Moe sympathised inwardly. Maurice Moe had had a thing about losing his faculties as age overtook him. Ga-Ga was his term for it.
“Have you reported it to the police?”
“And have them tramping about and upsetting the neighbours? No thanks. Besides, I’ve told you … nothing’s missing. Well, not that I can find.”
“And that?” Moe pointed to the other man’s scalp. Downes’ fingers reached up to touch the brown scab. “Or did you get that headbutting your door backwards?”
Downes went red, his pale face resembling a stoplight in the last hurrah of afternoon light from the window.
“I fell … I think.” Downes leaned sideways to flick on a wall switch. The brilliance of the artificial light seemed harsh and intrusive.
“You think? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Downes winced as he pressed too hard. He left his scalp alone, examining his fingertips as he went on with his story.
“I’m not sure myself … and that’s the truth of it. I only know what I was told happened from someone who was there.” The question in Moe’s expression led him on.
“I went out for a paper as usual – you know, for the racing. I can remember wandering back reading … a bit careless, I suppose. I was going to cross the junction up at the end. Next thing I knew, I’m on my back being propped up against the kerb by a traffic warden trying to give me first aid but I wasn’t a good patient. All I wanted to do was get home.” Downes looked sheepish. “I was told that I’d been hit by a car – glancing blow thank God – and fallen over and banged my head. Didn’t stop, of course. And don’t ask if anyone got the number ’cos they didn’t.” He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his fingers on it, blowing his nose noisily for good measure before stuffing it away. “Hasn’t been my week, has it?” he exclaimed ruefully.
“No, it hasn’t and that’s a fact. Sorry if I sounded a bit smug and officious just now but it wasn’t meant that way.”
“I know. It’s me who should be apologising for dragging you over to hear this tale of woe. You’ve got problems enough as it is.”
“Listen to me. If you start getting after-effects … giddy spells, double vision, that sort of thing, you get down to your doctor on the hurry up. Head injuries can be tricky.”
“Understood.” More cheerful now, Downes beckoned towards Moe’s cup.
“I’ll be all right. That warden insisted on seeing me home. Even made me a cup of tea.” Moe’s eyebrows lifted discernibly. Downes caught the look.
“No, it couldn’t have been. Didn’t have the time or the opportunity with me right there. I wasn’t that far gone! And besides, my fall happened before that time I was telling you about.” Downes began frowning at Moe’s suspicions. “Shame on you for harbouring such thoughts about my saviour.” He grinned. “But I then don’t have a car myself.”
By the time they parted company on Downes’ front step, they were on first name terms and the old man was back to what Moe assumed was his usual self. Certainly, he was much chippier, more confident, than he had been before his visit. Moe believed that Downes had just been in need of someone to talk to as much as anything, and it had helped hugely that he was Maurice Moe’s boy, the son of his best pal. He started for his car. Downes made to go with him but Moe checked him gently.
“If that door of yours swings shut how are you going to get back in?”
With an embarrassed grimace, Downes hurriedly wedged himself into the gap. “Not thinking again. What is to be done with me?”
Moe unlocked and leaned over the roof to call back to him.
“Now I’ve got your number, I’ll keep in touch. I know dad would want me to. That is, if you want?” He was rewarded with two thumbs-up. “OK, I’ll give you a call. Take care now.”
As he drove off Moe waved but Downes couldn’t have seen, not with his face hidden in his handkerchief like that.
Driving back to Badger’s Bay could wait. Moe wanted to check out the flowers he had left on the grave. He didn’t trust Carter to care anything about them and if they’d gone, at least he could arrange replacements. The flood of flashing blue lights across the road told Moe that his plan would have to be put on hold. A wave of fluorescent yellow jackets washed to and fro between the lights and a zombie-like figure in a white coverall was emerging from behind a high screen that had been erected on the side of the road nearest to the cemetery.
