Harry kept the laugh within bounds this time. Moe estimated him to be two to three years younger than his sister. Open and friendly enough, but not to be trifled with; the sort to have on your side in a punch-up.
“You’ll have to be patient. My dear sister’s beyond make-up and into cosmetic surgery.” Harry checked Moe for a reaction but Moe knew a wind-up when he met one. He also saw the laughter lines crinkle around Harry’s eyes and adapted the sibling mickey-taking with practised aplomb.
“Marie Mee. Harry Mee. This is getting complicated. Are you sure there’s no Larry, Barry or Gary Mee as well?
“Nope. Nor Cary … to grant your wish.” Moe was getting to like this jokey colossus. Someone was coming downstairs. A fragrance filled the air.
“Ah, here she is. Medical science in all its splendour.” This was followed by the wumph of escaping air as Marie got him in the gut.
The delicate perfume wafted with her to Moe’s side and his heart beat faster. Marie was a picture in a slinky black silk number that accentuated the positive.
“Hello you.” One arm slipped like a sensuous snake through his and held him to her, her face tilting, eyes dancing, to take in his own.
Her brother backed away in a series of mock bows. Moe joined in the fun, addressing Marie. “Your carriage is without, milady.” Harry’s head came up at that. “There’s no reply to that old line,” he said. Marie kept hold of Moe’s arm, her other hand waving a small purse at her brother.
“I’ve got my keys, Harry. Just make sure everything is off before you leave. We may be late getting back.” A look up at Moe. “With any luck.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone once I’ve watched the video.” Harry stuck out his mit at Moe. “Look after her, Arthur. She’s all I’ve got … more’s the pity.” He avoided her kick but like the caring brother he was, went to retrieve the shoe that had shot off her foot and lodged in the fireplace. Marie pressed her shapely foot home into the sling-back as Harry made his peace. “Honestly, sis, you look great. Doesn’t she, Arthur?” Moe agreed. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he let his expression do the talking. Marie got the message. He was pulled unceremoniously out through the front door.
“Have fun.” The door closed on anything else that Harry might have felt tempted to add. Marie wrinkled her nose apologetically. “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He has a pretty basic sense of humour.”
“I liked him. What does he do?”
Marie delivered a very definite double take. “Oh Arthur, come on, you’re pulling my leg.”
Moe was up for it. ‘That’ll come later, I hope.”
“He’s a copper.” Moe suffered another blow to his equilibrium. He had been outflanked and outguessed in one short encounter. Not good.
“I’m sorry. I really should have said. But I thought it would be fun for you to find out for yourself. Anyway, I thought he’d say.”
“No, he didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.” Moe helped Marie into the front passenger seat of the Astra, enjoying the easy lift of her legs.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. You’re not angry, are you?” Marie was genuinely contrite. She clutched at his hand as he went to push her door shut. He gave her knuckles a squeeze. “No, of course not. How could a man in his right mind be angry with someone like you?” She relaxed a little as Moe went to his own side and got in. “Uniform or CID?” he asked. Marie took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out – the propellant for the words.
“He’s attached to the National Armed Robbery and Crime Organisation. I do recall that you know it.” Moe laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of it all. “Serves me right.” At that, Marie relaxed completely. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” It took a minute before they were back in control.
“Oh dear.” Marie unfastened her purse and extracted a tissue, which she used to dab delicately at both eyes. “I’m a pushover for a man who can make me laugh.”
The Pig and Truffle had been an inn for over two centuries and was all the better for it. Whitewashed walls and a heavy thatched roof over dark stained doors and glowing leaded windows promised a cosy welcome within. Moe had spent time in too many iffy pubs on other people’s say-so, but Swift’s recommendation looked right on the money, even if the CID man had his own personal reason for going. But Marie was impressed and that was the main thing as far as Moe was concerned. They paused a few yards from the entrance to the saloon bar. Marie cooed happily.
“I love places like this. Heard of it but never been.”
“Why ever not?”
“Good question. Harry doesn’t drink and the men I’ve been out with always seem to choose clubs not pubs. Must be the dresses I wear.” Marie pulled her hem down and straightened up the rest.
