AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Lots of family still over there,” Frank said. “The East European chapter of his Supporters’ Club. And it's wide open over there, so I hear. Worse than Russia."

  "And now he's gone walkabout."

  Frank smiled.

  "Tell you what really warms the cockles of my little heart. I hear the insurance people are being really difficult. They've smelled something and they're not daft. So Tommy and Charlie are still dickering over the insurance money, still paying for the JCBs, presumably out of their ill-gotten gains. On top of that they've had a couple of big contracts cancelled, and that's just in the last few weeks."

  "So things aren't too rosy at Backhouse and Marsden."

  "What's even nicer is that Charlie Marsden's sweating cobs. He's in debt up to his eyeballs."

  "Well, he's a big spender, Charlie. Likes his cards and the gee-gees."

  "Not just that. When Charlie bought into the company, he bought in with borrowed cash. He owes mucho dinero to some very heavy people, and I hear they're making heavy noises."

  This was all music to my ears.

  "But why would he do it, Frank?"

  "'Cos he's bent, Harry, always was and always will be. You know that. You had a whole bloody file on him."

  "And look where it got me."

  "That's because you went it alone. You should have got it made official. I'd have backed you."

  "He's got too many friends, Frank, and that's always been the trouble."

  Frank stared gloomily into his glass. Back then, when I forgot how long Tommy Backhouse's arm really was and how many friends he had, and when things started really going wrong for me, Frank was the one, and I mean the one, who backed me up. When my witnesses didn't turn up in court, or when the paperwork went missing, or when it turned out that information received wasn't quite as kosher as I'd been led to believe, or when thirty grams of coke vanished into thin air from a locked evidence cupboard. When all of those things were happening and the brass and the CPS were on my back, Frank was the one who talked up for me. And when I did the final silly thing, Frank was the one who called in all his markers and by a mixture of persuasion and blackmail and threats helped to get me the deal I got.

  "You ever have those days when the same names keep cropping up again and again?” I said.

  "All the time,” Frank said. “It's called synchronicity."

  "Synchron City,” I said. “That's a good name for this place.” Because I had just seen, across in the public bar, a face I knew.

  I nudged Frank and nodded in the direction of the public.

  "Talk of the devil,” he said. “Charlie Marsden with a face like a pan of lard."

  "I think I'll go over and poke a bit of fun,” I said.

  "Have the other half before you do,” Frank said. “You'll need something in your stomach."

  I pushed my way through the throng in the public to where Charlie Marsden was leaning against the bar with a pint in front of him. He didn't seem crowded. People usually gave Charlie a bit of space.

  I said, “Hello, Charlie."

  Charlie looked at me in the mirror behind the bar. Then he turned.

  "The hell you want?"

  "Just passing through. Thought I'd say hello."

  "Well keep on passing, Tattersby. I got better things to do than chew the fat with washed-up ex-coppers."

  Dear oh dear, this would never do.

  "It's Mr. Tattersby to you, Charlie, and it always will be. You're not looking too chipper these days."

  "What the hell's it got to do with you?"

  "I see your gift for crackling dialogue hasn't deserted you. Although your partner seemingly has. We look in vain around the public bar, but Backhouse is there none."

  "He goes where he likes. I'm not his bloody nursemaid."

  "I heard that business isn't too good at the mo."

  He turned back to the bar and picked up his glass.

  "I don't give a monkey's what you've heard. Now piss off."

  "Tell what I did hear today, Charlie,” I said.

  "All right, what?"

  "The sound of lots and lots of chickens coming home to roost."

  Not brilliant, but it would do. And with that, I left him. You take your little pleasures where you can find them, and there's no pleasure sharper than having the last word with a bad man. I gave Frank a wave across the bar and went home on the bus.

  I noticed that they'd pulled down yet another Victorian stone building and yet another concrete block had gone up in its place. This creeping concrete alopecia started with the demolition of the Wool Exchange when there stopped being enough wool to exchange. Then the Albert Arcade went, with its wrought-iron balconies and mosaic floors. They found that nobody objected and now nothing was safe. Anyone wondering why there was so much concrete had to remember, among other things, that Tommy Backhouse's father-in-law owned a cement works and not a Portland stone quarry.

