by Roger Busby
Jewel asked, still enjoying himself, “Job wise or what?”
“You know what I mean, Dennis,” Fletcher said, “how the hell is she?”
“Well,” Jewel said, “I always got the feeling something must've soured Helen way back. Oh she still looks terrific, but inside,” he tapped his temple, “hard as nails...who knows what goes on in there. I just get the impression that somewhere along the line some smooth talking bastard slipped her something nasty and she's never got over it. I heard she was a sweet kid back along, but you'd know better'n me, eh Fletch, you were on the old Peckham robbery squad with her in those long gone days, weren't you?”
“Sure,” Fletcher said, still staring reflectively at the bottle, “back when we were young and impressionable and everybody was breaking their neck to prove what a great thief-taker they were.”
“Good times, eh?” Jewel said, “So who'd you think slipped Helen a crippler?”
“How would I know,” Fletcher said, “I was only on the squad six months before I got posted to the Yard.”
“Oh yeah, I recall,” Jewel said, “You were a flier in those days. We used to sit here in the weeds chewing on our straws watching your career take off. First the Yard then Bramshill and all that clever stuff...you were the blue eyed boy back then, all right, Mark.”
“Didn't last though, did it?”
“Oh come on,” Jewel settled back in his chair, “don't tell me you're getting bitter and twisted too.”
Fletcher crossed to the door and Jewel followed him with his eyes. “So how about Helen,” he called after him, “d'you want her or not?”
“I'll let you know,” Fletcher said as he went out
Marian was putting the kids to bed. He knew that from the familiar noises in the house, a nondescript semi on Brunel Road just down from Rotherhithe Overground station. Mark Fletcher sat at the Ikea desk in the spare bedroom which served as his study. It was after eight when he got home from the job and he was tired to the point of exhaustion. He'd told his wife that all he needed was half an hour peace and quiet and he'd gone up to his study taking the bottle of Old No 7 with him. And after a few minutes he'd broken the seal and poured himself a drink. He nursed the glass for a moment reflecting on his thickening waist, the product of too many beers, too many snatched sandwich lunches, the unmistakable evidence of approaching middle age, then swallowed the whiskey in one gulp. Fletcher poured himself another. It was unusual for him to act in this way. Normally he would never shut himself away from his family, he had precious little time with them anyway. Neither would he dream of drinking alone, he'd seen too many go down that road, but then tonight was different. Tonight he was fortifying himself against a deep melancholy as his memory transported him back across the years and conjoured up images from the past, images of Helen Richie. Had all those years really slipped by in the blink of an eye? All those years she had dwelt somewhere deep in his memory, waiting for the right moment to return and settle the score. Mark Fletcher massaged the moisture from his eyes. It all seemed like yesterday.
It was back in the heady days of his youth that Mark Fletcher, billeted in the single men's quarters of a Southwark section house, began to get the feeling that a bright young man could make a name for himself in London's Metropolitan Police Force. The old adage “in the country of the blind the one eye'd man is king” seemed more and more appropriate as he assuaged his sexual appetite on an ample diet of nurses and manoeuvred himself into the CID. It was a time of plenty, a time of golden opportunity and for Fletcher, breathing the sweet clean air of ambition, promotion to detective sergeant in record time came as a natural reward for his talents. Within a month he had engineered himself a transfer into the free-wheeling Peckham robbery squad, had moved into a stylish bachelor pad and was driving a sports car. His star was well and truly in the ascendance. The squad appealed to his vanity, the swashbuckling image of the elite crime fighter, the absence of regimented routine. He began to affect the sharp suit and allowed his hair to grow longer than regulations permitted. Brash, flashy, aggressive and conceited, that was the veneer and it gave him a glow of satisfaction when he walked into a bar for a quiet drink, a proportion of the patrons would slink away in the direction of the rear exit. In his own impressionable eyes, Mark Fletcher was a “bloody good D” who put the fear of God into the criminal fraternity. So when a policewoman named Helen Ritchie joined the squad for a plain clothes attachment, it seemed only natural in the incestuous world of “the job” that an affair was on the cards.
