“I was sitting there, reading the ‘paper … she was sat in her usual chair, nattering about this and that. I was trying to concentrate on what I was reading – just saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ like I usually do …” For a moment or two, Moe expected him to break down again. But he braced himself and went on.
“Then I realised she hadn’t said anything for a while. That was funny.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out the memory.
“So I looked over at her. She was sitting there, head propped against her cushions, with her eyes closed – like she was asleep. I was sitting there myself, thinking she’d dropped off … like she does sometimes. Then, she fell sideways – like a doll. And I knew. Don’t ask me how I did … but I knew.” The sigh came from his very depths. “It was so quick, Mr Moe. There wasn’t even time for her to warn me.” His eyes sought Moe’s, seeking reassurance. “There was nothing I could have done, was there, Mr Moe?”
Moe shook his head, reliving the memory of how his father had lost his own beloved Hilda – Moe’s mother. There was no easy way of coping with this sort of thing. But at least Screwy’s wife had gone quickly.
“You were there …with her. That would have been comfort enough for her at the end, knowing that. She’s beyond any pain now.”
“Our doc, a lovely man, he said it was her heart. He’d been giving her medication for some time, along with an order to take half an aspirin a day. Said it could have happened today, ten months or ten years from now.” He bit back a sob. “I’d have settled for the ten years, Mr Moe.”
Moe’s mental projector threw up the image of Stan Downes. It gave him an idea. Rising to his feet, he reached for the old man’s hand.
“Don’t move, I’ll be back.” A few minutes later, armed with his mobile ’phone, he was ringing his Dad’s racing pal. Downes’ voice – chirpily cheerful – came on almost at once. In terse terms, Moe explained the situation.
“Just give him your ’phone and leave it to me,” Downes replied, his tone dismissing any ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. Moe was happy to do as he was told. Returning to the bereaved old man, he briefly told him who was on the other end – then he left them to it as Screwy Naylor took the ’phone and gingerly placed it against one ear.
It was a steadier, calmer Screwy Naylor who walked out of East End Central half an hour later. Gracefully refusing immediate offers of help from Moe – “I’ve got to get used to doing things for myself; may as well be sooner than later,” – he’d gone home to his lonely little flat with the intention of sorting through his late wife’s personal treasures. He wanted … had to … do that task alone.
He’d been ‘eternally grateful’ for the chance of a chat with Stan Downes. It had made the prospect of the future so much easier to bear. But if Moe cared to call round the next day, he’d appreciate some help with ‘the arrangements’. Moe understood and agreed at once. It later occurred to him that he was becoming an old hand at such things.
“What next?” Hickox exclaimed after hearing Moe’s account of what had happened. The CI (Ops) wagged a warning finger. “First your Dad. Now this. You know what they say.”
No, Moe didn’t know. What did they say?
“Trouble comes in threes. That’s what they say.”
Moe didn’t regard himself as superstitious but a small voice inside stopped him mentioning the unwanted news about Carter.
Hickox looked gloomy. “I suppose this means you won’t be getting any more of those handy racing tips now … ?”
……………………….
Moe was relieved to find Screwy bearing up remarkably well under his grievous loss. He met Moe at the door of his neat little flat, ushering him inside with understandable diffidence. This was a first visit by the policeman in what was a long but essentially casual association.
But once indoors, Screwy had the kettle on and was surprisingly prompt in getting down to the essentials … ‘the arrangements’. Moe had come prepared and soon they had worked out the sequence of what had to be done to make everything go as smoothly as possible.
The final act was the funeral. There would only be a few people there. Screwy made a face while making the point that the older one got, the less folk there were around to celebrate the fact. And anyway, his missus had always been a very private person. The chosen venue was St Mary’s Church … a lovely old place of worship that was struggling to survive in more secular times. But they had been married there and it seemed right that they should say goodbye there too. The wheel had come full circle for their lives together.
