by J M Gregson
‘Really? Well, that hasn’t been fully explored in court yet, has it?’
‘And I hope you’ll remember you nearly broke my bloody arm on that night.’ Wasim rubbed the forearm in question with the fingers of his left hand and winced at the memory.
‘Did I really, Mr Ahktar? Just shows the danger I felt I was in at the time, doesn’t it? Good thing for you it wasn’t DC Northcott here. Just between you and me, he’s a bit of a hard bastard, is DC Northcott.’ He glanced sideways at his colleague, who dutifully shifted his chair a little nearer to the small square table and stared down aggressively at the brown face which was now no more than two feet from his.
Wasim said wretchedly, ‘I don’t see how I can be of any use to you.’
‘Well, perhaps I could help you there, then.’ Peach looked ruminatively towards the ceiling for a moment and then appeared to make a decision. ‘We don’t do plea bargaining. We leave that sort of stuff to the lawyers; I’m sure in this case those buggers will think they have a cast iron case so won’t be interested in any deals.’ He shook his face regretfully at this iron element in the English law. ‘But it’s just possible that, if you were able to offer me a little help, I’d be able to argue to my senior officer, the man in charge of this CID section, that you’d been co-operative and thus deserved lenience. Chief Superintendent Tucker is a hard and ruthless man, but I would do my very best for you.’
Clyde Northcott’s lips had threatened to twist into a smile with the description of Tommy Bloody Tucker as a hard and ruthless man. He now added hastily, ‘You would do well to listen to DCI Peach, if he sees any way out for you.’
Ahktar was by now thoroughly bewildered. He said dully, ‘What is it that you want of me?’
Peach gave him a disarming smile. ‘A little information, Mr Ahktar. In exchange for which, I shall do my very best for you.’
Wasim stared at him suspiciously. He hadn’t much experience of pigs, but everyone said you shouldn’t trust them an inch. ‘And what can you offer me in return? We’ve already been remanded to the Crown Court. What are you going to do for us there?’
Percy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good point, that, Mr Ahktar. Once we’re in the hands of those damned lawyers, there’s very little we can do to affect the course of justice. The only real possibility would be to avoid going to court altogether, don’t you think, DC Northcott?’
Northcott’s stern, hitherto unrevealing features were transformed with consternation. ‘We surely couldn’t do that, sir, not with charges as serious as these and police witnesses lined up to attest to them.’
Percy nodded regretfully. ‘DC Northcott may well be right. My impulse to help people in trouble often unhinges my judgement, I’m afraid. The penalty for even carrying a knife was recently increased to four years, Mr Ahktar. And you were not only carrying a knife. You attempted to use it against a senior police officer who was attempting to enforce the law of the land. Maybe I was wrong to raise your hopes. Maybe we should just leave things as they are.’ He shut his notebook firmly in front of him, as if setting aside temptation.
‘What was it you wanted? What information?’
Peach was studiously low-key. ‘Details of the people who were behind this affray, I think. The people who supplied you with knives and sent you out for this rumble with the British Nationals and their supporters.’
‘They had knives too, you know. And they’d threatened us.’
‘I can believe that, Mr Ahktar. But we’d like the details, you see. Then perhaps we can do something about making sure you don’t get yourselves into trouble again.’
The frightened young man on the other side of the table was already receptive; the mention of the British National Party was the carrot he needed. Wasim gave them the names of the ringleaders among his enemies, the men who organized violence and sent others out to do it. Then, more reluctantly and in response to a mixture of threats and cajolery, he gave them the names of his own ringleaders, most of whom had not been there on the night in question. The majority of them were names already known to the police, but there were three significant new ones, one of them a recently elected member of the Town Council.
When he was certain that he had everything that was to be had, Peach stared down uncertainly at the notes he had made. ‘Well, it’s not much for me to make out a case for you, Mr Ahktar. But I promised that I would try to help you, and I shall certainly attempt that. As I have told you, Chief Superintendent Tucker is a severe and ruthless man. But perhaps, if I can catch him in one of his rare benevolent moments, I can make out a case for you. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but if DS Blake is able to confirm to me that Mr Malim has been equally co-operative in the room next door, I might even try to get the charges against you in the Crown Court dropped.’
‘We’d be very grateful if you could do that, Mr Peach.’ Ten minutes later, a bewildered Wasim Ahktar and Fazal Malim left the station full of gratitude for the tolerance and understanding of the Brunton police.
