"In case you hadn't noticed, Tommy, I'm a police officer. I have the right to ask questions. It's what I do."
"Not about me, Harry. You don't ask questions. Not about me, you don't."
He's perfectly serious. I'm getting angry now, but keeping it under control.
"Listen to me, Tommy. I've got no time for people who feed from the public trough and then decide it isn't enough. If I hear about someone in the Town Planning Department who hasn't got two pennies to rub together but who's taking very expensive holidays, I think people have a right to know who paid and what particular favor he was paying for. And when I hear about a member of the Public Works Committee whose own company has just gone into liquidation, and yet who's now driving a new Jag, I think someone's got the right to ask who's in the back seat of the Jag. The answer in both cases is Tommy Backhouse."
"This is just gossip and hearsay, Harry, and you know it. Where's the proof of all this?"
"Oh,” I say, “you can get proof of anything if you want it enough. All it needs is for one of your little friends to put his hands up and the rest will go down like a row of dominoes."
"All this is academic, Harry,” he says. “No one would ever believe you. Not after everything I've done for this town. The shopping center, the business park, the bypass, all the projects I've forced through despite that bunch of deadheads in Town Hall. It's results that count. And the people of this town can see the results of what I do for them."
"It's what they don't see that interests me,” I say. “Like construction company A moving their equipment onto a site before the contract's even been awarded. And when the contract is dished out, guess who's got it? Why, Company A. And guess who's the chairman of the committee that examined the sealed bids? Surprise, surprise, it's Councillor Tommy Backhouse. And what people also don't see is the large present that Councillor Backhouse got for his pains."
"That's the way things get done, Harry,” he says. “Why don't you grow up and come into the real world?"
"This is my world, Tommy. And I don't want people in it who take bribes. People who think they're above it all. And that's you, Tommy. You always thought you were special."
"Bloody right, I'm special.” He isn't shouting, but he doesn't have to. “I'm one of the people who make this town work, by the way. I get things done around here. You think things would get done if it was up to that crowd of old women? Damn right I'm special. At least compared to anyone else you can name in this godforsaken dump. And you don't go asking questions about me, Harry."
"Or what?” I say.
* * * *
Bloody silly question really, because he showed me or what. It took him a year or so, but he showed me. I'd been replaying that little scene in my head for six, seven months, wondering what I could have done that would have stopped everything. And now thanks to Linda, I was going over it again. And Linda was right. It had to stop. And perhaps this thing of Eggy's, stupid as it was, would take my mind off, get me out of the house.
So all right. Piddling and inconsequential it was to be. My dad always said if you were after the monumentally trivial, go to the barber's. There's nothing like the tonsorial earhole for picking up useful info. Better than a barman sometimes. So I finished off the last few cold chips, put on my coat, and went to see Walter Webster. Known as Worldwide Webster on account of the quality of his information gathering.
"Well, well, look what the cat's dragged in,” Walt said. “You're just in time. Tea's brewed. Pour us a cup."
"Now then, Walt,” I said. I took off my overcoat—it's always too hot in a barber's shop, ever noticed that? Walt went on clipping as I poured said tea.
When the Swamp Creature in the chair had paid his quid and lurched out, Walt sat down heavily next to me and took a deep swig of his tea.
"By, that's good,” he said. “I don't know what it is about those Attercliffes, but they make my mouth go dry. Makes you despair of humanity."
"Well,” I said, “if they will go fishing around in the shallow end of the gene pool, that's likely what they're going to pull out."
We considered this in silence for a moment.
"What you after then, Harry? It's not a haircut, that I do know. And I see you've got rid of that mustache again."
"It was taking up too much room,” I said. “I've got better things to do with my upper lip."
"Comes and goes as it pleases, that mustache. Treats your face like a hotel, you ask me."
I settled down into my investigative mode.
"What I really wanted was to ask if you've heard anything about kids nicking tools or anyone buying them."
"Tools? Well, there's always them willing to buy nicked anything, you know that. But tools? No, can't say I've heard anything. Tools is a bit small time for round here. Though there was that thing at George Holroyd's garage."