Helen Ritchie was a doll, no two ways about it, and plainly she had been selected for CID because she bore not the slightest resemblance to the archetype policewoman. She was petite, fine featured with a model's figure and a natural walk with pelvis thrust forward which brought a chorus of wolf whistles from building sites. She wore her coppery hair in a mass of finger curls like a burnished halo around her elfin face. Her nose wrinkled delightfully when she smiled. Her first day on the squad produced a desperate contest to see who could tempt her out to lunch. DS Mark Fletcher won by a long head. Pretty soon they were seen out regularly together driving out of town in the MX5 for evenings in country inns. After a surfeit of nurses Fletcher was enchanted, felt a fluttering sensation inside himself when they were together, a mild anxiety when they were apart. It was a unique experience. Like the time they lay together on the Habitat settee in his flat, her head cradled against his chest, Ella and Frank duetting on the hi-fi. A wave of romantic imagery suddenly washed over him.
“Helen”
“Hmm”
“I love you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I really do.”
“What?”
“Love you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Come on, I'm serious.”
“All right.” Her eyes were closed as she listened to the music.
After a moment Fletcher said: “Helen, I really love you.”
“How'd you know?”
“What?”
“How d'you know you love me?”
“It's how I feel, I just feel it,” Mark Fletcher floundered for the right words.
“How do you feel it?”
“Oh come on.”
“Mark,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling as she teased him. “What on earth makes you think you love me?”
“I just know it.”
“You think you love me,” she said a little more seriously, “We'd need to know each other a lot better before you'd really know it.”
“Oh come on Helen.”
“Believe me, Mark,” she said, really serious now, “you love yourself more than you love me, and when that changes, I'll know it.”
“That's a pretty cruel thing to say.”
“There's no sense in kidding ourselves,” she said, “give it time, don't rush it.”
“But I love you now.”
Helen closed her eyes again. “Relax, Mark,” she said, “listen to the music.”
Times like this, he thought to himself, she could be infuriating, but he swallowed his injured pride and tried to imagine what it would need to convince her. He had no way of knowing that the convoluted process of female courtship required edging forward slowly, consolidating each move before surrendering further precious resources of emotion. He had no way of knowing that Helen was already enmeshed in the complicated emotional web of her gender that he had spun within her. His feelings were still too shallow for that kind of comprehension, and Helen Ritchie, playing the game dictated by her instincts would never admit it. As if that wasn't enough, sometimes the job intruded.
They were driving home from a restaurant when Helen, who had been in pensive mood all evening said, “Let's just park over there Mark and talk a minute.”
Fletcher steered the Mazda into a layby and cut the engine. They sat for a moment in absolute silence.
When he could stand the suspense no longer Fletcher said: “Penny for 'em then.”
Helen who had
been staring out of the window turned to face him. “How serious is withholding information?”
Fletcher was taken aback. “How d'you mean?”
“In the job.”
“Depends.”
She bit her lip. “I mean do you switch off when you're off duty, Mark. Can you have a personal life as well?”
Fletcher smiled. “We're like the Pinkerton's, we never sleep.”
“Mark, I'm serious.”
“Well,” he said, “You know the score as well as I do, Helen, particularly on the squad, a good D's supposed to put the job first.”
“What about us?”
Fletcher shrugged. “We've done all right so far, there's no regulation says you can't live your own life” He felt a sense of foreboding, like stepping onto shifting sands. “You'd better tell me what's on your mind,” he said finally.
Helen was staring out of the car window again, her face turned away from him. “How important is Bernard Goodman?” she asked softly.
Fletcher jerked upright in his seat. “What d'you know about Bernard Goodman?”
"Only that he'd a squad target.”
“Jesus, Helen, that's the understatement of the year, the top brass at the Yard have been busting a gut over him for the past six months or more.”
“Big deal then, eh?”
“Helen, “ Fletcher said, “Bernie Goodman and his little team ripped off two mill in bullion and artifacts from the vaults of the Bank of Japan in The Strand. He's not just big deal, he's the Met's number one most
