Moe had no difficulty in making the connection between the present day Carter and his violent unlamented sire.
“Wasn’t there a bit of excitement here yesterday?”
Carter scratched his backside, then his topside, leaving specks of dirt among the sparse strands of hair.
“Outside, that was. Not in ’ere. One of them warden wankers got himself brained – or did it himself.” He sniggered and his hand returned down below to carry on where it had left off.
“Tryin’ to get in ’ere without goin’ through the proper channels.” He hee-hawed like a donkey. Moe dodged the spray of spittle.
“What happened?” He enquired innocently.
“’Ow should Oi know? It were bad enough being disturbed by the coppers asking me silly questions.” He spat derisively, disregarding Moe’s glare. “Banging on my door till I couldn’t take no more. I couldn’t tell ’em nothin’. I work ’ere, I doan live ’ere. But then again, who does?” Carter cackled and hugged himself in appreciation of his own feeble joke. One dirty digit tapped his nose confidentially. “Never do remember much after a few lunchtime bevies.” Moe mentally substituted seven or eight. He didn’t envy the licensee who had to deal with a drinker like Carter when he got stroppy. He wondered how many incidents the gravedigger had been involved in that didn’t get accounted for in police statistics.
“Besides, those tossers couldn’t find piss in a pisspot. Coppers!” Moe took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll be seeing you,” he replied and began making for the exit. He was not impressed to discover that the other man was dogging his heels like a tiresome terrier.
“Doan you worry ’bout your old dears’ resting place. Oi’ll give it my personal atten’shun.” Moe didn’t slacken his stride. “Much obliged,” he returned. But Carter wasn’t easily discouraged. His tone altered, catching Moe off balance.
“Not everyone’s like you. Your parents must ’ave been special, you taking the trouble you do.” Moe was disconcerted, both by the wistful note and its undertone of envy.
“They were. They were very special. I was lucky to have them.”
“And they you, Oi reckon.” Then the voice changed again, now flat and empty. “Others aren’t so lucky.” But Moe carried on walking.
“It’s a matter of inheritance,” he replied, “some get gold whilst others get base metal.” He reached the exit and saw that Carter had stopped, a strange expression on his face, as if something hitherto unconsidered had occurred to him. “Base metal? Useless dross, you mean?” Moe left him standing there, a suddenly pitiable wretch, as much a captive of cruel circumstance as any man caught behind bars.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The message board proclaimed Moe’s name – and a bit more besides – in large chalked letters. “A. MOE – JUST A MO!” He grinned appreciatively. It had to be Patsy. Benny Fitts didn’t have that sense of humour. Come to think of it, he didn’t have much humour about him at all. But then he had his problems, Moe allowed, pushing into the reception office.
“Screwy said could you call him?” Patsy sang out as he entered. Moe sneaked a look around but there was no sign of Benny Fitts. Patsy Bottoms didn’t miss it but she misunderstood his interest.
“Don’t worry, he’s not back yet. You can use the phone again if you want.” She stared pointedly in the direction of the charity box.
“Isn’t the manager of this prestigious holiday park ever here?” Moe leant against the counter opposite Patsy and tapped at the woodwork with the toe of one shoe.
“The poor man never gets any peace,” Patsy sighed plaintively, “he had to go out again.”
“Who was it this time?” Moe asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer to that anyway.
“Who else? Same as usual. Those bloodsuckers of bureaucracy fooled by that whining ex-wife of his.” Moe thought for a moment that Patsy was going to emulate Carter and spit. He was relieved when she didn’t. “Ah, not the dreaded CSA? Wasn’t he seeing someone from there only yesterday?”
“He had another call earlier today. Some new development, he said. And off he went.”
Moe was becoming even more intrigued by the antics of the manager.
“Poor old Benny,” he cooed convincingly, “It can’t be easy for him.” He stood up and turned to the door. Patsy called after him.
“Aren’t you going to make your call?”
