UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘It’s quits if you don’t score; a tenner from me when you do. Doesn’t that satisfy your terms and conditions? Sounds like win-win to me.’

  ‘Oh all right then.’ Ms Jones pretended to sigh. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  * * *

  Jack Carlisle was glad he hadn’t picked up the Burrows investigation. Interesting though it was, he had enough on plate already. That was why he’d been at his desk bright and early this morning.

  Well, early, anyway. Very early, considering it was his weekend off and he wasn’t paid overtime anymore.

  Into mid-afternoon and a bit closer to the Land of Up To Date, he yawned and leant back in his chair. Ignoring the remains of his own paperwork, he ran through the basics of his colleague’s new case. Not luxuriating in it, more intrigued by the contradictions.

  Charles “Bunny” Burrows was a small-time nobody. He had a record of petty offences but nothing to write home about. He’d skipped Bingley a year ago for reasons unknown, recently resurfacing in Frizinghall, allegedly working for Harry Williamson. No trafficking form, yet found with half a ton of smack.

  So definitely drug-related, but why did he end up machine-gunned to death?

  A deal gone wrong? Probably not. Burrows hadn’t just bought the stuff, because he’d split it at home, leaving evidence everywhere. And he’d had all his stock on him, so he wasn’t making an everyday sale.

  One school of thought had Burrows doing a runner, not least because he had his few worldly possessions with him in the car. Although that had a ring to it, it didn’t explain everything. Whatever he’d been doing (buying, selling or fleeing), the guys who slaughtered him would have known about the smack. So why leave it?

  The office door opened and DS Ayling stuck his head through, knocking on the frame as an afterthought.

  ‘Here for anything in particular?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘Not much,’ Carlisle replied. ‘It was here or mowing the lawn. No contest really, was there?’

  Ayling took a seat across the desk. ‘I’m done in half an hour. Fancy a pint?’

  ‘I could be persuaded.’

  ‘You’re on, then.’

  Carlisle looked at him curiously. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you going to sit there for half an hour, doing nothing until it’s time for the pub?’

  ‘I’m not sitting doing nothing,’ Ayling protested. ‘I’m assisting you with your enquiries.’

  ‘My enquiries?’

  ‘Bernie’s enquiries, then. And don’t say you’re not thinking about the shooting. I’m a detective, I know the signs.’

  Carlisle rolled his eyes. ‘In that case go on, assist.’

  ‘Danny Painter.’

  ‘Danny Painter and Bunny Burrows,’ Carlisle shook his head. ‘Not a prayer.’

  ‘It’s Painter’s lot or Dwyer’s. And Dwyer doesn’t do drugs.’

  ‘The Painters have been toothless for years. And they wouldn’t have been capable of this in the first place.’

  ‘So your money’s on Dwyer?’

  ‘No,’ said Carlisle, ‘I don’t think Dwyer dare say boo to a goose. He’s even less likely than Painter.’

  ‘From what I heard, Dwyer’s the coming thing.’

  ‘Bollocks. Dwyer’s no more than a dodgy car dealer.’

  Ayling seamlessly changed tack. ‘How about Harry Williamson? He’s not toothless.’

  ‘Burrows was working for Williamson.’

  ‘Thieves fall out. Maybe Burrows double-crossed him.’

  ‘Williamson wouldn’t have left five grand’s worth of gear lying on the back seat.’

  ‘So he used amateurs. Panicked at the sight of blood. Legged it.’

  ‘That wasn’t an amateur job,’ said Carlisle. ‘We’d have caught them by now if they didn’t know what they were doing.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I need to think while I’m mowing that lawn.’

  ‘You shouldn’t mow this time of year. It tears the grass. You’ll be better off staying with me in the pub.’

  ‘Tell that to the trouble and strife.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ Ayling checked his watch. ‘Anything else happening?’

  ‘No. What about you?’

  ‘Not a lot. I had a call from Doncaster, about that prozzie.’

  ‘Ayling . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. She’s someone’s daughter.’

  ‘Too right she is. So stop grinning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘What did Doncaster want?’

  ‘They were curious about a vehicle they found.’

