of a car approaching. It was an aged blue-and-white Morris Minor, its small engine struggling to get it up the hill, blue exhaust fumes belching out. It came to a squeaky stop beside the two farmers and a constable got out, placing his cap on his head as he did so.
‘Morning, Bryn,’ the constable said. He nodded a greeting at the son.
‘Morning Constable Griffiths,’ said Bryn.
‘What have we got here, then?’ said Constable Rhys Griffiths of the Carmarthenshire Constabulary. He looked disinterested, or at best tired.
‘Parked right across my gate, it is, Rhys,’ said Bryn.
‘I can see that,’ said Griffiths, walking around the car. He looked up at the hills. ‘No one around?’
‘No one, Rhys. Like I told you on the phone, Williams the Nose told me it’s been here since yesterday afternoon at the very latest. Not the sort of thing you’d leave lying around, is it? I mean, where are they? Whose can it be? Has it been stolen?’
Constable Griffiths didn’t know much about cars, but he made an effort and got down on his haunches and tried to peer underneath. What he expected to find, he didn’t know.
‘Doesn’t look like it’s been broken into, and all the doors are locked, which would be very considerate of a thief. The owner has to be about some place. Maybe they took themselves off for a walk, stayed overnight somewhere and will collect it later.’
‘Where are they going to stay, Rhys?’ said Bryn, indicating the land with a grand sweep of his arm. ‘There’s no place to stay for miles. Can’t you move it? It’s blocking my gateway.’
‘You don’t use this gate, Bryn, anyone can see that.’
‘It’s private property, Constable Rhys. Private property. It shouldn’t be here in the first place.’
‘It’s hardly doing any harm, is it?’ But Constable Rhys Griffith could tell by the farmer’s implacable stare that he wasn’t about to be placated. He wanted the car moved, and more so, he surmised, because the number plates appeared to be English. ‘Look, let’s give it one more day for the owner to show up, shall we? I reckon he’ll be back for it soon, and then it will be out of your hair for good and you can get in and out of this gate as often and as freely as you like.’
The farmer grunted, and his son did the same.
Constable Griffiths took out his notebook and pencil and made a show of taking down the registration of the car.
‘Is that it?’ said Bryn. ‘Is that all you’re going to do?’
‘Look, Bryn,’ said Constable Griffiths, ‘it’s hardly a matter of life and death, is it? Give it today and if it’s here tomorrow, give me a ring.’
‘It costs me to ring the station, you know,’ said Bryn. ‘I’m not made of money.’
Griffiths ducked inside his Morris Minor, taking his cap off and slapping it on the passenger seat. ‘Then I’ll ring you,’ he said flatly. ‘Good day, Bryn.’
Both father and son watched the disappearing police car, their arms folded in unison, their lips tight, their faces united in disappointment and irritation.
‘I thought we were going to see Eddie Bates,’ said Inspector Fraser, turning to DCI Hawthorne.
They were standing in the middle of a large expanse of grass, high up on a hill, the city of Sheffield below them, with a smoggy film from the many factory chimneys blocking off most of the view. What there was to see wasn’t exactly inspiring, thought Fraser. Dark back-to-backs, block-like leviathan factories belching smoke, a train puffing along and carrying with it a long line of coal-filled wagons. There was the tinkling sound of kids playing football somewhere, perhaps on one of the many bombsites that blighted Sheffield’s already blighted landscape. Scraggy, low-lying bushes and trees skulked a few hundred yards from them, as if regarding them suspiciously from a safe distance. The wind was keen, and Fraser turned up his collar against it. Hawthorne was staring into the distance, lost in thought, the wind making the flaps of his raincoat dance like streamers.
‘I love this city, Fraser,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fraser, not feeling the love.
‘Truly, I do. Where you are born, it’s always there, right inside you, like it’s a part of you. I was born right here.’
‘Right here, sir?’ said Fraser, smiling broadly.
Hawthorne eyed him coldly. ‘Not here, man. Out there. You’d be able to see my old house if Hitler hadn’t bombed the ruddy thing to pieces. Like I say,’ he said, putting a fist to his heart, ‘where you’re born is who you are, and who you are is where you’re born. You can travel all over the world, but home is home.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, shuddering in the cold. ‘It’s bloody freezing, sir.’
