by JOHN STANLEY
Alain (yes, the president had said sniffily when he noticed Perlow’s look, that was how you spelled his name, he was French on his grandmother’s side, in fact, they had once owned a large chateaux near Bourdeaux) Montgomery was in his early seventies and wearing the regulation grey slacks, shirt, tie and black club blazer. Sitting immaculate and ramrod straight, he eyed the scruffy constable with undisguised distaste.
‘Look,’ said Perlow, ‘why are you making such a big thing of this?’
‘Our membership is confidential.’
‘I don’t do confidential.’
‘Why do you want it anyway?’
‘I understand Desmond Creeley and Robert Garnett were members here. In fact, they drank in your bar.’
‘Drank is the word. I am not sure I ever saw Creeley play golf. Robert was a decent player, though.’
‘And they were both members?’
‘Were, Constable. You see,’ and Montgomery sighed, ‘I am a somewhat old-fashioned man in my approach to life.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And although I like a drink as much as the next man, I do expect a certain level of decency in the way our members behave. I am afraid those two took their drinking to extremes, particularly that Creeley fellow. In the end, we had to bar him and revoke his membership. All very unsavoury.’
‘Why?’
‘One night, he got very drunk and struck another member during an argument. We rescinded his membership immediately, of course. Can‘t be having that kind of behaviour.’
‘Any idea who he struck?’
There was a pause.
‘Mr Montgomery, who did he strike?’
‘Me,’ and the president rubbed the side of his face as if the blow still stung.
‘Can I ask why?’
‘I remonstrated with him because he was causing offence to several of the lady members,’ and Montgomery paused again, recalling painful memories, ‘my wife included. Now, I am as broad-minded as the next man but when it comes to swearing in front of ladies, that is simply not on.’
‘I see.’
‘I am not sure you do,’ said Montgomery, the voice laced with contempt. ‘Des Creeley was a nasty piece of work and I can’t say I was sad to hear he was dead. I know it is a terrible thing to say but I can’t change the way I feel about him.’
‘Why did you not mention any of this to Sergeant Gaines when he came to see you after Creeley’s murder? You said you could not remember him.’
‘I did say that,’ said Montgomery unhappily, ‘and I am not proud of misleading your officer but I found it all rather embarrassing. Besides, I did not see why the assault on myself should have been of any relevance to your sergeant’s inquiry.’
‘Well it is now.’
‘Yes,’ said Montgomery, ‘yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Tell me about Robert Garnett.’
‘He was a much more pleasant character but after we kicked Creeley out, we saw less and less of Robert. In the end, his membership lapsed.’
‘And after that?’
‘One or two members saw him. They said he was always drunk and usually with Creeley. Latterly, they appeared to be homeless,’ and Montgomery shook his head. ‘Sad, so very, very sad. Robert was a likeable chap and this club owes so much to him. It was his idea, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Robert was a keen golfer before … well, before … and when he was working at the council, he came up with the idea of a club to help regenerate the area. People poo-poohed it in the early days - the place was a terrible mess - but Robert came up with a design. That clinched it. Just look out of that window, what a fine legacy for the man.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Perlow, glancing at the first hole sloping down past newly-planted copses to the brown waters of the river Ley, ‘I suppose it is.’
Chapter ten
While his detectives were working hard on the Alma Street murders, Connor was experiencing as frustrating a few days as he could remember. All his attempts to get hold of Danny Radford ahead of his disciplinary hearing failed as the chief inspector remained resolutely out of contact. It was as if, reasoned Connor, the chief inspector was determined to face the hearing on his own.
Connor was not prepared to let that happen and, with Radford’s wife pretending not to know where he was, the superintendent turned to the injured Michael Gaines, going round to his house over the weekend and finding him manfully brushing the back yard, the brush balanced in the crook of his injured arm. Gaines was surprised that Connor should ask him to find Radford - everyone knew they did not get on - but eventually agreed to track down the chief inspector.
