Moe made a mental note.
“Your dad got to hospital all right but took a turn for the worse almost at once. His GP verified his heart problem to me. I’m sorry.”
Moe picked up the property bag and tipped the contents on the table. They were pitifully few. Swift recited them by memory.
“Ten pounds eighty pence cash; One diary; One yellow metal wedding ring; One gents wristwatch; One handkerchief; Two old betting slips”, Swift paused momentarily … “no luck I’m afraid – I checked,” before finishing the list “and one latch key.” Moe unconsciously pulled his own copy from a pocket and placed then together so that they matched. Swift watched this little ceremony before leaning forward to touch them.
“The key in the bag … that wasn’t on him. One of our lads found it in his door when they went to check. Was he in the habit of doing that sort of thing … leaving his key in the lock?”
Moe shook his head. “No. But maybe he wasn’t well when he left and just forgot. People do funny things when they’re not a hundred percent.”
Swift nodded, content to have got it off his mind. “Everything seemed OK when my lads looked. And anyway, you’ve been there yourself.” Swift leant back in his chair.
“As a pal, I thought it possible that Downes might have paid a visit for one reason or another, but he said not. I believe him, but you can always ask him yourself. No doubt you might want to see him again.” That was true enough. In the meantime, Moe had a question.
“Tell me, do the town’s traffic wardens work out of here?”
Swift was righteous indignation to perfection. “Don’t tell me you got a ticket?” Moe’s expression supplied the answer. Swift clucked.
“Yep, they have offices out the back.” This was accompanied by a rolling of the eyes. “Out of harm’s way! Sorry, chum, but there’s little I can do, even allowing for the unfortunate circumstances.”
Moe waved a hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t expect that you could. Just curious, that’s all.” Swift leaned forward again, frowning at Moe.
“You’re not thinking of doing anything you might regret, I hope.”
Moe stood up, scooping his dad’s possessions into waiting pockets. Swift rose to join him. Moe noticed that he was slightly shorter than himself but probably a fair bit heavier judging by the girth that sagged over the tortured waistband of his trousers. DS Swift could do with a bit of exercise other than lifting a pint, Moe thought.
“Yeah, I’m going to do something I will definitely regret. I’m going to pay.” He stuck out his hand. “Thanks, I feel a lot better than when I came in here.” They shook hands and Moe went to the door. “That bookmaker – Legge, you said. New place in town?”
“You could say that. Opened about four months ago – bought out the previous incumbent. Must’ve spent a good few bob tarting up the place.”
“Where will I find it?”
“Brandsby Street – just down from the Co-op.” Swift let a semblance of a smile creep into his eyes. “But if you’re taking your car, I’d watch out for the wardens.”
Moe went out into the foyer with Swift following close behind. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“How about Stan Downes’ telephone number for a start?” Swift asked.
Moe stopped so that Swift bumped into him. “What do you know about the gravedigger over at the cemetery?”
Swift snorted derisively. “Carter! Not nice. Been nicked for assault … drunk and dis … we both know the type. He’ll dig his own grave one day.”
“Like father – like son.”
Swift perked up at that. “You knew his old man? Came to a nasty end from all accounts. Before my time.”
“I knew him. We had what might be termed a passing acquaintance.”
Swift went to the station counter and reached over before returning, scribbling on a pad as he came. He tore off a sheet and gave it to Moe. “That’s Downes’ phone number. Anything else I can do for you?” He was giving his paperwork a last look as he spoke. Moe said not.
“Is this right – Badger’s Bay Holiday Park?” Swift enquired.
“Sorry, did you want my London address?”
“No … no. This is fine. It’s just that I was over there recently, death by drowning. Still unidentified despite the usual checks and local publicity. No docs., no print ID. Bloody nuisance.” Swift was red-faced. “Sorry, you don’t need this.” Moe shrugged, letting it go.
Just then, a smart thirty-something individual, tanned and with a suit to match, appeared on the far side of the station counter and beckoned imperiously to Swift, effortlessly ignoring Moe.