  Carlisle frowned. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was left on a pub car park. About a mile from where the . . . the young lady was killed.’

  ‘Connected?’

  ‘They can’t be sure. It’s completely clean inside. Nobody saw it arrive. No CCTV or anything helpful. They’re just not leaving any stone unturned.’

  ‘How do we fit in?’

  ‘It was stolen from an address in Heaton. Garden Lane, a few doors along from the Ripper’s old house.’

  Carlisle sighed. ‘And the moral of this story is . . .’

  ‘Dunno, really. They wanted to confirm the time of theft. When reported; that sort of thing.’

  ‘Does it match?’

  ‘Oh yes. It was reported as stolen three hours before they found the body. Could have been taken earlier, though. And that’s as much as I could tell them. They were hoping for suspects, descriptions . . .’ Ayling shrugged. ‘At least that’s what they said. I think they were fishing, trying to link our big unsolved murder with theirs.’

  ‘How could she be linked with Burrows?’

  ‘Not Burrows; that old case of yours.’

  ‘Do you mean Micky Johnson?’ Carlisle always shuddered at the name. Always felt a thrill of anticipation, too. God knew why, all he ever got was disappointed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ayling. ‘I told them I was far too young to have been involved, suggested they caught up with you next week.’

  ‘She was strangled with her own stocking wasn’t she?’ said Carlisle, letting the ageism sail over his head. ‘That’s not even remotely similar to Micky Johnson.’

  ‘Their reasoning was both seem planned. And the car does connect theirs to our neck of the woods. Sort of.’

  ‘Right; well it can’t do any harm, I suppose.’

  Ayling rechecked his watch and rose to his feet. ‘Course it can’t. You’ll know things they don’t. And they aren’t saying much at all, are they? Between you, who knows?’

  ‘I know the bastard who did Johnson’s still out there,’ said Carlisle. ‘If there’s still a chance of nicking him . . .’

  * * *

  Geoff had been working and drinking coffee all morning . . . lots of coffee. When the Under 15s finished he wasn’t remotely tempted to catch the end of the big match. Right then his priorities only involved toilets and beer. Not even the finely poised score line of 24-18 could sway him.

  Suitably relieved, he strolled into the bar and bought the first pint he’d had in ages. Well . . . the first relaxed pint. Nowadays he seemed to dash about everywhere. What with work, evening classes, a demanding wife . . .

  He had an almighty swig and immediately felt better. Recalling Jamie’s match only improved the feeling. This afternoon had been Jamie’s debut. Or rather, yet another debut. Jamie was supposed to be an Under 12 but he was too rough for some of the delicate souls on opposing teams. He’d spent most of last season playing for the Under 13s; today was his second step-up already this season.

  Geoff had another swig. He’d missed more games than he’d attended just lately, but he had seen both debuts. Last time he’d actually made it for the kick off, as he would have today . . . if it hadn’t been for the traffic.

  Still, Jamie didn’t need moral support, whatever Penny might think. He’d scored a try before good old Dad even got ther
e. Then he’d added a couple more for luck, on top of at least twenty utterly crunching tackles. As a civilized ex-soccer player, good old Dad had winced at the ferocity. He wasn’t surprised opposing Under 12s didn’t want anything to do with him.

  There was a muted cheer from outside as he bought a second beer. You didn’t need to be a rugby aficionado to realize the visitors had scored.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured, glancing around.

  The bar was thinly populated, considering drinks were being served. Geoff recognized a few faces from the sidelines of the junior match. He assumed the others must be serious drinkers, as he might be himself, given the chance.

  ‘What did you think?’

  He turned to see one of the Under 15s coaches beaming at him.

  ‘Great match,’ he said, struggling to remember the man’s name.

  ‘It was more of a hammering than a match, although it’s not the done thing to gloat. Your lad’s performance, though . . .’

  ‘I missed the start,’ Geoff said modestly. ‘He seemed to do all right in the last hour or so. Not that I’m an expert.’

  ‘Mr Rodgers, Jamie isn’t all right, he’s sensational. He’ll be in the Firsts before you know it.’