That thought was in Moe’s mind later when he set out to return to the station. He wondered how the years would treat him and Marie.
Hey, he asked himself, what’s this … more thoughts about marriage? It was odd indeed that they should be encouraged by the harsh reality of death. But then again, was it?
He had just got back when PC Grant stepped out of the communications room behind him.
“Sarge, there was a call for you.”
“Any name?”
“No name. Sounded West Country to me. You know … a bit of ‘ooo arr’.”
The cheek of it. But young Grant was blithely unaware of his lack of tact. The lad would have to work on it if he ever hoped to achieve higher things in his chosen career; Moe knew that much.
“Thanks,” Moe rummaged through his clothing for his mobile ’phone, only to find he’d forgotten to take it with him. Ah. He walked on, reminding himself to remember not to be so forgetful.
There was something surreal in arranging a farewell party and a funeral over the same weekend. But fate had unkindly played her hand that way. The vicar of St Mary’s had been kindness itself and the service was set for the Saturday afternoon when he would officiate in person. As for his own leaving-do, Moe hoped that Screwy might come the next evening; it might do him good … help him see that life still went on. Meetings and leavings: wasn’t that what life was about when it wasn’t about love and the rest? That said, this wasn’t exactly how Moe had planned his final weekend at East End Central.
Hickox was in his element, organising their party venue – a local pub, of course – as well as the catering and entertainment. No problem. He had offered and Moe had been glad to let him get on with it, leaving him to concentrate on a farewell ceremony of a more permanent nature.
Moe had no sooner located his ’phone and switched it on when it bleeped urgently at him, the screen flashing ‘message’ in bright letters for his attention. A quick jab of the ‘ON’ button brought the words alight. Swift had been trying to reach him.
‘A mobile phone is meant to be mobile. Phone me.’
Shortly afterwards, the voice of the Baytown DS was in Moe’s ear. “Hello, Arthur. Where’ve you been?”
Moe went through an abbreviated version of his activities to date, with Swift making the occasional sympathetic interjection before adding his own contribution.
“You heard about Carter? I told Harry Mee to let you know.”
“I did. Can’t say I was impressed.”
“You, the DCI, the DI – and yours truly! But there was a report of a sighting a couple of days ago of a man disturbed by staff arriving for work at Newlands Priory racecourse. They found a forced door and signs of someone dossing down when they checked the jockeys’ changing room. The description was pretty vague but it just might have been our man.”
“No trace of prints worth matching?”
“Nothing. But everyone’s so clued up these days. I blame too many cop shows on television.” Swift was racked with a fit of coughing and sneezing.
“Are you all right?”
“Bloody winter. One of these days I’ll get through without Mother Nature ambushing me!”
Moe caught the sound of a nose being blown noisily before Swift continued.
“Another thing. There was no chance of him getting back home – at least we were quick enough in that direction – so we’ve been busy checking out every reported break-in since his escape
, just in case. Another fat zero. But every copper in the county has his mug-shot, so wherever he is right now, he’ll have to be both lucky and careful.”
“Don’t forget cunning. He’s not the simpleton he looks.”
‘Which brings me to my last point, Arthur. No doubt you will recall that Newlands Priory sits astride the main road – and the main line – to London. He wasn’t exactly your best pal, was he? You might do well to remember that.”
“Ooo-arr.” Moe couldn’t resist the wind-up.
“Come again.”
“Oh … ah.” Moe switched to a tone of worldly consideration of what the other man was saying.
“You never know with the likes of him,” Swift was cautioning Moe, “of course, he could top himself … could be hanging around right now, waiting on us to find him. Save us all the time and effort of worrying about what – or who – he might do next. Swift’s cough rattled Moe’s eardrum.
“You should be in bed.”
“Ooo-arr,” came the retort, “fat chance of that! Before I sign off, I’d like to express my heartfelt gratitude for your tip. The lads in the office think the sun shines out of somewhere south of my coccyx.”
