“Perhaps, after all, this has all the makings of a really worthwhile night’s work. Didn’t I say it … didn’t I … more besides maybe?” He squeezed Moe’s shoulders and nodded happily. “The teas are on me, lads!”
An anonymous voice out in the darkness grunted. “Don’t bet on it!”
Moe snorted in ill-disguised mirth and Tighe’s supervisory arm dropped from his shoulders. Of course, it may just have been neat coincidence, but at that very moment, the figure of Harry Mee appeared with a very firm grip on a chastened and completely knackered hulk whose face was looking purply black around the eyes in the glow of the lamp. For his part, the young policeman was hardly out of breath, his own face a disgustingly healthy pink. Before Tighe had a chance to speak, Harry Mee dragged his prisoner forward.
“This one makes a pair. A pair of jokers!” His captive made an attempt at speaking but made do with going “Ow” under the arm-lock that held him securely. “He said ‘it’s a fair cop, I’m guilty’, sir.”
Minutes later, they were all re-grouped beside the wreckage of the vehicles. Just as Tighe had read the prisoners their rights – to a round of admiring applause from his men – the back-up arrived in a dazzle of blue lights and din of demented dogs. Moe felt almost nostalgic for East End Central. The feeling lasted all of a nanosecond.
At this time, the computerised control room at Baytown Police Station was logging numerous telephone calls from worried local residents who suspected satanic ceremonials in their cemetery. Later calls expressed satisfaction at how quickly the noise … the shouting and howling had been dealt with.
Moe had completed his statement and was being ushered out of the front door of the police station by an impatient Tighe when a scruffy, half-awake DS Swift tottered towards them from his untidily parked car.
“Come on, Sarge … get your skates on. We haven’t got all night.” With a last tight nod at Moe, Tighe wheeled back inside the station, leaving a confused Swift giving Moe a very suspicious once over.
“I’ll explain later,” Moe had said. And so he would.
He was given a lift back to Badger’s Bay by a well-chuffed Harry Mee who promised him, hand on heart, not to say anything to his sister until Moe had come up with his own version of events to tell her.
“Did the DI tell you that he sent a message of thanks to your boss?”
Moe sat up at that. No, he hadn’t. Here was a surprise.
“He might seem full of himself … the big ‘I am’ – but he’s OK.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
Harry Mee reached across and opened Moe’s door for him.
“I’m looking forward to your adventure at the bookies. I think it’s a terrific story – and thanks for counting me in.”
Moe paused outside, leaning back in. “With your sister there, it seemed only fair to invite you along.” He began closing the door.
There was a wave from the driver’s side. “See you at the ‘cheque out’, Sarge!”
Moe was still smiling as the motor vanished from view. Now, where the hell was his key? He’d forgotten all about it in the rush to action. Then, with a sigh of relief, he remembered they’d left the door open. He just hoped that no wandering vagrant had taken up lodging … or worse – a burglar had discovered easy pickings. Like that mountain bike for example. On second thoughts, good riddance.
He reached the top of the steps to his door and stopped. There was a distinct sound of movement inside. He listened, heart beginning to pump faster to meet the adrenalin surge. There it was again … getting nearer the door now. What was he waiting for? Wasn’t he a successful pursuer of drug smugglers and murderers? Taking a deep breath, Moe jabbed at the light switch and banged back the door – ready to face the intruder.
Man and badger regarded each other with mutual shock, followed by mutual panic. The badger recovered first and began a crazy two-step, lifting one leg then another, leading Moe in a strange little dance as the latter advanced a few feet into the caravan. A yard or two of space and an eon of evolution separated man and beast.
Moe was matching the brock foot for foot when the creature changed tempo, waltzing between his legs and escaping out into the night. It took Moe some seconds to recover his poise before he ventured any further inside. Best be wary, there might be more than one.