  Another muted cheer saved the proud parent’s blushes.

  ‘That didn’t sound good.’

  ‘It sounded like 24-24,’ the coach agreed. Then, after a far louder cheer: ‘And that sounded like full time.’

  As he spoke two very attractive women burst into the bar and began demanding champagne. Geoff thought they were joking and was surprised when the barman immediately started popping corks.

  ‘Dare I ask?’ the coach said to the older, fair-haired one.

  ‘An amazing comeback,’ she replied. ‘We snatched a draw.’ Then, unashamedly giving them both the eye, ‘Will you join us in a glass?’

  ‘We’re Bees,’ said the coach. ‘You might want to save it for your guests.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Geoff said quickly. ‘I’m a Bee’s dad, but I’ve banked with WYB for twenty years.’

  ‘Heather,’ the woman called to her companion. ‘A couple of glasses over here please, before the rush.’

  Heather had a line of glasses on the bar and was filling them one after the other. She emptied her current bottle before sliding three glasses their way.

  ‘Have a drink yourself, Joanna. I’ll see to everyone else . . . before I take a few cases into the changing rooms.’

  Joanna laughed and said something about keeping out of the bath. Geoff hardly heard their exchange. He was too smitten by his close-up of Heather’s face. Beautiful or what? It almost hurt to look at her.

  ‘Cheers,’ Joanna said.

  The rush arrived with a vengeance. Accepting some champagne after all, the coach edged away, making his excuses as he went. Suddenly Geoff was alone with Joanna, marooned with her in a sea of jostling, thirsty people.

  * * *

  ‘Cheers,’ Geoff said awkwardly.

  ‘I don’t think she knows exactly how stunning she is,’ Joanna countered.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The delectable Heather.’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Don’t er me, Mr Bee’s Dad. It’s written all over your face.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Your admiration. No, don’t deny it. Just shout if she tries sneaking off behind my back.’

  ‘She looks to have her hands full right now.’ Geoff shrugged. ‘I’ll let you know if she starts swinging the lead.’

  Joanna smiled and sipped Moet, assessing him.

  ‘I’m Geoff,’ he blurted. ‘Not Mr Bee’s Dad.’

  ‘You’re also very married, aren’t you?’

  ‘Is that written all over my face too?’

  ‘Only slightly . . . and most unfortunately. I’ve got the power of the pen today. You could have helped us girls seriously abuse it.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Jamie chose that moment to arrive, hair still wet from the showers. He was grinning, oblivious to the impressive purple bruise under his half-closed eye.

  ‘I got man of the match,’ he began cheerfully. ‘Can I have a Guinness?’

  ‘You can have a weak shandy,’ Geoff countered, slipping him a fiver. ‘Just don’t tell your mum. And queue for it yourself.’

  Joanna was still smiling and sipping champagne. ‘Is he the one who scored hundreds of points against our Under 15s?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ Geoff said. ‘Not hundreds. It was his debut. He’s only twelve.’

  ‘God help us when he grows up. Fancy another?’

  ‘If you insist. But please . . . don’t feel obliged.

  ‘You’ve been banking with us twenty years?’ She chuckled. ‘I don’t believe in giving new customers all the freebies. Call it a token of our appreciation.’

  Jamie had got himself a pint of something that might have been shandy. He was keeping his distance and showing no indication of giving Dad his change. All pretty much par for the course. After casting a sneaky glance in Heather’s direction, seeing her holding court to half a dozen drooling admirers, Geoff concentrated on Joanna.

  Very, very attractive, he thought. Can’t understand why she’s talking to an old has-been like me. No, an old married has-been like me.

  But she was talking to him and he quickly got into it. Like most old has-beens, he was good at compartmentalising: day-to-day problems; arguments with Penny; impending funerals, trivial little things like that. Forgetting everything apart from now, he blocked out his worries and engaged in idle chitchat, enjoying the eye contact and the mildest of flirting. Not bothering to count all the additional glasses, sniggering each time his increasingly attractive hostess said, ‘Fancy more abuse?’

  All too soon Jamie was back, fresh from his after-match meal, in search of more cash.