The CID officer raised two fingers the polite way round and mouthed two minutes back. Moe took his revenge for the discourtesy.
“He’ll be two minutes,” he said loudly.
Grudgingly, with a steely stare, the tanned one departed. Swift sniffed disparagingly. “That was our high-flying Detective Inspector Tighe.” He pronounced it ‘tie’. “Likes to call himself management.”
Moe understood. Modern senior officers were into that sort of thing. They took their lead from business and banged on about market quotas and ratio efficiency. Some even looked embarrassed if you saluted them. Management. It was as if the service had evolved into some giant supermarket chain. Moe could easily imagine the tan suit in Best2Buy. Swift led the way to the front door.
“How about getting together for a pint while you’re down here?”
“Sure.”
Swift pulled out a well-worn wallet and thumbed out another of his cards. “In case you lose the other one.” It joined Downes’ telephone number. “You can always leave a message in the office if I’m out.” A nudge. “I know one or two reasonable watering holes in the area.”
“Look forward to it. And thanks again.” They reached fresh air.
“Wardens this way.” Swift pointed. A patrol car passed nearby, horn tooting to attract attention. Moe heard, rather than saw, the crew. “HI-YO SILVER AND AWAY!” The jam sandwich accelerated, wheels spinning, in the direction of the road. Swift wasn’t impressed. “Silly buggers! Like kids, some of them.”
Moe decided not to bother explaining.
………………………
Brandsby Street had once been the focal point of the resort, the main shopping street and meeting place of old Baytown. Back in the days before big business had moved in and swallowed up the sort of businesses they couldn’t compete with, the family butchers, bakers and candlestick makers that comprised the commercial heart of Baytown were all to be found in Brandsby Street. In saner days, it was quite simply the High Street; sadly, that was no longer the case.
If the town as a whole was first division, Brandsby Street had been relegated to the third, an outdated, tired thoroughfare now too small to compete with the big boys – with some specialist concerns excepted. Drinking and gambling were two such exceptions.
Two pubs and two bookmakers managed a living in a hundred yards of small-town street. Moe could take them or leave them but he knew that there were those who saw such enterprises as dens of iniquity and vice, an affront to all that was decent. But he was longer on charity than the self-righteous ranters, with considerable experience gained from coming across most points of view, and tended to look askance at those who kept on about decorum and decency.
Moe emerged from a kiosk in which a pay-phone had taken his cash with numbing speed causing him to wonder if there was a plot afoot to make folk buy mobile phones. Hickox had been consoling, giving Moe the impression of being played out gently at the end of a silky rope. Screwy Naylor had offered both consolation and information. Moe checked his watch. Plenty of time to follow up his latest hot tip. Good old Screwy. Moe was in need of some dinero to replace the sum paid into the wardens’ car-catching coffers not long before.
There had been no reply from Stan Downes but Moe was phlegmatic. He would try again later. Besides, Downes might even be in the bookies.
Waiting until the lunch hour was al
most up was inspired, Moe told himself as he slipped into a parking space that promised two hours of unmolested time. Handbrake on, ignition off. From where he sat, Legge – The Bookmakers was very visible, the garish shopfront like the facade of an amusement arcade, trying desperately to be trendy and inviting. Long gone were the times when such places were plain nondescript, often grubby establishments, covered windows disguising their purpose as well as the hopeful souls inside. Once, the law had insisted that there be no visible representation that could be viewed as soliciting custom … corrupting the passing populace. How times had changed! Now, life was lived for the Lottery and nobody cared.
Moe sat up sharply as a traffic warden emerged from the bookmaker’s shop, followed immediately by a muscular fat man clearly unhappy with life and the warden. An argument ensued and Moe recognised the warden. He had every reason to. The slashed peak was a dead giveaway. His name, he had been told, was Miller. Quite right … SS Miller had a sinister ring of realism … uncannily like SS Muller, Moe thought.
Waving the fat man away, the warden stalked off, the former staring angrily after him. Moe fully expected to see him go to some nearby illegally parked car, but instead – with a last angry look at the departing warden, the fat man went back into the premises.