Muddy marks were everywhere and the shredded contents of a bag of recently bought groceries told their own story. Moe sagged back against the bike and pushed at some of the chewed remains with the toe of his training shoe. Then he began to laugh … low and quiet at first … then louder as the sheer absurdity and the wild irony of the situation struck home. His laughter was the only sound now.
So he HAD been burgled after all! But by a cadger of a badger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Hello, Arthur. Where IS everyone in that holiday park of yours? I’ve been trying for ages and no one answers.” CI Hickox was not impressed.
“The office is closed, sir. The staff have been nicked.”
“Aha. We heard that you had been doing your bit for inter-force good will. Well done! The Chief Superintendent is chuffed to fuck, if you’ll pardon my French. You know how much he values PR.”
Moe knew. But for all he cared, the chief superintendent could go piss in a bath of vinegar. He was thinking far beyond the likes of ‘Chief’ Cholmondeley at that moment. But Hickox was unrelenting.
“We … I … look forward to your imminent return, Arthur. I always seem to be short of experienced sergeants; never know how much they’re worth until they go missing.” Moe was touched. This was the nearest to a compliment he had received from the rough- edged veteran at the other end of the line. Moe regarded his mobile for a moment before pressing it back to his ear. Hickox was already moaning on about the demands of demonstrations up west on his limited manpower. Moe listened patiently, then let him have it with both barrels.
“I’m packing it in. Retiring.”
If silences were pregnant, this one was nine months gone. At last, the chief inspector-ops came back, but quieter than before.
“Are you serious, Arthur?”
“Me? What do you think?”
“I think you’re serious. I only wish you weren’t.”
There was another pause – this time briefer – before Hickox went on.
“You must have your reasons. No doubt, you’ll let me know when you return to serve out your notice. You still have to do that you know.”
“Big deal.”
“You really are most inconsiderate to your old chief inspector, Arthur. Your relief has been giving me all sorts of headaches in your absence. Now, just when I was hoping you’d save me from all that nonsense, you do this to me. Most inconsiderate.”
Moe thought he heard the bang of a desk draw being pulled open.
“What shall I tell Mr Cholmondeley, even now basking in the reflected glory of your exploits?”
“In the midst of death, there is life.”
“Not up here, there’s not!” Hickox replied tartly and hung up.
Moe felt almost flattered. It sounded as if his presence was missed – or might be – at work. But that was a way from missing being at work. He had recently come to realise that a vital new factor had entered his existence, as suddenly and as powerfully as his dad had left it. But he couldn’t see Marie wanting to move to London. Not with Lampwick Terrace firmly in her sights.
He drove out past the reception office. Four stony faced men were escorting a downcast Benny Fitts inside. The last man turned to give Moe a hard stare as he passed but there was no reaction from the manager. Moe wondered where Patsy was. He knew a brief – very brief – flicker of compassion, abruptly extinguished by the knowledge of the vile nature of the substances they were smuggling into the country.
Hard drugs … heroin and its derivatives … the Class A sort … were beyond the pale. Any excuses … financial or otherwise … for criminal involvement were found wanting when weighed against the harm the abu
se of such stuff visited on humanity. He had seen … dealt with … too much.
All right. Moe relented a little in his mind as he thought of Patsy Bottoms. Women like her could be ruled by their hearts more than their heads. Maybe she might just find a little mercy somewhere along the line but he was certain that Benny Fitts would go to prison. Moe brightened. Patsy – on probation – could visit Benny in stir. That way, justice would be served and Benny might even learn that once was too often when it came to making money out of the drugs business. Moe drove on, content with his own assessment of a satisfactory outcome.
…………………………
“Right, pay attention! We’re here for ‘Operation Legge-Over’.”
Moe clapped his hands together and suddenly half of Brandsby Street was paying unwanted attention. Sheepishly, he dropped his hands.
“Nice one, Arthur.” Swift yawned pointedly behind one hand.
“Hey, he’s awake!” Rachel hooted. Marie giggled beside her. Just behind them, her brother spoke up. “How about ‘Operation Cheque-Out’?” he reminded Moe with a wink.