Moe braked to a stop before they made him, took the nearest turning and managed to find a space. Then, like a bloodhound taking up the scent, he trotted back to see what all the excitement was about.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The blue and white police tape stretched across the width of the road, leaving a narrow gap on the side directly opposite the sinister screen and its hidden content. Two zealous young constables were encouraging tardy pedestrians on their way. Moe followed the tape towards the screen. He had seen a familiar face.
Anticipating the challenge from a moon-faced PC, he stuck out his warrant card. “Sergeant Moe, Metropolitan Police – to see DS Swift.”
The constable gawped like a guppy, pushing his face close to Moe’s ID, the slightly flashy metal badge faintly reflected in his shiny complexion.
“Never seen one like that before.” He smirked annoyingly. “Like one from those American cop shows on the box. Hey, Sarge … ” he caught Swift’s attention, “there’s some skipper here from London to see you.”
Swift was conferring with the zombie, now clearly identified on his back as the “Scenes of Crime Officer”. Moe saw him mutter something to the SOCO and they both looked over at him. No prizes for guessing the tenor of their talk as far as he was concerned. A busybody – but ‘job’.
The SOCO returned behind his screen and Swift walked over to Moe, dismissing the moon-faced PC with a peremptory jerk of his head.
“Paying respects … ?” Swift indicated the adjacent cemetery, “or just passing by?” The CID man contemplated the gawkers among the passing pedestrians with a mixture of impatience and distaste. “Look at them. They would be first in line at hangings if they still had them in public.” Moe thought he was being a bit unkind but refrained from saying so. It was plain that Swift was having a trying day.
“I’d hazard a guess and say ‘suspicious death’ … right?” Moe remarked.
“You could say that. Skull caved in. Messy business.” Swift sucked his teeth. “But it’s early days and it could be anything.” His eyes left Moe and latched on to the traffic that was building up in both directions as confused drivers sought advice on being directed off their intended route. “It’s a busy enough stretch of road. Could even be a hit and run.”
“Where’s your DI – the man with the tan? Shouldn’t he be here running the show?”
Swift sucked harder then removed a bit of discoloured detritus with the aid of a fingernail.
“You might well ask! Mr Tighe is off on some job of his own … secret squirrel stuff.” He flicked the offending object away. “I’m the acting DI – couldn’t you tell?” Moe felt for him.
“Well, come to think of it, you do have a certain air of gravitas.”
“You what, pal?” Their mutual mirth was interrupted by the approach of a woman officer. She was balancing something on the end of a stick and dangled it in front of Swift’s nose.
“Found this in the grass, Sarge.” She held it higher, like a kid with a stick of candyfloss. It was a traffic warden’s cap. Moe would have known that slashed peak anywhere.
“Miller.” Moe spoke the name softly.
“What was that?” Swift took the stick from the officer and examined the warden’s cap, the trim stained with grass stains and gore.
“Miller. That’s his name.”
Swift continued to study the cap. “I didn’t say anything about a he.”
“That’s right. But I’ll bet a pint of beer to a pound of plums it is.”
There was a non-committal grunt from Swift but Moe knew he was right.
“Good work, Sally.” Swift handed the stick back to the WPC. “Now go and find the SOCO and have it bagged up and labelled. And I’ll want a witness and exhibit statement from you later.”
“Right-o, Sarge.” She trotted off happily towards the screen, waving her trophy like a scalp on the end of a lance. “And then go and help sort out that traffic – or we’ll be here all night!” Swift added the afterthought while she was still within hearing range.
“So – what’s this about someone called Miller?” Swift began walking slowly after the WPC, drawing Moe along with him.
“He was the warden who gave me my parking ticket.”
“A-ha! So having got your revenge, you’ve returned to the scene of the crime!” Moe looked to make sure Swift was joking. “But assuming you’re right in your identification, it looks as if Miller drove someone too far himself.” They reached the screen. Dim shadows could be seen crouching in the space beyond. Swift’s head lifted towards the cemetery.
“The location is a nice touch. Convenient too.”