Secretly, he was pleased. It was something he had been contemplating anyway. Something about Radford’s courage had touched the cynical sergeant. His enforced absence had allowed him to do a lot of thinking. So it was that shortly after two on the Sunday afternoon, Gaines found himself in a little back street gymnasium housed in a former pub on the east side of the city. Using his injured arm and noting with satisfaction that it did not hurt, Gaines wrenched open the outside door, which groaned in protest, and walked up the dimly-lit stairs to the gym. Radford was hard at work, lying on his back as he worked on the weights.
‘Wondered if he’d send you,’ said the chief inspector.
‘Who?’ asked Gaines, bridling at the suggestion that he was an errand boy.
‘Who? The Queen bloody Mother. Connor, that’s who. He’s been trying to get hold of me. Jen told me. How’s your head?’ and Radford nodded at the stitches.
‘Been better,’ said Gaines and smiled slightly. ‘And thanks for asking.’
There was uncomfortable silence. Radford replaced the weight, sat up and looked at him.
Go on, Gainesy boy, spit it out.
‘I think I owe you an apology, guv.’
‘I think you do.’ Radford’s look was steady and calm.
Go on, say it.
‘You see,’ and Gaines sat down on a nearby stool. ‘I was pretty thick with Davy Glazier. He was a bloody good guvn’r.’
‘I know he was but he’s gone now and it wasn’t me who killed him. That heart attack had been brewing for years.’
‘Aye, I know,’ sighed Gaines, looking at the chief inspector with eyes that glistened ever so slightly.
‘And I’m different to Davy.’
But not so different as you think. In fact, you’d be surprised.
‘You are.’
‘Start again?’ said Radford and reached out a hand.
Gaines nodded and took it.
‘Hello,’ said the chief inspector. ‘My name’s Danny Radford.’
Gaines smiled. There was another awkward silence.
‘How’s the inquiry going?’ asked Radford, returning to the weights. ‘Have you tracked down Perlow’s stranger?’
‘No.’
‘Anything of interest in the protest group?’
‘No, they all look clean as whistles. Oh, Marjorie Pretty sends her best wishes. Says she wants to help you. I take it you know she is putting it around that you support her campaign?’
‘That kind of help, eh?’ said Radford with a quirky smile. ‘And what about this Brian Chambers character?’
‘The bloke’s a sodding crackerjack.’
‘That’s what Jason de Vere said. Could be worth a tug.’
‘If we can find him. He seems to have gone to ground. Oh, and there’s something else quite interesting.’
‘Go on.’
‘Just before I was attacked, I found something in the back bedroom. A number 60 written on the wall.’
‘Probably left by the demolition workers.’
‘That’s what I thought but I asked Perlow to check the house where Garnett was found. And guess what?’
‘He found a number 51?’
‘Yeah, so he went to ask the demolition boys if they wrote the numbers and they said they didn’t. Why would they? The houses still have their numbers o
n the front.’
‘Looks like we’re all playing the numbers game,’ said Radford, replacing the weights and sitting up. ‘Or rather, you are. Not sure I will be.’
‘Connor’s talking about bringing in Eddie Murtagh to take over the Alma Street inquiry,’ nodded Gaines.
‘Good officer.’
‘Maybe but I’m not sure he would have done what you have done.’
‘Maybe not. How’s Connor taking it?’
‘Wondering why you won’t talk to him. He’s prepared to stand up in your defence at the hearing on Tuesday.’
‘Tell him I don’t want anyone else to go down with me over this. And you should not even be here really.’
‘This is no time for heroes, guv. I want to help. We all do.’
‘I think I may be beyond that. De Vere’s got to the chief.’
‘Not sure I want to serve in a force than can do something like this,’ said Gaines gloomily.
‘Thank you.’
And Radford returned to his weights.