“Thanks for the offer but I won’t have to bother you anymore.” He reached inside his coat for his mobile phone and showed it to her. “It’s Spend As You Send for me from now on.” Patsy blinked and Moe detected disappointment.
“Does that mean I won’t be fielding any more calls for you?”
“It’s called progress, they tell me … no offence, you understand.”
“None taken. I just liked the chance to chat when they called.”
Moe blew her a kiss to help make up for it.
The early evening chill, coming with the dusk, offered no incentive to hang around out of doors. Moe let himself into his caravan, and with an exaggerated sidestep past his bike, went directly to the gas fire and lit it. Then, without taking off his coat, he filled the kettle and plugged it in before turning it on at the mains. The chill stayed in his bones and he returned to stand near the hissing fire, letting the flaring jets do their job. After a minute or two, he was warm enough to remove his coat and drape it over the long divan seat beneath the main window.
From its vantage point near the base of Badger’s Knoll, Moe’s caravan provided a vista over virtually all of the holiday park, from the coast road high up to the right across to the cliffs and the sea away to the left. In the past, the demands of work had prevented him from using it so late in the year and, despite the reason for his present stay, he found himself adapting to – even enjoying in a way – the bleak stillness.
The trees and bushes that were full of life in summer were now almost devoid of foliage and the few birds that lingered among their gaunt skeletons reminded Moe of singers who had frozen and forgotten their songs. Here and there, dustbins stood upended in their corners, abandoned until the next season’s human input. Want not, waste not, Moe thought.
Impulsively, he decided to ring Screwy Naylor and impress with his new gizmo. Mentally ticking off the procedures, Moe succeeded first time in getting the distant number. Screwy obliged him with frequent grunts of enthusiasm as he explained where he was and how he was able to call him. But not so often that prevented him providing Moe with his latest tip.
“Be On The Ball – running at Newlands Priory tomorrow”. Moe found himself nodding as if Screwy was right there in front of him.
“Got it!”
“Isn’t that somewhere near you … local-like?”
Moe grinned to himself, imagining the old East Ender looking it up in some equally ancient schoolboy atlas of the UK.
“Not far. I might go along for the crack.”
“Wish we could join you.”
Moe was touched by the sincerity in the other man’s voice. They chatted for a minute or too longer before Moe gave him his new number for future reference – and urgent tipping news – and said his goodbyes. He was suddenly in very real need of a cup of Rosie as Screwy would call it.
Hot tea and a chocolate biscuit were, in Moe’s considered opinion, one of life’s more civilised combinations. He took a sip of one and a bite of the other as the Allegro pursued the Tranquillo in the First Movement of Lloyd’s Fourth Symphony. Amazing how a man who had been nearly shelled to death and then shipwrecked in war could emerge from the insanity to write such wonderful music. Another sip and another bite. Sheer pleasure.
Moe had read that the composer had been a young Royal Marine aboard a cruiser on Russian Convoy escort duty when his ship had come under sustained and intensive bombardment from air and sea. The oil tanks of his ship had ruptured and Lloyd had been one of a handful that found their way to safety only for the ship to go down in the shell-shocked days that followed. To survive such horror and be ab
le to write such music … that was truly miraculous. Moe lay back, put his feet up and let the brilliance of the music bear him towards the promise of a brighter future.
………………………….
“Have you told the police?” Moe frowned as he spoke into his mobile. At the other end, Stan Downes dragged out the words.
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“OK Stan, now you’ve told me. But you might want to tell the locals.” Moe had rung his dad’s old pal to invite him out for a day at the races – for old times’ sake. He hadn’t bargained for what followed.
“Have you seen the paper, Arthur … the Bay Bugle? The picture on the front page. It’s him.”
“Hold your horses. What are you on about?”
“The Bugle … today … haven’t you seen it?”
“No, not yet. Why?”