Moe levered himself out of the Astra and locked up. Miller turned a corner and vanished leaving Moe to feel a keen stab of regret that a certain other warden wasn’t there. She would have handled the fat man with ease. Moe headed for the bookmakers, whistling as he went. The tune was easy to remember. It was Marie.
Moe reached the door of the bookies and took Screwy’s tip from his pocket. Gone to Glory … it had to be in with a chance. With a look up at the sky, Moe pushed back the door and went in.
Pausing just inside, Moe was able to see the whole of the floor plan up to and including the counter and the staff area beyond its protective screen. One glance was enough to tell him that this establishment was a cut above average as far as bookmakers went. There was an ambience of controlled efficiency, unusual in such places. The floor was carpeted with a thick sound-muffling brown material still unmarked by the usual cigarette burns and drink stains.
The shop possessed a definite hint of class, rare indeed in that line of work. Each row of television monitors, every notice, every wad of a variety of betting slips had been placed with a precision that brooked no yobbish tendencies from the customers. Even the litter bins were clean and tidy. Obviously, Legge was a proprietor with strong views on running his business. And guessing at how much all the new furniture and fittings must have cost, Moe could see his point. But at the same time, he felt a creeping unease at the sheer neatness of everything. It was too tidy. And Moe began to suspect something a little unhealthy … fetishistic even … in its owner’s fastidious control of the surroundings.
From the street door, the interior formed an inverted letter ‘L’. The counter at the far end was partially obscured at the toe of the ‘L’ and Moe had to move forward a few feet to be able to see the security door that gave access to the staff area behind. A young woman was busy there sorting through a sheaf of betting slips, and just beyond her – at a desk with its own TV and information system – sat the muscular fat man. Something about the man’s behaviour outside, his overweening disrespect for the warden, made Moe suspect that this was Legge himself.
Moe turned back towards the street door and immediately saw the two vacant stools that stood to one side of the door. Set slightly back from the rest, they whispered their identity to him. This was where his dad and Stan Downes must have sat together during their daily tilts at the old enemy. It took him a couple of strides to reach them.
Moe felt a little strange as he pulled them from under a midriff high plastic topped shelf that Maurice Moe’s elbows must have shined many times in the past. He sat on one stool and pushed the other a couple of feet ahead of him. He studied it, wondering just which one of the two might have been his dad’s chosen seat. He knew enough of superstitions in racing to be sure that Moe Senior would have kept to one stool and one only. His reverie was interrupted by the hectoring voice of the fat man behind the counter, plainly giving the girl a hard time over something, his mouth flapping furiously while she paid attention with all the resignation of the vulnerable hired help.
The fat man caught Moe watching. Moe waved, smiling cheerily at the girl. He couldn’t resist the wind-up. He also felt sorry for her. “All right love?”
She smiled back, relief and gratitude in her eyes. The fat man glowered at Moe then went back behind his desk, jabbing a pudgy finger and muttering inaudibly at the girl as he went. Her reply reached Moe.
“Yes, Mr Legge, sorry, Mr Legge.” So – his guess had been spot on. Moe was beginning to dislike Legge already. Now he had even more reason to hope that Screwy’s tip came in. He reached for a blank betting slip.
Gone to Glory – £10 WIN … brief and to the point. The monitor nearest to Moe gave the odds as 20/1. That would do very nicely. On reaching the counter he asked for the odds and the girl neatly wrote 20/1, carefully circling her figures in red ink before passing it through the till to emerge replete with a neat row of print along one edge recording the bet. Detaching the copy for the shop, she handed Moe the other copy. He scanned it for mistakes – just to be sure – and got another nice smile. Behind her, Legge scowled, like he was hoping Moe would drop dead.
The shop was getting busier with early afternoon punters as Moe returned to his adopted stool. But just to make sure, he patted the other one, trying to imagine his dad there, scribbling endless notes in the margins of his racing pages. But instead, he saw him slumped, ill and dying. With an effort, he thrust the image from his mind. The street door was banging to and fro with increasing frequency and each time Moe looked round, hoping to see Stan Downes.