“Hey, that’s good.” Stan Downes said, nodding over at the young policeman.
“All right, ‘Operation Cheque-Out’ it is. Now listen. Marie has a plan …”
Swift interrupted: “Aided and abetted by Rachel who has been bending my poor ear unmercifully about its merits. But it sounds good.”
“You bet!” Rachel linked arms with Marie. “Let’s tell ’em girl!” Marie waited until she had their undivided attention.
“WE present the betting slip for payment and if that beastly man is there and starts to mess us about, we will insist that the bet was put on FOR US by Arthur’s dad. A bet is a bet is our position.”
Rachel lifted a finger. “And if he continues to mess around, we go to stage two. What man likes a woman – and certainly not TWO women – getting stroppy with him when he knows he’s in the wrong?”
Marie was warming to it. “We begin to get brassy … we say he’s discriminating against women … trying to cheat poor working girls who were SO lucky to have a kind old man put their bet on for them.”
“And we’ve memorised the names of the horses AND where they ran – in case he gets cute with us,” Rachel announced.
Swift flashed a smile of admiration. “And we … Arthur, Harry and yours truly … just happen to appear in the back of the shop as it all goes down. And we add our opinions, legal and otherwise, to his woes.”
Moe had taken Downes by the arm. “Then you enter and greet the girls just like they were old friends. He should feel even sicker then.”
“Which they are!” Downes’ eyes crinkled at Marie and Rachel. Marie hooked a thumb in the strap of her shoulder bag, now containing the all-important betting slip, and looked at the singer. “Ready, Rachel?”
“That’s what they used to call me at school. Ready Rachel!”
Swift threw her a “what’s this?” She blew him a quick kiss.
‘Let’s hope he’s in there after all this.” Moe said quietly.
Swift shrugged. “He was still a free man, last time I checked.”
Marie melted Moe with a look from her to-die-for eyes before tugging Rachel with her in the direction of the bookmakers. Upon reaching the door, she turned and pulled Maurice Moe’s masterstroke from her bag and waved it triumphantly aloft. Then she and Rachel pushed their way into the premises and were lost to sight.
Moe started counting, making sure they had enough time to reach the counter and begin their performance. Then he gave the signal. “Time for the cavalry, gents.”
Marie and Rachel were chatting happily to the girl assistant as the men – with the exception of Downes who remained outside for the present – slipped unobtrusively into the premises and took up positions near enough to hear what was being said. The girl behind the counter was thumbing through a sheaf of old bets. Moe leaned towards Swift. “What odds will you give me that she doesn’t find it?”
“I’m not slow, I’m Swift!”
Giving Marie and Rachel a slightly uncertain half-smile, the girl turned to tap on the rear office door.
“Here we go,” Moe murmured.
There was a bawled, unintelligible reply from behind the closed door but the girl was unfazed. “This one needs your personal attention, Mr Legge,” she called through the door, “and I can’t find the top copy for the customers.”
The door was snatched back from inside and the intimidating bulk of the bookmaker filled the frame. She held out the customer copy towards him without a word. Legge pulled it from her grasp. Moe peered from behind his newspaper as he did so. Even from where he stood, he saw Legge go deathly pale, his free hand fumbling for a second before finding the door frame for support, his mouth flopping open in shock like a tired fish dragged unwillingly from the security of the water.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Marie was quick to take advantage. She spoke at Rachel. “We’re SO thrilled.” Theatrically, she kissed Rachel on the cheek in a big show of feminine friendship.
“We’re just SO lucky,” Rachel simpered, a perfect foil for Marie’s opening act. “He was such a sweet old dear to do what he did for us.” She dabbed her eyes. “It’s so very sad he didn’t live to see this day. He would have been SO happy.” Marie was nodding enthusiastically at the bemused Legge. “A pin is what we use, you know. But that’s not exactly pin money, is it, dear?” Both women laughed in infectious delight, utterly convincing. Moe winced slightly when they launched into a raucous ‘The Best Things In Life Are Free’, kicking up their legs like dizzy chorus girls. Legge looked as if he’d have preferred ‘March To The Scaffold’ – preferably with Marie and Rachel in mind and up front leading the way!
