Only a Game

by J M Gregson

  ‘Sorry! Won’t be a tick!’ Lucy Blake was much longer than that. She paused in bra and pants to study the rear quarters she had criticized in the changing cubicle mirror, for a start. These contours always brought a predictable but gratifying low growl of sexual pleasure from Percy Peach, whenever he caught her in her underwear. She had a feeling that his judgement might not be the suitable one for a church aisle. Her curves were probably acceptable, in the right dress, she decided. When she had slid them into the full-length ivory silk creation she had selected, she thought that this might just be that dress.

  Diane Warner’s reaction confirmed it. ‘That’s the one!’ she said delightedly. ‘And if you won’t take my word for it, ask them!’ With a wide wave of her arm, she brought in the rest of the clientele of the busy shop beyond them, and Lucy Blake turned to find that four women had suspended their own deliberations to gaze admiringly at the woman with the striking dark red hair in the long silk dress. To cover her embarrassment, Lucy did a swift pirouette in front of the full length mirror beside her, which brought ragged applause from these fellow-shoppers.

  She looked at the price-tag again, took a deep breath, swallowed determinedly, and walked over to the assistant who had helped her with her dress selections. ‘I’ll take this one!’ she said firmly.

  Edward Lanchester still missed the wife who had died of ovarian cancer almost two years previously.

  They had been together for forty-eight years; they had grown even closer as he had stayed at her side through the painful and distressing months of her final illness. Even her last act had been one of love for Ted. She had chosen the hospice for the last fortnight, rather than the death at home she had always envisaged, because she had realized that the final care and the long pain of parting would have been too much even for such a husband.

  It was the small things now which affected Edward most easily. There was no one now who called him Ted. His childhood friends were dead or vanished to distant areas; his daughters had always called him Dad; from those who dealt with him formally he elicited a respectful Mr Lanchester; even the closest of his present friends called him Edward. Ted, he realized now, had been reserved for his dead wife, and he had liked it that way. There was a plethora too of other trivial things, which might seem unimportant to others. There was no one now to warn him about the extra drink or the extra pipe of tobacco; no one to tease him about the absurdity of his lifelong passion for Brunton Rovers.

  He kept a cheerful face in public. People said he had taken it well. No one spoke of Eleanor, though after the first three months he would have welcomed any mention of her. He understood that people were frightened of being embarrassed; he had done the same thing himself, in similar circumstances. Now he wished that someone, anyone, would mention the wife he had loved; the silence about her made him feel as though he were a traitor, joining a conspiracy to forget her existence.

  He felt lonely and increasingly isolated, despite his public cheerfulness And there was no one at hand to whom he could pour out his desolation in private, no one to receive his secret thoughts and comfort him, as he had comforted Eleanor when she had railed against the unfairness of the cancer in her moments of despair.

  Edward Lanchester had owned men’s outfitting shops in four Lancashire town centres. They had been steadily prosperous in the sixties and seventies. He had sold out to a national chain in 1974 for just over two million pounds. Perhaps he could have got more, but two million was a lot of money in 1974. He was happy enough with the deal and the leisure it gave him. It had given him enough wealth and local standing to become chairman of his beloved Brunton Rovers, nineteen years before the Premiership and Sky Television money made all such set-ups an anachronism in 1993.

  You needed many millions now to have the financial clout to chair any Premiership club. Edward acknowledged that openly enough, even if he privately yearned for the old days, when players were not millionaires, with contracts which enabled them to dictate terms to their employers. He didn’t expect things to be unchanging, he said publicly, any more than he expected his former shops to be filled with the sort of merchandise he had stocked; the company had wanted his town centre sites, not his business.

  A week after the monthly board meeting at Brunton Rovers, Lanchester had taken a decision. Now he was driving his BMW into the town centre on market day to implement it. He was pleased to see the old town busy in this time of national recession. Edward remembered the days of the open market and the long-demolished market hall, with its huge ball on the summit which descended its pole every day as the clock beneath it struck one. As he stood for a moment with humanity of many hues hurrying around him, Edward remembered the days when he had run as an excited small boy with his hand in his father’s to this spot to see that ball fall, abruptly to halfway down its pole, then more slowly, as strong springs ensured that its weight did not damage the roof of the tower beneath it.

  The new market hall enabled people to shop under cover, which was much better than having rain dripping down your neck as you dodged between the old canvas-covered stalls. That was certainly an improvement, even if things never seemed to be quite as cheap. And he certainly missed the old clock and that ball.

  At least the bank manager hadn’t changed. He was eleven years younger than Edward. They had gone to the same local grammar school, but of course not at the same time. Although Edward was a little less sleek and a little more wrinkled than John White, the two men were dressed almost the same, in dark suits with lighter blue shirts and navy ties.

  White saw it as his duty to be professionally cautious. Once the initial, rather old-fashioned courtesies had been exchanged, he said, ‘These are large sums, Edward, even by today’s standards. Have you discussed this decision with anyone?’

  Lanchester grimaced. ‘I’ve no one to discuss it with, now that Eleanor’s no longer with me.’