“That murder yesterday … the traffic warden. He’s on the front page. It was him who found me that time I got knocked down. Honest to God.” His agitation shook down the line into Moe’s ear. Moe employed his best ‘evening all’ manner, wondering why it should have affected the man so.
“Are you certain?” he asked evenly.
“I’d know that ugly mug anywhere, looming over me.” Stan’s quavering tones lingered on the word “looming”.
“So what if it was him? Baytown isn’t Birmingham, let alone London. There can only be a handful of traffic wardens in a place this size.”
“Something’s going on. I’m sure of it! Call me daft if you must, but I’m … worried.” The pause was as plangent as the lingering on looming.
“What on earth for? What have you done?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. I haven’t done anything. But first, I get burgled; then, out of the blue, I get knocked down in the street. And now – this!” Moe felt a pang of guilt. He really was worried.
“Come on Stan. It’s just coincidence. Why should there be any connection?” That’s it, Moe told himself, reassure the patient.
“I don’t know. And that only makes it worse. Not knowing.”
“Tell you what I think.” Moe warmed to his theme. Reassure the patient. “I think maybe the car that knocked you down was driven by a toe-rag with worse things to hide – and maybe, just maybe, that toe-rag thought your man could finger him. That could be some sort of motive now, couldn’t it? But you said yourself you were deep in your paper, so how could you have seen anything?” Moe heard the shallow breathing in his ear.
“If there is any connection – and that’s a big IF, then you’re out of it in my book. No problem.” The breathing got easier. A long pause then:
“You’re right Arthur. Thanks. Call it getting old.”
Detective Sergeant Swift adjusted his substantial posterior on the low pouffe and cast a covetous eye over the sofa that Moe and Stan occupied. Moe stifled a grin and caught Stan’s eye. The latter coughed noisily.
“So you see why I was so concerned, sergeant.” The old man finished his story. The CID man nodded slowly, his serious expression seriously at odds with the absurdity of his position.
“Quite understandable.” Swift flicked a glance at Moe and made a surreptitious attempt to ease his posture on the sagging cushion. “The enquiry is still in its early stages but the PM …”
“Post mortem,” Moe whispered helpfully to Downes.
“… is inconclusive. The head injuries seem the cause of death, that much seems sure, but the body had other injuries … bodily contusions and lacerations that require a second opinion. We’ve got another man – from London – coming down.” Swift sniffed at Moe. “An expert, we’re told.” Moe scrutinised the ceiling of the neat little room.
“Bad business.” Downes murmured, injecting some heartfelt humanity into the conversation. He looked from Moe to Swift. The latter nodded briskly and proceeded to prise himself from the enveloping embrace of the pouffe, struggling to his feet with some difficulty but much relief.
“But as Arthur says, random chance most likely; I wouldn’t worry.” Moe and Downes rose to join him. The CID man reached behind with both hands and massaged his lower back before allowing himself to be led like some discharged physio patient to the front door. Downes opened it and stood aside for him as Swift rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Why don’t you take up Arthur’s suggestion? Have a day at the races. Confucius, he say ‘A change is as good as a rest’ – right. Arthur?”
Moe took it up. “Right!”
“Only wish I could join you.” Swift looked enviously at them. “I like a flutter now and then. And there’s some consolation in losing your cash in the flesh, so to speak. Not that I lose that often,” he added quickly, then “any tips for an underpaid colleague?” Moe felt expansive. “Try a pound each way – On The Ball.” Swift eased his way out past Downes. “I shall try to be on the ball.” he grinned.
Moe tapped his nose conspiratorially. “But keep it to yourself. Don’t want the price shortening up, do we?” Swift tapped his own nose in return. “Bob’s your uncle.” Moe thought the tip a fair exchange for the favour Swift had done him by agreeing to meet up with them like this.
The CID man had just reached his car when Moe caught up with him.
“Thanks for that. You helped a lot putting his mind at rest.”
“Thanks for the tip. You might be helping to put my mind at rest.” Swift went through a mournful charade of checking empty pockets.