But they showed absolutely no sign of receiving his mean vibes. They were two giggly, wacky women who had come to cash in on amazing good fortune. All they wanted was the money. Rachel chimed in for Legge’s benefit since he was somewhat slow to get on with the best bit.
“Don’t worry about cash, love. We wouldn’t dare carry that much. Might get waylaid!” She jabbed Marie with one elbow for effect.
“She’s right,” Marie sang out, “A cheque will do. Made payable to me.” Rachel took it up. “No … to ME!” But Legge was glowering at them.
“I can’t pay this!” He slammed the betting slip on the counter.
“What’s the matter … can’t you find it?” Marie smiled chirpily, first at the girl assistant, then at Legge – innocence personified.
“It IS one of yours, isn’t it?” Rachel added, ratcheting up the ante.
“He’s dead, the man who made this bet! And so is his bet.”
Marie and Rachel looked horrified. “You don’t have to remind us. It was so tragic! The poor man should’ve been here to see this day.”
Caesar Legge was wriggling now, just as they all knew he would.
“You’re refusing to pay out on a bet you took just because the kind soul who wrote it has passed over? Is that what you’re telling us?” Moe had to admit that Marie played outraged indignation extremely well.
“A bet is a bet. Pay up!” Rachel moved close beside Marie. They made a formidable duo. But they had a formidable foe in Legge.
Swift signalled to Moe and Harry Mee before calling out across the shop floor in the direction of the counter.
“That’s right. A bet’s a bet. You’ve got no cause to refuse to pay up.”
Legge shot the CID man a venomous stare. But Harry Mee was right there on cue.
“You mean you’re not paying these young ladies because some poor guy snuffed it after putting on their bet? Disgraceful! Pay them!”
The few other punters present had taken notice and were joining in. By now, Marie and Rachel were snuffling miserably into tissues. “It’s sexual elimination, that’s what it is,” Marie proclaimed, “made worse by awful remarks about that lovely old man. We’ll see what the authorities – and the press – have to say about this.”
With exquisite
timing, Stan Downes wandered nonchalantly in from the street. Seeing the two women, he stopped and beamed warm recognition. “Hello there! That was a WONDERFUL win. You must be over the moon!”
He rushed over and embraced them both in thoroughly convincing style. “I know he would have been so happy to know that he was able to do the right thing by you.” Downes squeezed again and winked back at Moe.
“Oh Stanley … he won’t pay us.” Marie wailed disconsolately.
“It’s a crime,” a punter called out, “someone call the police.”
“Who’s got a mobile phone?” called another, “let’s sort this out.”
The pressure was telling. Legge was slowly beginning to crumble. His piggy eyes swivelled this way and that, but all he could see were unforgiving faces looking right back. He looked again at the betting slip lying on the counter, then he breathed in very deeply.
“Hold on, just hold on.” Legge seemed to undergo a sly uncanny transformation from Bill Sykes to Uriah Heap as he faced the two women.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay. I said that I can’t. Leastways, not that amount.” One thick finger pinned Moe’s betting slip.
Moe knew what was coming as the finger lifted high and fast to arrow at some lines of print on a copy of BETTING SHOP RULES stuck on the office wall, and then at another on a wall out in the shop itself.
“Maximum payout LIMITED on any bet. It says so in the rules.” Legge looked less frantic than before. He had found something of a lifesaver in his moment of greed. Marie looked back at Moe for guidance. But since he had been expecting this, he promptly signalled “yes” at her. Legge was too busy oozing newly acquired politeness to notice.
“I do hope you ladies didn’t misjudge my meaning? We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?” He bobbed his head. “But you were quite correct. I don’t keep any amount of cash here. You’ll take a cheque, I recall.”
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 17