  The manager reddened a little, embarrassed as usual by any hint of intimacy, of private emotion in matters where cool decisions were called for. ‘I was thinking rather of a financial advisor, actually.’

  ‘Eh? Well, no. But I don’t need that sort of advice, you see. My mind’s made up and I’m confident I’m doing the right thing.’ Lanchester cleared his throat, uncomfortable in his turn to bring sentiment into this temple of reason. ‘They’re good girls, my daughters, both of them. I want them to have the money now, when it will be of most use to them, rather than after my death.’

  White was happier now, summoning arguments which he had used many times before. ‘I’m sure that we both hope that death will be delayed for many years yet, Edward. We cannot foresee the future, but money is some sort of insurance against sickness and other misfortunes. Are you sure that you will not have need of this money in the future?’

  ‘I am confident that I will not. And there are inheritance tax advantages in this decision, which you must surely approve.’

  ‘There certainly are. Provided that you live for a minimum of seven years.’

  ‘Or a proportion of that. Tax liability on gifts diminishes with each year, I believe.’

  ‘It does indeed. I see you do not need any briefing on the financial implications of your decision. However, I would be failing in my duty if I did not point out to you that things can go wrong. I have indeed seen them do so too often for me not to see dangers and register my fears with you. I have spent my life with money, Edward, but it is a strange factor in family interchanges. It makes people behave badly. Sometimes it seems to change people’s characters completely, though my own theory is that it simply excites strains which were previously latent.’

  White was wondering how to go on from this well-rehearsed opening when Lanchester took pity upon him and came to his rescue. ‘You mean that my daughters might simply take the money and desert me in my hour of need, should that hour ever come. Well, I must tell you first that I trust both of my girls implicitly and secondly that I consider I have retained enough to have a certain independence.’

  Wh
ite shrugged resignedly. He had issued the first two warnings, as duty dictated. The third one was a little easier, but perhaps the most important one of all. ‘Have you considered the possibility, however remote it may seem to you at this moment, that your daughters’ marriages may at some point dissolve? Modern law of settlements dictates that assets should be divided in such cases. I have seen too often the dismay on people’s faces when they see their hard-earned savings going not to the children they cherished but to partners they would no longer wish to support. It is my duty to draw your attention to perhaps the most distressing aspect of—’

  ‘I’ve considered this and decided there is nothing I can do about it, if it happens. I’m confident that it won’t. Both of the couples involved wish to begin their own businesses. I see that as a unifying factor in their relationships. This may not be the best time for such initiatives, but neither of my sons-in-law is stupid. I want them to have the capital to move into new fields, not necessarily now, but whenever they feel the moment is right.’

  John White smiled his qualified approval. ‘Well, you’ve obviously thought this decision through, Edward. I wish all my clients gave as much thought to their financial moves. It was my duty to draw such things to your attention, but of course the decision in the end is yours. I will implement the transfers today. I shall need a signature from you to authorize them.’

  They had a sherry to celebrate, a pleasantly old-fashioned way to conclude business, Lanchester thought. John White agreed. Before his old client left the room, he had informed him of his decision to take a slightly early retirement in two months time, and of the relief this had brought to him.

  Edward Lanchester returned home and rang each of his daughters in turn. Both of them were well into their forties now, but they remained vulnerable and affectionate girls to him. Each of them was delighted; each of them asked if he was sure he could afford to do this, whether he had thought it through properly. ‘Banker’s advice!’ said Edward crisply, stretching a point to make them feel easier about it.

  They were good girls, he thought affectionately. Pity they were so far away, but they had to follow their husband’s work, that was the way of things. One was in Scotland, the other in Wales. Somehow that seemed to stretch the mileage, to make them further away than if they had just been in different English counties. He didn’t seem to see as much of his grandchildren as when Eleanor had been alive, but that was probably inevitable.

  He made himself a mug of tea, then stretched his long legs out in front of him in his favourite armchair. He had the pleasant feeling of achievement which had always come to him with decisions made and actions taken. Not many people could give away two million pounds, even with today’s inflated values. His money would be appreciated and put to good use, he was sure, and he had no use for it now himself

  Good girls, both of them, in their different ways. . . . He dozed happily, whilst his tea grew cold beside him.

  FOUR

  Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was not enjoying his day.

  His morning meeting with the chief constable had been something of a disaster. The CC had pressed him hard about the latest knife crime figures and the clear-up rates on burglaries. As usual, Tucker hadn’t had the facts at his fingertips to present the most convincing accounts of the actions and reactions of the CID section for which he was responsible.

  In the early afternoon, the crime reporter of the Lancashire Telegraph, Alf Houldsworth, had grilled him about the rise in the number of rapes in the Brunton area over the last twelve months. Houldsworth was an old hack with only one good eye, but thirty years of experience as crime writer for a national daily. He had cut through Tucker’s obfuscations with contemptuous ease as he sought for a quote. The chief superintendent’s assurances that enquiries were ongoing and proceeding steadily, that he was confident of an arrest or arrests in the near future, were likely to be translated into headlines about Brunton police bafflement and CID top brass being at a loss. The CC wouldn’t like that. By three o’clock, Tucker felt very low.

  And now Percy Peach was coming to see him.