  That evening, while I was assembling a mixed grill to add another fur coat to my artery linings, and drinking a stiff scotch just to make sure, I reflected that in the past twelve hours, I had seen more people than I'd seen in the past month. You can get out of touch very quickly if you don't watch out. You can miss things. This stuff about Tommy Backhouse's JCBs, for instance. Flogging stuff you've bought on credit is a risky old business. You've got to need cash a lot to do that. Interesting.

  I turned my mixed grill onto a plate, congratulating myself for having eaten my fish and chips out of the paper and avoiding some washing up. It's called Home Economics.

  Afterwards, it appeared I could watch any one of six reality TV programs. Or alternatively, and just as good, I could stab myself in the eyes with a kitchen knife. I settled for rereading The Long Goodbye. I do like a detective who wears a hat.

  * * * *

  The next morning, I was shaving when the doorbell rang. Sod's Law, Subsection Two: When Thou Shalt Have A Faceful Of Shaving Foam, Then Shall The Doorbell Ring. I debated letting them ring and get fed up and go away, but then I relented.

  It was Eggy, with a) the look of one who knows a fearful fiend doth close behind him tread, and b) a small brown paper bag.

  I said, “This is becoming a habit, Eggy. What's in the bag?"

  "Some cake,” he said. “Do you like cake?"

  "You think you're going to be here long enough to have a snack, do you?” I said. “Well, you're optimistic, I'll give you that."

  "Something very serious has occurred,” he said. “Perhaps we could have a cuppa while I tell you. I need the sugar."

  "This is not a canteen,” I reminded him. “Come on, out with it. What's happened?"

  "Somebody's only tried to kill me, that's all."

  "Explain. Being as brief as possible."

  "It was up at the shed. I went up there last night to keep a really good eye on it. From the inside. Catch them at it sort of thing. I must have dozed off around midnight. And then something woke me up. A sort of sloshing, like someone splashing water."

  "Some cheeky bugger taking a leak against the shed."

  "No,” he said. “There was this really awful smell of petrol. I got bloody scared, I can tell you. I made a bit of a racket getting up, and by the time I got out, he'd legged it away up the lane. I could hear him running."

  "Just one of them?"

  "I think so. But he'd left his jerrican. He'd given the walls and the roof a right soaking. I'd have been a goner if that lot had gone up. A human torch."

  "Interesting,” I said. “I think we ought to go up and have another look at this shed of yours. It does seem to be attracting a lot of attention."

  "Well, can we have a cuppa before we go? I've had a nasty shock, you know."

  I sighed.

  "What kind of cake is that?” I asked.

  * * * *

  Tell you what though, Norwegian spruce is sturdy stuff. Eggy was exhausted by the time he'd pulled up three of the floorboards. But as I told him: if he'd used the screws provided with the hut, instead of simp
ly toshing it together with four-inch nails, we wouldn't have had half the trouble. He was standing in the six-inch-deep hole he had made in the earth under the hut. He said, “What's this ‘we’ business? Far as I can see, it's me doing the grafting while you sit around."

  "It's called supervisory overlooking,” I told him. “Besides, it's your shed, and there's only one spade. Anyway, you're through the aggregate now, it's soil from now on."

  "Just look at this place,” he said, lifting out another spadeful. “It's worse than my uncle's.” With the door closed, there was nowhere to put the pebbles and earth except on the remaining floor.

  "Speaking of which,” I said, “or of whom. You never told me that Tommy Backhouse was your cousin."

  "As far as I can remember the subject never came up,” he said sulkily and breathlessly, “and anyway he wasn't my real cousin. It was just when his mum died, it was my Auntie Winnie who looked after him a lot. Uncle Ernie really took to him. They was always very close. When he started doing well, he'd always be helping them out with a few quid here and there. He was brilliant when me uncle died. Couldn't do enough. Made all the arrangements. He was round the house all the time, helping me Auntie Winnie clear out stuff and that. What are we looking for anyway?” he asked irritably.