"What thing?"
"Someone had it away with his breakdown truck. That had tools in it, trolley jacks, God knows what else. Though they did find it next day down on the estate."
"Breakdown trucks? No, that's not really what I'm after."
"I did hear about something that has gone missing,” he said, eying me mischievously.
I waited. So did Walt. I waited a bit more. But Walt has the metabolic rate of a digesting cobra when he's being naughty.
"All right,” I said, “go on then. What's the network got to say?"
"Well,” he said, “according to Corinne—” He saw my eyes glaze. “Corinne's my niece who does contract cleaning work at the Town Hall."
"Right,” I said. “And what what's gone missing according to Corinne?"
"An old friend of ours, what we've known since Skeffington Road Mixed Infants,” he said.
"Bloody who, Walt?” Walt can really drive you mad when he sets his mind to it.
"Only Councillor Tommy Backhouse.” He watched my face. “I thought that'd tickle you."
"I am duly tickled. When you say ‘gone missing,'” I said, “what does that mean exactly?"
"Just that. Gone missing. Done a runner, some say. Them that's talking anyway. He hasn't been in his office for five days. Nobody knows nuffink. Last seen at the obsequies of Ernest Jones, deceased."
This was interesting.
"He was at Ernie Jones's leaving do, was he?"
"Well, seeing as he was part of the family. Did you know Ernie?"
"Only by reputation. But it turns out I know one of his relatives. And Tommy was related as well, was he?"
"Not legally,” Walt said. “When his mum died back in the sixties, it was Winnie Jones who sort of adopted him, ‘cos his father couldn't cope. Gave him his tea, washed his clothes for him. He was round there all the time. Him and Ernie was really close."
Tommy Backhouse. Fancy that. And he'd gone missing. Well, that was good news for a lot of people, I would have thought. I said so.
Walt grinned.
"Not for hizzoner the mayor it isn't, nor for all them that was in tight with Tommy. They're keeping it quiet but there's a lot of nervy people round Town Hall. The words that come to mind are ‘headless’ and ‘chickens.’ They've been ringing round the hospitals just in case, ‘cos he's already had a couple of heart attacks, did you know that?"
"Yes,” I said. “And I all but gave him another one, once upon a time."
"Corinne says it has all the hallmarks of a real scandal."
"Well,” I said, “that's all very interesting, my old Walt."
"Interesting is all I ever hope to be, Harry,” he said.
"But it doesn't help me with my tool problem,” I said. “I'm off."
And I was. Down Emersley Road, thinking all the way. It's a nice road, Emersley Road. It runs from the center of town all the way, well, to Emersley—where else?—and from there you can see right across the town to the other side of the valley where the posh folks live in the big houses that were built with the money from the mills when there were mills and money to be made from them. And far beyond are the tan and purple moors i
n the blue distance. Clouds were drifting across the sun and every time they did, shadows would move slowly across the moors and make the tan and purple go even darker. Like dark thoughts drifting across your mind. Thanks, Walt.
* * * *
Skeffington Road Mixed Infants School; 1968, it would have been. And I can remember the day Tommy Backhouse arrived. Nine years old, and a real Mixed Infant, sharp eyed and big for his age, whose parents had made it out of Czechoslovakia just in time before the crackdown. I can't remember what his name was then, but it wasn't Tommy and it wasn't Backhouse. That came after his parents naturalized.
You might say he ran away from one reign of terror to set up his own. He might not have had much idea of English, but he had a very good idea about what he wanted, and that was to run the playground at Skeffington Road. He had to fight a lot of types bigger than him, and take a lot of lumps to get there, but he did.
And when we all grew up, went to grammar school or secondary modern, and found our way into our more or less dead-end jobs, we suddenly turned round and found to our amazement that we'd changed, but Tommy hadn't. He was still there with his dazzling smile and his sharp eyes. Only now the whole town was his playground. He had an unerring instinct for finding his way into things and taking over. Almost overnight it seemed, he had his own plant-hire company. Nobody ever found out how he'd managed that. And he was equally suddenly on the town council. He was little Tommy Backhouse all grown up and ready to play with the big boys. He was on all the committees—all the ones that counted, anyway.