“Must you be so disgusting when you’re so deeply grateful?”
“Just keep that bright future before you up there in sin city. Bye.” There was another chesty drum roll and Swift was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The last week of Moe’s life with The Law crept in with its tail between its legs. At least, that was how it seemed to Moe, but he wasn’t fazed. He’d never been one for fanfares, fireworks (he’d had enough of those in his career) or flowers, content to drift towards the coming final weekend – with its funeral and the farewell drink-up the following evening. In his heart, he wasn’t that enthusiastic about either.
Screwy Naylor had been stoicism personified in his grief, determined to cope ‘like a man should’. But Moe was inwardly chuffed at how Stan Downes had come through for him, only too ready to offer words of comfort and support from his own experience to the bewildered old East Ender. Moe knew that Downes had made that vital difference between a hope for the future and empty days of despair. And he recalled the talk about hostage negotiations given by a firearms officer years previously.
“The biggest, the most important common denominator in communicating isn’t status; it isn’t money, or even love, strange as that may seem to many of us. The quickest way to reach a person is through the common familiarity of age. Shared memories of times gone by, the common experience of what you have seen and been through on the road through life. Take it from me, ladies and gentlemen … it’s the accumulation of years shared that will provide that human breakthrough when all else seems to fail, especially when dealing with those under duress.”
Moe had subconsciously adopted the connection when he had come up with the idea of Downes speaking to Screwy Naylor. That consideration pleased him even as he dwelt on the cruel coincidence that would soon see both him and Screwy saying a last goodbye to a previous existence.
“So what do you think, Arthur? Sound all right to you?”
Hickox doodled on his blotter as he waited on Moe’s opinion of his arrangements for their farewell party.
“Sounds fine, sir.”
“Good.” Hickox started to ink in the doodle. “I invited the Chief Superintendent.” He scratched at the drawing and dropped the pen on to his desk. “Protocol, of course.”
“Of course.” Moe didn’t really mind, not now. Besides, both men knew that it was the custom, long acknowledged, that senior officers are always invited to such events, but usually had the good grace – and sense – to depart before things get too boisterous, and potentially embarrassing for them.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Moe went on.
“Fire away.”
‘Your decision to retire – why so sudden?”
Hickox shrugged. “I surprised myself – and my wife! But she was a big part of it, always talking about getting away to a better quality of life … you know the sort of thing.” The CI stood up and moved to the wall maps.
“Then when you sprung your news on me out of the blue like that, I thought to myself – why not you?” He studied the army of multi-coloured pins dotting the maps. “I have the irresistible urge to rearrange these.” Hickox grinned back at Moe. “But maybe I’ll leave it till the last hour of my last day.” He sat back down.
“And that tragic business with your friendly neighbourhood tipster only served to persuade me that I’m doing the right thing. Life’s too short for one life, if you get my meaning?” Hickox was looking a little apologetic now and ducked his head down towards his drinks draw.
“Can’t offer you one this time, I’m afraid. My stock’s run out.”
“But not on Sunday, I hope.”
Hickox chuckled. “Most definitely not on Sunday!”
Screwy Naylor’s forecast was proved correct. The number of mourners at St Mary’s could have been accommodated in a bus shelter. Moe stood with the widower, listening to the vicar intone the familiar words over the interment. The other mourners – from their ages and appearance, ex-workmates and their wives, stood a respectful distance away to either side. Overhead, the sky had turned a thundery grey and rain had started to fall in a veil of light mist. Away in the far distance, beyond the church itself, the streetlights were flickering on in the road outside.
The final words of the address faded and with the rites completed, the vicar acknowledged Screwy and Moe, then the others, and turned towards the church. One by one, the others drifted off, some speaking quietly to Screwy, some just gripping his arm in comfort. Moe watched then go. Screwy turned to him, the plea in his eyes plain to see.
“Would you mind, Mr Moe. I’d just like a few last words … on my own. Before they …” He gestured feebly at the open grave and its rain spattered casket with its solitary rose, his final gift of love.