“Do I look OK?”
“You’re better than OK … you’re a KO!” Moe growled emphatically.
Marie flushed, the red stain rising up the white column of her throat to suffuse her cheeks. She leaned close, whispering urgently.
“Stop it! You’re making me hot.” Before he could think of a reply, she suddenly squealed in delight. “Oh, look … it’s her.” Marie was jabbing excitedly at a large picture of a very attractive Afro-Caribbean girl on a board just inside the porch to the bar. The blurb identified her as Rachel Harmony – your singer tonite – 10.l5pm.
Marie was jumping up and down on the spot. “It’s Rachel. She’s the one I told you about … Sergeant Swift’s girlfriend.” She tugged at Moe impatiently. “Come on.” He let himself be dragged uncomplaining past the sign and into the crowded bar, clocking people as he went. No sign of the Baytown CID man, but it was still early. Instead, Moe’s attention was caught by the expressions on the faces of the men watching Marie’s progress towards the bar. Identical to a man, they signalled envy and admiration. It wasn’t often in his life that Moe had been on the receiving end of envy. He was rather enjoying it. As for admiration, he was only too happy to go along with their good taste.
A space at the bar appeared as if by magic and Marie filled the gap precisely, leaning back over one shoulder towards the attentive Moe. “This beats working any day.” Moe grinned, but his unspoken oath was forceful as the spectre of Miller came back at him. Damn! He still hadn’t told her. And she hadn’t mentioned it so she couldn’t know.
A barman appeared in line of vision, all smiles at Marie. She had her order ready. “Dry white wine and soda please.” She turned to Moe. “A pint of Porker’s Pride please.” The barman moved away. Marie gave her attention to the rest of the bar. Most of the rest of the bar were returning the compliment. “Shall I find a table?” she asked Moe.
“Sure, if you see one anywhere.” Her hands reached back and found his hips as she squeezed back past him to take a look around.
“There’s one.” Then she was gone in the direction of a small corner table where a couple were just making ready to leave. “Your drinks, sir.” The barman placed the glasses on the bar, his services already being sought by other customers. Moe paid and weaved towards Marie. She patted a small chair beside her own. “She who hesitates is lost.” Her teeth gleamed in the glow from a huge open hearth nearby. Moe handed her the spritzer and took a gulp from his ale before sitting down. This was more like it. Marie sipped delicately at her drink. Then she edged her chair closer.
“Right, Arthur Moe, I order you to tell me all about yourself. The good, the bad and the ugly.” Her teeth gleamed even brighter.
The sudden announcement over the pub speaker system was their first indication just how time had flown since they had sat down. In less than thirty minutes Marie had learned more about him than anyone. When he had reached the reason for his return to Baytown, she had held his hand and it was then that the metallic voice had intervened and parted them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to ask you to put your hands together to welcome a beautiful lady and a beautiful singer … RACHEL HARMONY!”
Moe and Marie studied their hands as they clapped the appearance – in a single
but effective spotlight – of a strikingly attractive young Afro-Caribbean girl, all high cheekbones and high piled hair, in a Shirley Bassey dress. Rachel Harmony sang as if every word, every phrase, was a purely personal confession of love and loss. The song ended to wild cheering and applause. Moe and Marie joined in enthusiastically.
“Good, isn’t she?” The voice was asking, but its owner knew the answer already. DS Swift plonked a half-drunk pint on their table and looked down at them. Moe hadn’t even noticed him arrive. Swift snatched a chair from beneath a standing fan of the singer and sat down before its loss was noticed.
“She’s terrific.” Moe agreed, shouting above the din. Marie agreed, her silver blonde hair bobbing furiously. Moe saw Swift staring at Marie. Then the CID man caught Moe’s eye. Oh-oh! Miller! Blast it! Moe made feverish introductions that immediately seemed a bit pointless since it was transparently clear they knew each other. Marie raised her glass at Swift.
“Ernest and I are acquainted, as are a certain singer and yours truly.”