‘What are you complaining for? You’re a Scot, aren’t you? It’s always cold in Scotland. God forgot to make the sun shine on Scotland.’
‘Have you ever been to Scotland, sir?’
Hawthorne shuddered this time. ‘What on earth would I want to go there for? All ruddy heather and tartan.’
‘That’s hardly a fair assessment, sir. Maybe you should go up sometime.’
Hawthorne looked doubtful. ‘You’re interrupting me, Scottie. I hate being interrupted.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ He held out a hand. ‘Please, go ahead. You were talking home-sweet-home bollocks.’
The DCI narrowed his eyes and fixed them on Fraser. He slowly turned to look at the view again. ‘You know where we are?’
‘No idea, sir. I’m still getting acclimatised.’
‘Sky Edge. You can see why it’s called that. It’s like we’re on top of the world up here. If you’d been up here forty years ago, you’d have seen something very different.’
Fraser offered a shrug. ‘More grass? More sky?’ he said disinterestedly.
‘Two to three-hundred men, that’s what.’ Hawthorne closed one eye in thought. ‘It was just before or during the Great War. I was a very young kid, hardly out of nappies – except we didn’t have nappies back then. I came up here with my dad. I was on his shoulders. The place was packed out with men gambling on the pitch-and-toss. Three hundred of them standing in a big circle, a man in the middle, tossing up a coin, men taking bets on how it would land. One man, I remember dad telling me, regularly bet fifty quid a time – fifty ruddy quid!’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘Even now that’s a lot of dough. The racket was run by a man named George Mooney, a big guy in the city. He took four shillings in every pound bet.’
‘Why are you telling me this, sir?’ he asked impatiently. ‘We ought to see Eddie Bates.’
‘I’m educating you, you blasted Scottish heathen. And we leave when I say we leave.’ He straightened his shoulders and faced the view of Sheffield again. ‘Pitch-and-toss, in fact every type of gambling outside horse racing was strictly illegal. There were lookouts called pikes, keeping an eye out for the police. Being high up here, they were usually easy to spot.’
‘You were involved in illegal activities, sir?’ said Fraser lightly. ‘My, my…’
‘My old man thought he could get rich quick, but got poor quicker from feeding his hard-earned wages to the likes of George Mooney and his sort. Took the bread from babes’ mouths it did. That was my first taste of the underside of Sheffield, Fraser, and it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Anyhow, after the war things got bad for Mooney. He had to downsize his operations, including the pitch-and-toss. Someone else moved in to keep it going, calling themselves the Park Brigade, and then the Garvin Gang added its weight, and before too long a bloody war broke out in Sheffield as rival gangs fought to gain control of the city. It got so bad in the 1920s, they gave Sheffield the nickname Little Chicago. People were afraid to go out at night…’
‘At least some things haven’t changed, eh, sir?�
�� he grinned.
Undeterred, Hawthorne carried on. ‘The Home Office sent in the Flying Squad under the direction of Chief Constable Sillitoe. He stamped on the gangs, hard, then harder still, his men using every means possible to break them up. They were some of the hardest buggers around, those guys in the Flying Squad. You didn’t mess with them. They were my inspiration, Fraser. They were my heroes. That’s why I’m a copper today, because of them, because of gangbuster Sillitoe and his band of soldiers.’
‘Soldiers, sir?’
‘It’s a damn war we’re fighting, Fraser. They’re dirtying up my city, my home, with their ruddy turf wars, and I aim to stamp them out once and for all, just like Sillitoe did. They hurt my city, they hurt me, and to hurt me is to court my wrath.’
Fraser snickered. ‘Court your wrath? Very biblical, sir.’
Hawthorne eyed him. ‘You know what they call me?’
‘They call you a lot, sir,’ he said smirking. ‘Some of it's not very nice.’
‘They call me Archangel Hawthorne.’
‘I’m aware of that particular soubriquet, sir.’
Hawthorne grunted and faced the smog-shrouded city of Sheffield once more. ‘They hurt my city, they hurt me…’ he said quietly.
‘Can we go now? It’s freezing my bloody bollocks off up here!’
ARCHANGEL HAWTHORNE (A Thriller) Page 8