He was a joiner, was Tommy. In everywhere. Tennis, golf, Masons, anywhere he could meet people who might be useful to him. He had a gift for knowing who to cultivate and who to ignore, who to pal up with and who to bully.
Some of the people he palled up with weren't the sort of people you'd invite home. Like Charlie Marsden. When Tommy decided that he needed someone to run the plant-hire business because of the crushing burden of his civic functions, he took on Charlie as his partner. Not the sort you'd want to meet late at night up a dark alley. Or in an underground carpark.
But I did. Because six months after that night when he'd given me that first gentle warning in my sitting room, he gives me the second. And this time, he has Charlie with him. Charlie who looks like the result of a terrible blunder at Biotech.
I am vaguely unlocking the car—vaguely, because I've had a few drinks with Frank Middlemass in the Sheep and Three Magnets, so I'm not one hundred percent—when I hear the footsteps behind me.
"Hello, Harry,” he says. I turn round and there's Tommy, big and shiny as usual, and next to him is the Mud-Man, six foot three with long, tangled, greasy black hair and a long, greasy black leather coat. Two stretches for GBH, one for armed robbery, and more to come, if I'm any judge.
"Oh, it's you,” I say. Sharp as a knife, I am. I frighten myself sometimes.
"Bit jumpy are we?” Tommy says. “Sorry if I startled you. You know Charlie, do you? My partner."
"Yes, I know Charlie,” I say.
Tommy is circling round me, looking at the DS. He pokes at a tire delicately with the toe of his gleaming shoe.
"Nice car, Harry,” he says. “Class. Old, but class."
"It does me,” I say. “We don't all need BMs. Business good in the plant-hire business, is it then? Lots of work from all those blokes who seem to be getting all those public works contracts these days. You've got it down to a fine art, haven't you, Tommy? You hand out the contracts to your mates for a nice back-hander, then you get the plant-hire work on top. Talk about two bites at the cherry.” The scotch is talking and I can't shut it up.
"There you go again,” he says. “I'm afraid it's yellow card time, Harry. I've done my best with you, but you just don't listen. Still poking around in what doesn't concern you."
"I've told you,” I say, “I'll poke around in whatever I like."
"Problem is—” Charlie Marsden suddenly says.
"Ah, it speaks,” I say.
"Problem is,” he says again, “Tommy's too good hearted.” He's smiling, or what amounts to it because that large, ugly face isn't made for smiling. Those teeth are made for biting.
"I've spotted that,” I say. “He's noted for it."
He nods.
"Everyone keeps telling him, but he can't stop it. That's the way he is. But there are other people involved. Like me. And I'm not good hearted."
Tommy says, “Charlie's far too hard on himself, by the way. But what he is trying to tell you in his stumbling boyish way, Harry, is that you really have to stop. And if you don't you'll have to be stopped."
I say, “You wouldn't be threatening me, by any chance, Tommy? I mean, you wouldn't be that daft, would you?"
"It's not a question of threats, Harry.” He's smoothing down his jacket now, just finished a really successful meeting. “I'm just telling you it'll be out of my hands soon, that's all. You think you know things about me. Well, we can all keep files on people. So, be sensible."
"Be sensible,” says Charlie, “or be run over."
And then they're walking away, and I can stop working out how quickly, if it comes to it, I can to get to the jack-handle I always keep on the floor of the car, which was the only thing I could have used. And I can stop sweating too. But I don't for quite a while.
* * * *
Six months later I was an ex-copper. And seven months after that, I was here, investigating the non-theft of some tools from a shed owned by a small-time tea-leaf.
Well, as my dad always said, if you're having dark thoughts, take some alcohol and have a bit of a think. I was, so I walked all the way into town, partly to combat haddock and chips deep fried in pure cholesterol, but also to have a drink at the Sheep and Three Magnets. It was mid afternoon, so the place was full. There was a small desultory fight going on in one corner, quite properly being ignored by everybody.