Legge had emerged from his lair and was moving along, tidying the already tidy racks. One or two punters greeted him and got a brusque response, turning back with a shrug to their deliberations. Legge was obviously not one for PR … punter relations. This struck Moe as odd since any smaller bookmaker seeking to survive in fierce competition with the big boys in the game had to attract custom in whatever way was available. And one of the best was the personal touch, and special offers that the big boys couldn’t or wouldn’t match. Ignoring Moe, Legge yanked open the street door and stood surveying the scene outside.
“Shit!” With that, he was gone out of the door. Moe, who had been near enough to hear, got to his feet and wandered over to peer out.
Marie!
Traffic squealed to a stop as Legge, with amazing agility for one so big, aimed his considerable bulk between the braking cars in the direction of a parked Mercedes receiving the attentions of Moe’s favourite warden. By the look of it, he had arrived in the nick of time. Lucky man, Moe thought.
Marie’s finger was wagging reprovingly, a smile diluting the admonition. Whatever Legge said probably wasn’t big on charm but Marie gave no outward sign. The bang of the driver’s door startled the seagulls dozing on the rooftops high overhead. A fist shook out of the driver’s window as the car lurched impatiently out into the line of traffic with much hooting and shouting. Moe watched Marie who watched the Mercedes. Then she looked over and saw him – and really smiled. Gone to Glory would have to race without him, Moe thought, as he followed in Legge’s footsteps.
“We’ll have to stop meeting like this, Mr Moe.” She had remembered. Moe rejoiced inside.
“I’d much rather you called me Arthur.”
“All right … Arthur.”
“And you’re Marie.”
She nodded. “That’s me.”
“Marie what?”
She stopped and gave him the full frontal wattage of that smile again. “Mee – Marie Mee.”
Moe bit his tongue. She must have heard it a thousand times before. Only if you go down on bended knee and ask me properly.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Mee.” The absence of a wedding ring gave
him confidence on that score. She began walking on, Moe falling in step. “No more tickets?” She gave him a mischievous sideways glance.
“Uh-uh. One is quite enough, thank you.”
“And you a policeman too.”
“Yes.”
“National Armed Robbery and Crime Organisation.”
“No.”
“But you said you were in …”
“Stop! I said National Armed Robbery and Crime Organisation. I did not say that I was IN it … if there IS such a thing – which I doubt.”
Marie wrinkled her nose. “Naughty! Do you often pretend to be what you’re not?”
“Doesn’t everyone at some time or other? Besides, it worked, didn’t it? OK … OK, I’m sorry.”
Marie relented, unwrinkling her nose. “And I’m sorry too.”
“You? What have you got to be sorry about?”
Shyly, she touched his arm. “I’m sorry about your father.” Moe was taken completely by surprise.
“But how … ?”
“Simple. You and Detective Sergeant Swift. I’m a good friend of his girlfriend, Rachel. She mentioned that he was dealing with the case and the name isn’t exactly common, is it?” Her voice had become husky. “You could say that the police have been helping me with my enquiries.”
Moe was affected, and delighted that he’d made more of an impression than he had dared hope for.
“I only wish he’d taken that pillock for a few grand.” Her eyes to die for hardened on Legge on the opposite pavement as the bookmaker hurried to his shop. Marie almost spat the ‘p’ in pillock. Moe shook his head.
“Sadly not. But maybe I’ll make a deduction from his profits myself.”
Marie raised crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping. What a pig that man is!” Moe was impressed by the force of feeling. Outwardly, she was so … cool, so calm and contained. Inwardly … well, it might be fun finding out. As if reading his mind, she moved closer, brushing against him with every step. This was heady stuff. Could it be that despite the difference in their ages, she fancied him as much as he fancied her? He could always hope. After all, some women liked older men. And he was still pretty presentable … all parts in reliable working order. Just like his Astra.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 5