  "Something that somebody wants to get at."

  "The somebody who broke in, and then set fire to me?"

  "He didn't break in, Eggy,” I said.

  "You saw me tools."

  "He wasn't after your tools. It was those wheel tracks that made me think. Ever seen a cart that makes tracks like that? No, nor me."

  "Well, what was it then?"

  "Trolley jacks. He wasn't breaking into the shed, he was trying to move it. Trouble was, with your gravel foundation, the jacks just sank in. All he managed to do was shake it about a bit and all your tools ended up on the deck."

  "Why move it?"

  "Don't know. Yet. But when he found he couldn't move it, he went away to have a think. The only thing he could come up with was to burn it down, get rid of it completely."

  "With me inside it. That's attempted murder, that is."

  "He didn't know you were here. I should think you gave him the fright of his life."

  "Well, that's something,” he said, and his spade gave out a different sound. “Ay, ay, what's this?"

  "I heard,” I said, “let's have a butcher's. Scrape a bit more away. Carefully, now."

  Eggy scraped away with his spade and then bent down.

  "Ey. It's a shoe."

  And it was. An expensive-looking shoe at that. Eggy scraped away more of the soil from around the shoe. And then there was the beginnings of a trouser leg.

  Eggy stared into his hole. Then he moved, surprisingly quickly for a person of his shape.

  "Bloody hell,” he said. “I'm getting out of here."

  "That's right,” I said, “you get out of here. You got a mobile phone?"

  "Lots,” he said.

  "No, I mean one that you've actually paid for,” I said, then I stopped. “Never mind. Go and find a phone. Ring C.I.D. central and ask for Inspector Middlemass, if he's around. Give him my compliments and tell him we've found something interesting. You can say very interesting if you like—I'm easy."

  "And what you going to do?"

  "I'm going to sit here, calm as anything, and have a think."

  He went. There was the sound of his departing footsteps, and there was silence. I looked down into the hole, at the shoe and the trouser leg.

  "Well, Tommy,” I said, “and how's tricks?” There was no answer. I was supposing it was Tommy. I didn't know anyone else round here who had his shoes made by Lobb of London and his suits crafted by Huntsman. Dear, dear, what shall it profit a man? It all comes down to the same thing in the end. A recumbent posture in a muddy hole.

  "It's funny,” I said, to keep the conversation moving along, “you should be lying here like that, ‘cos that's what you were doing the very last time I saw you."

  * * * *

  I don't know the name of Tommy's secretary, and I don't bother to stop to find out. All I hear of her is an outraged squawk as I go past her desk straight to the door of Tommy's office. When I open the door, Tommy is at his desk in shirtsleeves reading a file. He looks up at me as I move into the room, looks down again at the file, makes a careful note, and then puts the file down.

  "Harry,” he says, “nice to see you. Have a seat."

  Tommy's office is like him: large and expansive. It must be the best-furnished office in Town Hall. His desk is huge, made of honey-colored wood with a deep patina. It must have cost a fortune. There's a drinks cabinet and a bookcase flanking his desk, and on the wall behind him, there are twenty or thirty photographs of Tommy at openings, topping out ceremonies, civic functions; of him shoulder to shoulder with visiting celebs, ministers, and assorted politicos. There's even one of him shaking hands with the Queen, who's looking exactly as though she'd just found a dead rat in her handbag.

  Tommy says, “Harry, you're not looking too chipper, by the way. A bit the worse for wear. Things not going too well, I hear."

  I move to the desk. “Two things, Tommy,” I say, and to my annoyance there's a shake in my voice.

  "And what are those, Harry?” He's got this little smile on his face.

  "First, I don't care what you get up to with me, you stay away from my wife and my family."

  He looks puzzled and pained at the same time.

  "Your wife—” His face clears. “Oh, that. Come on Harry, if I can't give the wife of a friend a lift home from the supermarket, when she's loaded down with shopping, what's the world coming to? We had a nice little chat, actually. She seemed a bit worried about you. Having a few problems, apparently."