Clive the barman said, “Mr. Tattersby. Long time no drinkies. Your usual, will it be?"
"Yes, please, Clive, a scotch, of the large persuasion."
I had a look round. The Sheep is a large, grim place, and it's a grimy place, with a high ceiling, nicotine stained beyond redemption. It has a bare wooden floor and some cursory tables and chairs and a couple of wooden booths over there in the gloom. This is a place for drinking, and that's all. And it's not a place to bring your mother, unless your mother happens to be a six-foot fifteen-stone copper, or a wrongdoer. Or both, which happens more than you might think.
Clive said at my elbow, “Here's yours, Mr. Tattersby."
And another voice behind me said, “That's on me, Clive."
"Inspector Middlemass is paying, Mr. Tattersby."
I said, “So I noticed, Clive, and it's not before time."
I turned and there was Frank, grinning at me. He raised his glass at me, and I picked up mine.
"I looks towards yer—” I said.
"—and I catches yer eye,” Frank finished. We took a restorative sip and a moment to weigh each other up. Frank's as big as me, and he's got a sharp, wolfish face and olivey skin. We were in the same intake when we joined in 1979, got transferred to C.I.D. on the same day, and we've been friends since infant school. We've done some stuff together, Frank and me, seen some things.
He said, “How's it going, Harry? I see you've shaved off the mustache again."
I said, “Blackfly got into it. I had to cut it right back."
He nodded. “I heard about Pauline and all that."
"She's setting up house with her sister."
"Maureen?” he said, rolling his eyes. People who have met my wife's sister tend to roll their eyes a lot when her name comes up.
"It's been a while, Harry. How come you haven't been round? If I was at all sensitive I'd think you'd forgotten that we've known each other a long time."
"All right,” I said, “before you start going on about your Hornby and your Barlow long ago, tell me something. You heard anything about people interested in knocked-off tools?"
>
"Tools? No, it's more your DVDs and portable phones and computers these days. Why tools? You got some gone missing?"
"No, they haven't gone missing. And there's the mystery."
"You going private on us, then? Down these mean streets and all that?"
"No,” I said, “just doing a favor for a friend."
"Here. Speaking of friends,” he said, leaning closer to me, “there's a friend of ours that has gone missing."
"I heard about that,” I said. “So it's common knowledge, is it?"
"No one's been in touch officially,” he said, “but we've had a quiet headsup. Very quiet."
"They're sitting on it then."
"For the moment. Oh, it's strange, but then we're used to strange with Mr. Backhouse, aren't we? He'll turn up,” said Frank. “At least Charlie Marsden's hoping to hell he will. You haven't heard about the break-in at his plant-hire yard? No? You'll love this, Harry. He had four JCBs nicked. Three months ago."
"Four JCBs?"
"Count ‘em. Earthmovers. Brand-new. Just been delivered and still in the wrapping paper. Somebody very cute rolled up with a couple of low loaders, doped the dogs, got round the alarms, and had it away with them, cool as you like. Nobody saw a thing. Including two security guards who checked the gates at two in the morning. If you can believe them."
"So what do you reckon?” I asked. Frank was right. This was lovely stuff. Prime Backhouse.
"Well, between you and me and this empty glass—” I signalled to Clive. “—thank you, Harry, very civil—I think it's your classic insurance con. Look, he'd just bought them, massive credit, insured them up to here. What do you think?"
I thought that earthmovers aren't something you sell off a stall in the market.
"Come on,” said Frank, “he'd sold them on before they were even delivered. Look where we are, Harry. Right on the motorway. Take your pick, Hull, Liverpool. I reckon six hours after they were nicked they were in the hold of some East European rustbucket. By now, I'd lay odds they're digging the foundations of a shopping center in Spotz or Klutz or one of those Scrabble places."
I thought about it.
"He'd get a nice price for them, and in cash. And he's got the contacts."
AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005 Page 11