“I take it there are no witnesses?”
“You take it correctly.” Swift nudged Moe. “Not in there anyway.”
“What about the gravedigger … Carter?”
“It’s his half-day, but we’re checking his usual haunts.”
Moe couldn’t resist spluttering in outraged mock- indignation.
“Half day? I always thought that it was a VOCATION. People in that line should do it for the love of the job.”
“Maybe once upon a time. But, as my all-time favourite film has it … those days are gone with the wind.”
“Carter’s old man would have gone along with you.”
Swift may not have got it, but his reply was perfect.
“I doubt if he would have gone quietly.” Then he changed tack. “Did you get in touch with your dad’s pal … Downes?”
“As it happens, I’ve just come from seeing him.”
“How was it?”
“I was about to ask if … ” But Moe was interrupted by the SOCO. “Sergeant Swift, a word in your ear please.” A bulb blinked on behind Swift’s eyes. He squeezed Moe’s arm.
“Got to go. If you fancy that pint, pop into the ‘Pig and Truffle’ sometime after ten tonight. A lady friend of mine is due to sing there. Do you know it?” Swift cocked one eyebrow. “Or are you rushing back to civilisation – so called?”
Moe knew the pub – and he had no intention of rushing anywhere just yet. He wondered if the lady in question was Marie’s girlfriend. It gave him an idea that got better with each passing second.
“I’ll be there.” As Swift ducked behind the screen, Moe fired a parting shot. “Don’t solve it too soon. Your DI might start worrying.”
Moe was relieved to find that his flowers were pretty much intact – a bit windswept but apparently all there. He stood by the grave for a few minutes but his frame of mind wasn’t helped by the commotion in the road outside. Patting the headstone, he left his parents in peace.
It was just as well he had parked where he had. It was a cut-through that took him away from the snarl-up. As for getting back to civilisation – so called, he was already working on it. And the alternatives.
Marie’s number rang twice before she answered. Moe took a deep breath.
“Marie, it’s me … Arthur.”
“Hello you.” Her voice dropped to a breathy whisper. Moe tingled.
“I was wondering whether you would come out with me tonight. Perhaps a drink somewhere? Unless you’re busy … ” Moe could have kicked himself. WHY did he have to say that? But he needn’t have worried. The reply was immediate, the voice sexier than ever.
“I’d love to. We could always get busy together.”
Moe exulted inwardly. “Can I pick you up – say 9.30pm?”
A man’s voice said something muffled in the background. Moe heard Marie reply but couldn’t make out the words. Then, giggling like a girl, she was back with him.
“Sorry Arthur, what did you say?”
Moe felt like an eavesdropper. Was he taking too much for granted? “I said can I pick you up at 9.30pm?”
“Yes, that’ll be lovely. I’ll be waiting.”
The response was clear enough but there was someone else there. Marie was telling someone to behave himself. He bridled. “What was that?”
“Arthur, don’t be put off if some great brute of a young man answers the door when you arrive.” Moe squirmed on the cruel hook of torment.
“He’ll only be the over-developed brat I know as my baby brother.” Then she was gone. Moe hung up. The hot surge of jealousy that had been rising remorselessly in his soul ebbed away as he stepped out of the call box. Where there was life, there was hope. Then he remembered Miller.
His watch said six when he dropped down the short gradient into the caravan park. A light still glowed in reception. Moe slowed to a crawl and craned his neck. He could just make out Benny Fitts, face in hands, having his neck massaged and an ear nibbled by Patsy Bottoms. Her ministrations were having the desired effect. Benny lifted his head and turned to smile, reaching back to give her hands a gentle squeeze. Neither of them noticed him pass by.