“As are a certain singer and Ernest.” A lilting accent broke in. Swift slopped his beer, his face emerging from the foam to splutter “Rachel, my precious. Lovely song.” Marie and Moe nodded their assent. Rachel Harmony regarded Swift with a raise of one finely arched eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you going … ” But she was cut short by a sudden shout of alarm that crashed to the floor as the erstwhile occupant of Swift’s newly acquired chair descended to discover its absence. Hostile looks arrowed their way at Swift as the discomfited man was helped to his feet. But his anger was soothed effortlessly by Rachel who made a huge fuss of him as one of her most appreciated fans and left him speechless with delight by landing a smacker just for you on his flushed face before plonking herself on Swift’s lap and returning to where she left had off. “… to introduce us?”
Moe was already standing and was met by easy going approval from the singer who pushed at Swift’s chest and gave Marie a big sisterly smile. “Now there’s a gentleman. Not many around these days.”
“Rachel, this is Arthur … Arthur Moe. He’s from London.”
Moe took Rachel’s outstretched hand and kissed it gallantly.
“Oh, I’m going to like you.” Rachel cooed, at the same time squeezing Swift somewhere with her other hand. “Ouch!” Swift spilt his ale again. Blowing a kiss to her adoring fan nearby, Rachel swung off Swift’s lap “Time for another song. Don’t go away … I’ll be back.” She snarled tigerishly at Swift who raised his glass. “Time after time!” he cried. And taking his words at face value, that was what she sang.
“I just can’t believe it. I just can’t!” Marie’s shocked expression matched the hushed horror of her response to the news about Miller’s death. “Who would do such an awful thing? And why? Poor … poor man.”
Moe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Telling her hadn’t been easy. But Swift had saved Moe the grief and laid it on her as gently as possible. Miller’s death was murder. Swift carried on what he had started, one eye on Rachel who had finished her song and was chatting to a smiling, suited man who had recently appeared from behind the bar and whose wary roving eye marked him out to Moe as the pub landlord.
“That’s what we intend to find out. Murder does nothing at all for the reputation of our town as a happy and carefree holiday resort.” Swift pulled a copy of the local newspaper from his jacket pocket and spread it out before Moe and Marie. The headlines were big and blunt. ‘MURDER IN BAYTOWN’. Swift watched Marie who nervously twisted her empty wine glass between distraught fingers. Moe took the paper as Swift pushed on.
“I’m sorry. You worked with Miller, didn’t you, Marie?”
“Um? Oh yes … yes, we patrolled together a few times.” Marie thrust a small fist into her mouth and looked anxiously at Moe, damp distress in her eyes. He decided it was time to put in his few pence worth.
“I saw Miller with Caesar Legge earlier – coming out of Legge’s shop. And I would guess that they weren’t discussing car parking either.”
“How’s that?”
“They were going at it like two dogs over a bone and then Miller just walked off. I saw Legge go to his car when Marie appeared and there was no sign of any ticket. Right, Marie?” She nodded quickly.
“Worth checking out. Maybe it had something to do with a bet.”
Moe shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s something I thought you should know.”
“It’s all stored away in this incredibly modern computerised villain-catching system.” Swift tapped at his temple. Moe took Marie’s arm and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Anyway, can’t we leave this for now?” He had spotted Rachel making her way back to their table. “We don’t want to spoil the evening for the ladies now, do we?” Swift sat back.
“My fault. You know how the job just won’t leave you alone?” Moe knew alright. And he was still obliged to Swift for stepping in and saving him from the onerous task of telling Marie about Miller. Rachel arrived in a rush and deposited her shapely derriere in Swift’s waiting lap again.
“What won’t leave you alone?” she demanded, looking from Moe to Swift.
“Talking about work.” Moe replied innocently.
“Oh right. Yeah. Right on!” Rachel responded forcefully. “Did I tell you how I hate it when people sing in the bath?” She gave Swift a close meaningful glare and he yelped as her hand emphasised her point elsewhere.
The last glass had been collected and the pub staff, only too eager to be on their way, were wiping tables and piling bar trays with closing time fervour as Marie and Rachel trooped off to the ladies loo. Moe and Swift considered their own options then decided on a visit to the gents.
They stood companionably, side by side, eyes scanning the graffiti that decorated the walls. Some of it was quite good. Swift sighed audibly.