  "So, you gave her a lift home. And how come every time she looked out of the window that afternoon she saw Charlie Marsden sitting in his car outside?"

  He shrugs. “I can't answer for Charlie, Harry. He does what seems right to him."

  "You want to send me a message, Tommy, you do it to my face. And you lay off my family."

  "Harry, I'm sorry but I'm a bit busy this morning. You said there were two things. What was the second thing?"

  "This,” I say, and I step round the desk, haul him out of his chair by a fistful of shirtfront, and hit him very, very hard. He goes sprawling away across the chair and ends up slumped against the wall, with a satisfying amount of blood coming from his mouth, looking at me with eyes that won't focus.

  And that's it for me, apart from a rowdy interview with the assistant commissioner and assorted brass, during which he tells me exactly what he thinks of me, informs me that I'm lucky not to be facing a manslaughter charge, seeing that Councillor Backhouse is known to have heart problems, that I could easily have killed him. And then he tells me the deal. I go, and above all, quietly. If I do, I get a pension for my twenty-five years in, there's no disciplinary hearing, no Internal Affairs, no criminal charge, nothing. They're making a lot of exceptions for me, and I know why. They don't want any muddy water being stirred because they don't know who might get splashed. So, I go.

  * * * *

  Now seven months later here we were again, Tommy and me. The old firm.

  "And what was it all about, Tommy?” I asked the shoe. “Here I am and there you are, and what on earth was the point of it all?"

  Tommy didn't answer. Probably because he didn't know. Well, neither did I.

  * * * *

  There's one thing that never changes every time you see it, and let's hope you don't see it often, and that's a crime scene with a body. There's something very purposeful and intent about it, but underlying that there's also a sadness. One of ours has left the world and we want to know how and why. People tend to move around only when they have to or when they're told to.

  Eggy and I didn't have to move and we hadn't been told to, so we stayed right where we were, next to a watchful uniformed type. We hadn't, however, been told not to talk.

&
nbsp; Eggy said, “I don't see why they had to take down the whole bloody shed. It's just a pile of lumber, look at it. Very disheartening, that is."

  I said, very quietly, “Listen, I don't think there's any need to worry these nice men with flying tools and arson attacks, it'll only fluster them. Keep it simple. We were working on your shed, that's all. They'll like that."

  "Right you are,” he said. “So what do we do now, then?"

  "We stand here until somebody in authority decides to talk to us. And here he is.” And there he was indeed, emerging from the blue tarpaulin. “Jovial Inspector Middlemass. All right then, Frank?"

  Frank was in no mood for banter.

  "Don't give me that sunny smile. This is no laughing matter."

  I said, “Is it who I think it is?"

  "If you thought it was Tommy Backhouse, you wouldn't be far out,” he said. I turned to Eggy.

  "See,” I said, “I recognized those shoes a mile off. Always well turned out was our Tommy."

  "Shut up, Harry,” Frank said. “I'm still not clear about your part in all this."

  "Interested observer, that's all,” I said. Then, just to push my luck a bit, because you never know where it might lead you, I said, “Anything on the cause of death?"

  Frank went still. He appeared to be conducting a silent conversation with himself. I knew that neither half of the conversation was in my favor.

  "You're a civilian, Harry. You know I can't go divulging stuff like that."

  "I know that strictly speaking this is no longer within my remit, bailiwick, or purview, Frank, but—"

  Frank sighed.

  "Yeah, all right. Preliminary, very preliminary, examination says it was a heart attack."

  That was interesting and I said so.

  "And does this very preliminary examination say anything about the time of death?"

  "Can't be positive. Not yet."

  "I know that, Frank. But you've got an idea. What does Pettifer say?"

  "Doctor Pettifer gives it as his preliminary opinion that death occurred late sometime at the weekend. Sunday night thereabouts. Probably. We'll know better after the P.M."

  "Which will be quick."

  "The quickest in living memory. I've already got them all on my back, screaming and shouting, wanting answers."