“How’s that highflying detective inspector of yours?”
Swift shrugged.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel, you mean? He materialised briefly for a dekko at the corpse, then vanished again for places unknown. My only reward for my work is the fact that he trusts me to get on with it. I’m acting DI for this one. Consider yourself honoured by my presence.”
Moe snapped him up a salute as Swift lowered himself into the driving seat, the car sagging dangerously close to the kerb under the weight. Closing the door, its driver lowered his window and stuck his head out.
“Tell me, what do you make of it … what he said?” Swift jerked his head at Downes who stood waiting and watching in his doorway. “The well-known laws governing coincidence are being stretched a bit, don’t you think?”
“Fate fucking with fortuity,” Moe replied.
“You’ve lost me.”
“Meaning I’m as lost as you are. But give me time.”
“Speaking of which, how much longer are you going to be down here?”
“A week or two … give or take.”
“Well then, why waste any more of it? Go see that fetching female of yours.” Swift winked hugely. As for Moe, he liked “female of yours”.
“I saw her at the station earlier. The poor girl had a face as long as my masculinity. She needs you to cheer her up in short order – with yours!”
Swift quickly crashed into gear and Moe backed off to give him room.
“Not a moment to lose, you hear … Metplod!” With one hand waving from the open window, the CID man took off, followed by a cloud of blue exhaust fumes. Moe meandered back towards Downes.
“Obliging fellow,” Downes observed. “Fancy another cuppa?”
Marie answered the door herself this time. Moe made a big show of checking out the interior, manfully trying to ignore the beautiful body close by and enticingly enclosed in a short black silky wrap.
“No Harry this evening?” Moe craned past her, catching her scent.
“I told him not to bother tonight,” Marie stepped back and tugged him inside, tiptoing on bare feet to press her freshly showered form against him. Moe was lost in a warm haze as she pulled his head down for a long, tongue-tasting kiss. He felt his equipment press against her. Marie kissed him harder … deeper. After a glorious eternity, she eased away just far enough to smile up at him.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” she whispered and pressed back, her mouth seeking his again. Then it was his turn to pull away as he came up for air. He took her face in his hands, caressing her ear
lobes. She shivered.
“You’re good enough to eat – and I get food as well!”
Her eyes-to-die-for seduced him from beneath fluttery lashes. “Hey, is that a truncheon I feel or are you just glad to see me?”
“Oops”. Bloody mobile phone! Moe produced it for her inspection.
“Right sort of message. Wrong sort of contact.” Marie giggled free, and backing away drew him into the dining room, her eyes devouring him.
The table was laid ready, bathed in the hazy glow of a dozen candles. Was all this for him? The effect was incredibly romantic. Moe was thirty again and Marie was looking at him. “It’s not too … you know … over the top?”
Moe shook his head in wonderment. “This must be any man’s idea of heaven.”
“Not any man. I don’t care about any man!”
“Will this do far an answer?” Moe held her and let his lips do the talking.
“Um … oh … um … yes, that’ll do nicely.”
They seemed perfect together. Age made no difference. Marie hung back, wary, uncertain, like a schoolgirl at her first dance. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to do this.”
“I want to, believe me. A man has his duties.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Just relax and let me do it.”
With the skill of years, Moe flicked the cloth over the dripping wine glass and rubbed it gleaming dry before placing it out of harm’s way.
“You really are very good.” Marie held up another for him.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Moe wiped it dry.
“Don’t believe all you hear about dumb blondes.”
“I never did. By the way, I like the way you’ve done your hair.”
“I copied it from Rachel. I’ll probably let it down later.”
The song was Sinatra and the mood was magic. They sat back on the couch and sipped their coffee, occasionally catching each other peeking over the rim of a cup. It had been a marvellous meal and Moe was at peace with himself and the world. Marie matched her cup and saucer and pushed them aside. She was staring at Moe as if seeing him for the first time. Moe matched his own cup and saucer.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 10