“It’s not every evening I make two pints of beer last an hour!”
“Did you find Carter?” Moe zipped up and went to a sink.
“At home – well pissed from his lunchtime libations at The Frantic Ferret in Brandsby Street.” Swift went to a neighbouring sink as Moe banged the button on a wall drier. “Couldn’t tell us a thing – dead loss! Hey … I thought you said you didn’t want to talk shop anymore tonight.”
“I saw Carter in Brandsby Street … going into Legge’s shop.” Moe went to the door and waited for Swift. “Make what you like of that.” There was another bang and once again the wall drier whirred into noisy action. At that moment, two men pushed in past Moe, exchanging ribald comments. Swift shook his head, shook his hands and followed Moe out.
“Do you know the definition of a gent’s toilet?” Moe shot back over his shoulder to Swift. “It’s a place where guys go to air their differences.”
“Thank you for that little ray of light relief,” Swift replied, deadpan. “Now, before you lull me into forgetting, how about giving me back my newspaper.” If Moe had forgotten, he certainly hadn’t.
“At least it wasn’t all bad news on the day,” Moe observed as he handed it over, “a most obliging filly called Gone to Glory obliged at very attractive odds today. Dad would have been delighted.”
Swift snatched at the newspaper. “And so would I … IF I’d known.”
Moe felt it best to say nothing more on the subject but noted the interest. “Good luck with the murder enquiry,” he offered instead. Swift pulled a face. “Luck is exactly what I need.”
Moe let the engine run, warming up the interior of the Astra, while Marie huddled down in her seat, hunching her shoulders. Her seat belt still hung loose, half-forgotten in her hand.
“Are you OK?” Moe found himself reaching across for her belt, pulling carefully over and down to click home. She dropped one hand over his own.
“I can’t get it out of my mind. Only this morning I was talking to him, and now this. It doesn’t seem real.” She gulped. “I wasn’t close to him … nothing like that, you understand. But doing the job seemed to make us friends of a sort; he was a part of my life in
a small way. And now that part has been snuffed out – like it didn’t count for anything.”
Moe drew her to him. She didn’t resist. They sat there silently in the pub car park, letting the few remaining customers leave around them. There was a brief toot. Swift and Rachel smiled and waved as they went.
“There’s no rush, is there?” Marie burrowed her silky head into the space between his chin and collar bone. Then they were alone. The lights of the pub were going out one by one and soon it was just a dark shadow of its full-of-life former self.
There were no streetlights, and only the fleeting probe of passing headlights reminded them where they were. In the near distance, the luminescent sprawl of Baytown set the night sky aflame. Marie sighed deep down and pressed her soft mouth against his neck, her lips mouthing muffled words against the flesh below his ear. “Don’t go away, don’t leave,” he heard her say.
Moe had never enjoyed social intercourse quite so much. It was like flying free, going on and on without so much as a sign of fatigue or flagging between them. Once back at her place, they had talked on and on far into the night, at total ease with one another in an intimate continuation of their earlier conversation in the car.
After their second cup of cocoa he knew he didn’t have to ask. But he wouldn’t and he knew why. It had all been too quick and too good, and he had an absurd but overwhelming fear that somehow he might spoil it.
When, at last, she fell asleep against him, Moe waited for a while before easing himself free and tiptoeing to the door. He took a last look at her sleeping form, more vulnerable and more alluring than he could bear. He shut his eyes. It didn’t make leaving any easier. Reaching the step outside, he set the latch and gently pulled the door shut behind him, the lock clicking home. He had made it. But at that moment, he wasn’t convinced that virtue was necessarily its own reward.
Moe hadn’t realised just how quickly time could fly until he turned off the coast road towards the caravan park and saw the splintered shards of imminent dawn on the far horizon. Then the darkness closed in again as the Astra dropped down the sharp incline into Badger’s Bay. Moe doused the lights and switched off the engine; content to let the few remaining residents remain undisturbed by freewheeling the rest of the way to the steps that led up to his caravan. A minute later, eyes half closed, he pulled himself to the top of the steps, thinking only of sleep.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 8