Chapter eleven
Gaines returned to work on the Monday, saddened at what was happening to Radford but filled for the first time in weeks with a sense of renewed energy. It was as if his talk to Radford had banished some of the grief he felt when DCI Davy Glazier collapsed and died in the Read Street canteen. Walking down the corridor, Gaines spied ahead of him the figure of Connor walking towards his office.
‘Reporting for duty, sir,’ said Gaines, falling into step with the superintendent.
‘Are you sure you should be here?’ asked Connor, eying the sergeant‘s gashed cheek.
‘I’ve got to do something. Besides, we need to move the Alma Street inquiry on.’
Connor looked at him oddly. He was not used to such enthusiasm from Gaines.
‘I take it you found Radford?’ asked Connor.
‘Aye. Said no one should risk their career for him.’
‘Bull-headed so-and-so.’
‘So, can I go back onto the inquiry? Is Mr Murtagh coming over this week?’
‘No,’ and Connor gestured for the sergeant to follow him into his office.
‘But I thought…’
‘Change of plan,’ said Connor, removing his jacket and hanging it on the stand. ‘Sit down. Oh, close the door, will you?’
Gaines did so, eased himself into the chair and waited for the superintendent to speak.
‘You are right,’ said Connor, sitting down at his desk, ‘we do need to move the Alma Street inquiry on but Perlow will continue to run things.’
‘But I’m the sergeant and until Mr Murt…’
‘I know and, before you say it, this is not because you worked with Radford and it’s not something that has come down from HQ. This is my decision. Any ideas what Perlow should be doing?’
‘I think he should try to get into the winos a bit more, sir,’ said Gaines, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Just before he was suspended, Radford said…’
His voice tailed off.
‘You can talk about him,’ said Connor. ‘He’s not dead.’
‘He might as well be. Can I speak freely?’
‘Of course,’ and Connor wafted a hand.
‘Does it have to end this way? I mean, he acted for what he thought were the best of intentions.’
‘I know but there are ways of tackling these things and running to the press has never been one of them.’
‘I take it he will be sacked on Tuesday?’
‘He will unless we can think of something p.d.q,’ and Connor looked at the sergeant intently. ‘Why suddenly so interested? I thought you detested him?’
Gaines started slightly.
‘I may have been wrong,’ he mumbled.
‘So what has changed?’ asked Connor.
Gaines paused.
‘I guess I misjudged him, sir.’
‘I guess you did,’ and Connor gave the merest of smiles. ‘Well, here’s your chance to make amends.’
‘Sir?’ queried Gaines.
‘I have a little job for you,’ said the superintendent, unlocking his desk drawer and taking out a sheet of A4 paper. ‘Read that. Oh, and it is between you and me for the moment.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Gaines, scanning it quickly.
‘Indeed. But potentially disastrous as it may be, it could also be exactly what we need.’
‘Sir?’ asked the bemused sergeant.
‘I will explain in a minute,’ said Connor, walking into the corridor. ‘I am off to sort our Mr Perlow out.’
Chapter twelve
Late that afternoon, Gerry Perlow and Detective Constable Hannah Miles, a slim 22-year-old brunette just three months into her CID career, were heading to Alma Street.
‘Do you really think anyone will be here?’ she asked as Perlow edged his car up to the barrier. ‘Don’t you think we should go back to the old bathroom shop over on Findern Road again? Or maybe that house you went to in Greenbank Road? There’s always loads of winos there.’
‘Yeah, but Gaines reckons they start heading over here about this time of day.’
‘I haven’t seen him all day. How is he?’
‘Seemed ok. Said he was doing something for Connor. The super must have run out of paper clips.’
The officers got out of the car and walked up Alma Street, peering into the darkness as they scanned the houses for signs of a break-in, their only illumination the beam of Perlow’s torch and the pale orange glow from the street lights across the wasteland. Noticing that the boarding had been wrenched off the window of one of the houses, the officers closed in to investigate and Perlow flashed his beam through the grimy front window. Miles joined him and together they peered into the darkness but were able to make out little of the empty living room. Perlow straightened up.