“Of course. I’ll walk on.” Moe gave his arm a pat. “You know the way to the car?” Screwy nodded. “See you there then.” Moe stepped back and began picking his way carefully over the sodden grass. With all the focus on the event itself, he hadn’t really had time to take in the sheer scale of the graveyard and prayed that Screwy wouldn’t lose his bearings in the oncoming dusk. He had stopped well short of the road, to pull his collar up against the rain and look back at the barely discernible figure, when the lights suddenly went out. His lights.
Everything was black at first. Then there were bright spots spattering the blackness … and they were wet. Then came the throb of pain, deep and insistent in his head. Moe came to, struggling out of a black pit that engulfed him, the pain in his head like a very bad hangover indeed.
His eyes were open now, blinking under raindrops that sparkled in a faint glow from somewhere unseen. It seemed to Moe that he was lying in bed yet staring up at heaven. The throb of pain in his head wasn’t getting any easier. He tried to lift himself but found that he was wedged in, his shoulders held firmly preventing any sideways movement of his arm. Even as he struggled to make sense of his situation and his surroundings, his ears picked up a familiar grunting and wheezing from somewhere above and to one side of where he lay.
Blinking rapidly to clear the moisture from his eyes, he could make out a faintly lit rectangle above. It was like looking through an open door into a rainy night. And through the door came a sinister drone.
“Oi’ll be seein’ yew, in all the ol’ famil’yar places…”
There was a soft cackle and Moe’s face was spattered with something heavier than rain this time. Even as he squinted to see what the hell was happening to him, the silhouette of a crouched figure leaned into the open door.
“Are yew lyin’ comfort’bly? Then I’ll begin.” There was another vile cackle, followed by a much heavier spattering over Moe’s chest and neck, some of it driving into his mouth and nostrils, making him choke and splutter. The taste was acrid. Moe spat violently, shaking his head in a
desperate effort to keep the wet earth from clogging his mouth and nostrils. Above him, the head and shoulders were back.
“Thought you’d done for I, didn’ yew?” Moe noted immediately and remorsefully – how the mocking voice was rhyming ‘I’ with ‘boy’. Another lump of soil struck him, thankfully missing his face.
Bloody hell – Carter!
Like some shadowy demon lit by the fires of hell, the gravedigger peered down at Moe, his intent chillingly obvious. Moe fought to retain self-control as he understood his predicament. It was suddenly all too clear to him that he was held hostage in a newly dug grave. Whether by ill luck or his own carelessness, he was now Carter’s prisoner, under sentence of death with no appeal. But Moe was going to try.
“This is just damn silly.” He managed to force a defiant strength into his voice. “They’ll throw away the key for good if you continue with this nonsense.”
Carter leaned back and seemed to stare at the heavens. “I found my old man, didn’ I. There … in that cell they put me in.” Carter’s head lowered towards Moe. “He’s forgiven me, you see. But there was a favour he wanted in return.” Another chuckle added to the time Moe so urgently needed. “Sorry, but he still wants his revenge. Divine retribution yew can call it.” Shoulders shrugged in gruesome acquiescence.
“What’s a son to do? But yew’d know about that, with yer own feelings for yer old mam and dad. I knows yew’d do the same if yew were in my place, don’t think I don’t.” Carter sank back out of sight and more mud soon followed. Bad and mad. The words returned to Moe.
At that moment, he knew nothing short of a miracle could provide rescue from premature burial. And there was always hope … had to be hope … as long as the falling muck missed his face.
“Finding me … how did you manage that?” Moe called up to the empty space. He needed to get Carter to talk more and shovel a lot less. The space above was occupied again.
“Weren’t nothin’ to it. They even told me it were yer last week and when I said how urgent it was for me to find yew, they very ’elpfully pointed me right ’ere.” Carter began to rock with mirth and his tone instantly acquired a different personality.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 20