  Peach was both his bête noir and his saviour. He was a necessary evil, because it was Peach’s efficiency as thief-taker and unceasing opponent of villainy which gave Tucker the crime statistics which disguised his own chronic inefficiency. But this meant he had to tolerate the sort of insolence and baiting from Peach which the strong respect for rank in the police service would normally have checked. Percy rarely took the trouble to disguise his contempt for the poseur he had long ago dubbed Tommy Bloody Tucker. His chief for the most part chose not to notice the barbs of the man who carried him.

  Percy Peach had not had a good day himself. A morning in court with a defence counsel who treated his every word with amused contempt had severely tested his self-control. Emerging into a north-west wind and a slanting drizzle, he had found a traffic warden attaching a parking ticket to his car. His exchange with this jobsworth had not improved his frame of mind. Back at the station, his junior CID colleagues had scurried to find themselves with pressing tasks once they heard his voice and divined his mood. Now, as he climbed the two storeys to his chief’s penthouse office at the top of the new Brunton police station, he felt that mood lightening a little. The prospect of baiting Tommy Bloody Tucker always brought a little cheer to a trying day.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for hours for you to bring me up to date on things!’ said Tucker aggressively. He had never come to terms with e-mails, and with only around two years between him and a fat pension, he didn’t see why he should begin now.

  ‘In the crown court all morning, sir. Trying to side-step a smart young lawyer who was hamming it up for all he was worth to a receptive jury. The verdict wasn’t in when I left, but my money’s against a custodial sentence for Len Jackson.’

  ‘And they call it bloody justice!’ said Tucker. For a moment, these two very different men were united in the traditional police contempt for lawyers who are concerned only with a personal victory, at whatever cost to the justice they purport to serve. It was like Christmas Day football between the trenches in 1914, thought a startled Peach.

  He hastened to resume normal hostilities. ‘There was another serious disturbance in the town centre last night, sir.’

  ‘You need to get a grip on these things,’ said Tucker, trying through his vagueness to sustain the hostility he thought necessary for Peach.

  Percy noted the attempt at aggression with some relief. ‘I try to maintain a grip, sir, even with the system stacked against me.’ He waited for a reaction which did not come. ‘I managed to get myself directly involved in this incident, even though it was my day off. You wouldn’t care for a little direct involvement yourself, sir? A little confrontation with the thugs across the table in the interview room, for instance? See if you could abash them with your rank, sir?’

  Tucker shook his head with a sudden, unaccustomed decisiveness. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that, Peach. It is my policy to keep an overview of things, as you know. I’m the general behind the troops, if you like.’

  As far behind as a first world war general, thought Percy. He said mysteriously, ‘Rather like the opening shots of the film of West Side Story.’

  Tucker’s jaw dropped an inch and a half, making him look like a slow-learning goldfish. It was a familiar phenomenon, but always a welcome one to Peach. ‘Where the helicopter zooms in over New York and eventually focuses on mob violence in the poorer quarter, sir. Gets an overview of the violence, as you do. Puts it in its wider context.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, that’s what I have to do!’

  ‘Without getting involved, sir.’ Peach continued ruminatively, as if the other man had not spoken. ‘Without contributing anything useful to a dangerous and deteriorating situation.’

  Tucker didn’t like the way this was going. ‘I hope you’re not trying to fob me off with old films instead of getting on with your job and sorting things out, Peach. I can’t see what cameras in helicop
ters over New York have to do with violence in modern-day Brunton.’

  ‘Mob violence, sir. Young men and an increasing number of young women who divide themselves into ethnic groups and threaten one another’s very lives, sir.’

  ‘Then get on with sorting it out. And don’t fob me off with West Side Story, which has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You’re probably right, sir. Except that apparently the starting-point for last night’s little skirmish was a liaison between a white Brunton boy and an Asian girl. A Pakistani girl who went to school with him and has spent all but the first year of her life in the town. I thought there were certain parallels with the Puerto Rican girl in West Side Story. Or with Romeo and Juliet, for that matter. But I suppose I always was a hopeless romantic, sir.’

  The vision of Percy Peach as a romantic would have been a startling concept to the criminal fraternity of the town or even to his juniors in the CID section. It was a totally baffling one for Thomas Bulstrode Tucker. He transformed himself from goldfish to Rottweiler by shutting his mouth and glaring balefully at his chief inspector. ‘Tell me what the hell’s been going on.’

  ‘Nasty confrontation between two gangs last night, sir. Escalating when I arrived on the scene. Three of our junior uniformed constables were attempting to control the situation but were heavily outnumbered. One of them was knocked down and narrowly escaped serious injury.’

  ‘He should have known how to handle himself. He shouldn’t have got involved without—’

  ‘Young woman, sir. Very nearly trampled underfoot.’

  ‘A woman?’ Tucker was a fish again, goggling at the existence of this mysterious creature.

  ‘A third of constables are female, sir. On your orders, we’re no longer allowed to refer to them as WPCs.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have got involved with these thugs.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m sure you wouldn’t have got involved, sir.’ He paused to nod pensively. ‘But inexperience leads to strange actions. I might well recommend an official commendation in this case.’