  ‘You parted with that far too easy,’ he said, pocketing a second fiver. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course I am. Just make sure we walk home.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t got you in trouble,’ Joanna said after the youngster had gone again.

  ‘No more than usual.’ Then, afraid that sounded contrived: ‘I nearly always have too much and leave the car. We’re only ten minutes up the road.’

  ‘Handsome . . . responsible . . . are you sure you don’t want to help us abuse our expenses?’

  ‘I thought I was doing,’ Geoff mumbled, back in awkward mode.

  This time Heather’s arrival saved him.

  ‘Remind me,’ she said to Joanna. ‘Do I owe you ten pounds?’

  ‘Not yet, unfortunately.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I’ve been watching you. You look good together.’

  Geoff slyly checked his watch and tried not to stare too much at the younger woman.

  ‘How’s the champagne going?’ Joanna wondered.

  ‘Everyone’s switched to pints,’ Heather replied, ‘apart from you two. The bar manager wants to know if he should be putting more on ice.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Geoff. ‘We need to be off.’

  ‘We?’ She fixed him with astonishing green eyes.

  ‘Me and Jamie,’ he said clumsily. ‘His tea will be ready.’

  ‘Hasn’t he just had a post-match banquet?’

  ‘Trust me, he’ll be hungry. He’d eat ten meals a day if they were going. I’m amazed he isn’t obese.’

  ‘Must take after his dad,’ Joanna said. ‘By being naturally athletic, I mean.’

  Grinning, Heather backed away.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.’ Geoff hesitated, ‘Even though it’s supposed to be us at home.’

  ‘Our bank’s based in Bingley too.’ Joanna laughed. ‘We’d have sponsored the more local team if B&B hadn’t beaten us to it. You could have been Wees instead of Bees.’

  ‘Ah, I see. It’s competition.’

  ‘Too right it is. We’re going to out-lavish the Bees today and damn the consequences.’

  ‘I don’t kn
ow about the consequences, but I’m certainly out-lavished.’

  ‘Just make sure to tell all your friends. WYB rules okay. Yes?’

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘And I really have enjoyed talking to you.’

  ‘Go home to your wife,’ she said, smiling more fetchingly than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘This Bunny Burrows crap,’ Pat had a quick check around the barroom, making sure nobody was listening. ‘It’s history, isn’t it? Please say Harry knows we’re quits.’

  Jonjo Blake snorted. ‘I’ve never seen Harry so wound up about anything. He was calmer in Armley, back in the days when he was looking at life.’

  ‘Doesn’t he realize Sean wants to wind him up?’

  ‘Mate . . . everything Sean does winds Harry up, even breathing. No way is he going to drop it.’

  Pat would have said more if the Gorgeous Sisters hadn’t descended on them; the two who’d been keeping the WYB fans basking in champagne all afternoon.

  ‘McGuire and Blake,’ the incredible black-haired one began. ‘According to my team sheet you are, anyway. We want to thank you for the entertainment.’

  ‘And to ask how come you’re on speaking terms,’ said the blonde. ‘We couldn’t help noticing you knocking lumps out of each other.’

  ‘Very violently,’ Miss Incredible added with a tipsy titter. ‘You didn’t half turn me on.’

  ‘Heather!’ her friend exclaimed. ‘Don’t give it away! Not so quickly, anyhow.’

  Now they both tittered and Pat wondered just how much they’d downed.

  ‘We like knocking lumps out of each other,’ Jonjo said. ‘We’re sado-thingamajigs.’

  ‘He’s sado,’ said Pat, unable to resist. ‘I’m just a thingamajig.’

  ‘I’m a thingamajig too,’ Jonjo protested. ‘Sado sounds like some sort of perv.’

  ‘You are a frigging perv.’ Pat replied. ‘Biggest one I’ve ever met.’

  They both laughed at that, pushing and half-punching each other as if they were still out on the playing field.

  ‘Boys!’ the blonde one scolded.

  ‘Boys,’ Jonjo echoed.

  Pat was going to say something cutting and witty when a text arrived. It was from Donna confirming she was, for the first time ever, able to do a Saturday night.