Moe climbed up over the dark promontory that formed a natural clifftop extension of the caravan park beyond the railway line that divided them. The latter saw little winter traffic, unlike the coast road that still rumbled with what passed for rush hour in Baytown. Moe kept walking to the sea until the rumble was a fading hum, overtaken by the growling give and take of the sea rushing over a regiment of rocks. One, it seemed, was of the moment; the other was forever. It pleased Moe to witness the natural order taking proper precedence. As he went, he promised himself that he would return to the cemetery again once it was free from the posse of police and their paraphernalia. Maurice and Hilda Moe weren’t going anywhere. He was sure they would understand.
Strange … the business with Miller. Who would do such a thing? And why? Traffic wardens, like coppers, weren’t everyone’s favourite people, but most understood that they were doing a necessary job, doing what society paid them for. No one deserved to die for that – or like that. Then there was Stan Downes. What would he do now? Moe kicked at the hummocks of coarse grass barely visible at his feet. What a world!
He made his way slowly to the guardrail that lined the steps to the nearest and largest of the two coves marking the seaward side of Badger’s Bay. The tide was on the turn, on the ebb, but Moe was careful to grip the rail firmly. There was no one about to know if he missed his footing and fell headlong; no one to know if he was taken and drowned. Not until his bloated corpse was washed ashore somewhere – like the one Swift had described; the one that had made Patsy Bottoms go wobbly when he mentioned it. Moe continued on down the steps. They were wet now. The evening was mild, the sky sprayed with showers of stars in a misty sparkle. He was torn between the beautiful heavens and trying to see where he was going when he reached the last step before the shore. He remained there sucking in the salty air, revelling in its freshness. How undemanding and uncomplicated the human condition could be. But, sadly, life was usually far from simple and its reality needed a refuge.
Moe had heaved his way back to the top step and was about to set off the way he’d come, back to the caravan park, when he saw two figures – black against the distant illumination of the coast road – moving at right angles towards the smaller cove. With his head on a level with the cliff top and with the black ocean as backdrop, he could see but not be seen. In a matter of seconds he realised who they were. Benny and Patsy. He was about to rise up and call out, aiming to wind them up, but something … he couldn’t put his finger on it … held him in check.
Benny and Patsy walked on, immersed in their private world, the faint cadence of their conversation occasionally coming to Moe over the rush of the tide. Moe wondered just what the CSA would make of this assignation. If some men were made to suffer, Benny Fitts was a masochist!
Moe gave them plenty
of time before regaining the coarse grass of the cliff top. He took another look around but they had gone, and he was childishly pleased that his own presence had been undetected throughout.
He reached his caravan and was feeling for his key when he noticed the sprinkle of dirt over the concrete standing that supported his holiday home, He kicked at the dirt in irritation, trying to locate its source. That badger again. If humans – the untidiest of creatures – could clear up their own mess – why couldn’t animals? It seemed to Moe to be a careless design fault in nature and he was so involved with his thesis and his key that he didn’t see a shadowy shape slip away into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
Moe pressed Marie’s bell once. The door was opened and someone blocked out the light. Moe was no pigmy but he had an instant idea of how jockeys must feel for much of their lives. A huge hand grabbed his own and he was virtually lifted inside. A voice to match the body boomed at him.
“You’ve got to be Arthur. I’m almost sick of hearing about you.” Moe squinted up at the young giant. “And you’ve got to be the baby brother, I was almost sick until I heard that.” A laugh to match the boom echoed around the walls. “The name’s Harry. Pleased to meet you, Arthur. Sorry about the presumption just now, but you had to be a copper and Marie has only been talking about one lately.” Moe wasn’t too sure how to take the presumption at his stage of life. He liked to believe that he had got beyond that stage of first impressions to a far more advantageous state of uncertainty among the population at large. But it takes one to know one, he supposed. Even so, it was a severe blow to his blend in the background mature policeman theory.
“What made you so sure it was me? I’m not exactly wearing a flashing blue lamp on my head.” That laugh bounced around again.
“You might as well be. It’s the whole bag. That way of looking at people for a start.”
Moe threw the genial young giant another look to be going on with. “If you didn’t have such a handsome sister, I’d worry about who you spent your time with.”
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 7