‘What about the door?’ he asked.
Miles looked closer. ‘It’s been forced,’ she said.
The detectives glanced at each other and Miles nodded. They were preparing to go in when they heard the scrape of a foot behind them. The officers whirled round to be confronted by a tall thin man, standing but a few feet away from them and eying their actions with interest.
‘Bloody Hell!’ exclaimed Perlow in alarm. ‘Who are you!’
‘It’s a disgrace, isn’t it?’ said the man in a slightly reedy voice.
‘I asked your name,’ said Perlow, recovering his composure.
‘To demolish these houses,’ continued the man, still ignoring the question, ‘goes against everything that is decent in our society. When this is all resolved, there will be many questions to be asked.’
‘Yes, well I’m asking one now,’ snapped Perlow, ‘and I won’t ask it again, who are you?’
‘My name is Brian Chambers.’
‘Is it now?’ said Perlow, his tone softer. ‘Well, we have been looking for you, Mr Chambers.’
The detectives surveyed him with interest. Brian Chambers was in his mid-sixties. Fit and wiry, his face was thin and angular, the cheekbones protruding slightly, the mouth little more than a slit and the greying brown moustache thin and wispy. The eyes, which were slightly narrowed, gave him the impression of a wily old fox and there seemed something edgy and nervous about him. He wore a brown overcoat, neatly secured with a belt, and on his head was a cap which served to throw shadows across his face as Perlow flashed the torch at him. It made it difficult to assess exactly what Chamber was thinking and neither officer liked that.
‘I am not surprised,’ said Chambers. ‘Indeed, I fail to see how you could conduct your investigation without me, although you have managed to do so thus far.’
‘And why would we want to talk to you?’ asked Miles.
‘You are DC Miles, I think.’
‘Yes, but how do you…’
‘And this, if I am not mistaken, is DC Perlow.’
‘Hang on a minute, pal,’ said the constable, ‘how do you know that? We’ve never met.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing sinister about
it,’ smiled Chambers, enjoying their reaction. ‘I read the local rag. You, Constable Perlow, were pictured being commended for apprehending that armed man on the Forest Hill estate. And you, Constable Miles, were portrayed, I seem to recall, visiting a school to warn children about that paedophile approaching young girls in the Hawksmead area. They should string him up when they find him.’
‘But the Forest Hill thing was three years ago!’ exclaimed Perlow.
‘I forget nothing,’ said Chambers and it almost sounded like a threat.
Perlow eyed him uncertainly. There was something about Brian Chambers, a sense of barely restrained hostility that set the hackles rising on the back of the constable’s neck. Perlow sensed danger and instinctively shook his head to banish the thought without realising he had done it. Noticing the gesture, Chambers smiled thinly.
‘So what brings you here tonight?’ asked Miles and she nodded at the barrier. ‘The place is off-limits. Surely you know that.’
‘Ms Miles,’ said Chambers coolly, ‘I assume you are a Ms. I can’t help feeling that you have somewhat fallen down on the job if you have to ask the reason for my presence in Alma Street.’
‘Mr Chambers,’ said Miles, irritated at the supercilious tone, ‘can we get some straight answers from you, please? I asked why are you here.’
The sharp tone in her voice seemed to annoy Chambers and for a moment or two he appeared to battle against a rising anger before the composure returned.
‘I come here every night to check that the houses are safe,’ he said.
‘I thought the developers have a security company to do that,’ said Perlow.
‘Amateurs,’ snorted Chambers. ‘Rank amateurs. I was a security guard for several years and I know exactly how bad most of them are. No, Constable Perlow, as a former resident it is my job to ensure that these houses remain inviolate in their final days. They deserve at least that much respect and if no one else will protect them from these scumbags, then I have to. It is my duty.’