Edward Lanchester felt very old as he moved out of the house and into the light north-east wind which was ruffling the leaves of the burgeoning daffodils.
He was very stiff and the usual ache at the bottom of his back was worse today. He would have warmed up quickly if he had had something more vigorous to do in the garden, but the man who had helped him for years had done all the routine work and left the place as tidy as usual. Edward’s purpose was to decide exactly where to site the new camellias they were going to plant next week. Global warming meant that you could grow camellias even in north-east Lancashire, nowadays, if you chose a sheltered spot in the garden. Global warming felt a long way away on this cold late-March day.
Edward made a couple of decisions, then gave up and drove down to the golf club, where he settled down with a warming whisky in the bar. He was cheered when Ronnie Quigley, the man who had captained the Rovers and England when he was chairman, came in after a round of golf and spotted him. Ronnie came over and sat down at Edward’s table. ‘Good win the other night, Mr Lanchester.’ He was twelve years younger than Edward and had never been able to break the habit of giving him his ‘Mister’, even in the golf club, where all were ostensibly equal.
They agreed on what a fine player the local lad Ashley Greenhalgh was becoming: not many nowadays came up through the ranks from the youth teams, as Ronnie had done in his time. The academy, as it was called now. Very soon, the two men were reminiscing about the old times, the implication being that things had been so much better then. Ronnie Quigley certainly thought so, though he had been quite modestly rewarded, even as England captain. Edward was pleased when it was Ronnie who eventually put that thought into words, rather than himself. Youth lends an inevitable enchantment to the past, but neither of them acknowledged that mundane thought.
They were so deep into happy reminiscence that that they did not see the man in the maroon sweater until he spoke. ‘The elders of Brunton Rovers putting things to rights at Grafton Park, are they?’
Joe Wharton, sports writer for the Evening Telegraph. A member of the golf club, a man who had played golf with both of them, at different times, and had been an affable companion on the course. But a journalist, nonetheless. A man looking for a quote; a man who might use a quote out of its context, to make a better story. Better stories normally meant mischief, and both the men at the table had suffered in the past, so they gave the newcomer only a guarded welcome.
Wharton understood all of this, but he had long since acquired the thick skin which was a necessary tool of his trade. He had a second whisky in his hand for Lanchester, having known his preferred brand for many years, but Quigley refused another beer, took his leave of Edward, and went and sat with the men with whom he had played golf earlier. Joe Wharton watched the departure of the former Rovers’ captain without rancour, then sat down in the chair he had vacated.
He was a man now approaching sixty, with a red face, bright blue eyes, and rapidly thinning hair. He took a sip of his drink and sa
id, ‘New chairman still behaving himself, is he?’
‘He’s no longer very new and his behaviour isn’t for me to comment upon,’ said Edward primly. Then, knowing how journalists in the past had made hay with even the most cautious and negative of his rebuffs, he added, ‘I see very little of Jim Capstick, except at matches and at board meetings.’
‘Capstick wasn’t at the match on Wednesday night, was he?’
‘No.’
‘Why was that, Edward?’
Lanchester, who would have welcomed the use of his forename by Ronnie Quigley, resented it from the journalist, who had been a young man when he had chaired the Rovers. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And you don’t wish to speculate as to where he might have been?’
Edward smiled at him sourly. ‘I’m not going to break the habit of a lifetime at my age, Mr Wharton.’
‘It would be off the record, of course.’
‘I’m sure it would. But I don’t to wish to read that “An informed source refused to comment”.’
Joe Wharton was not at all abashed. ‘No one was ever able to kid you, Edward. You know all the tricks.’
‘It’s not my business to speculate on where the chairman might have been on Wednesday night.’
‘No, I suppose not. But you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t at least a little curious. And you’ve always been human, Edward. I well remember your many kindnesses to me when you were chairman and I was a raw young lad.’
Outrageous flattery was one of the less damaging of the journalist’s tools, thought Edward. ‘I may be human, Joe. I am also old. And one of the things I learned a long time ago was to control my curiosity. And now I am going to buy you a drink.’
He hauled himself stiffly to the bar and bought Wharton another whisky, reluctantly denying himself further indulgence as he was about to drive home. It was not until he was back in the big, rambling house, rubbing some warmth back into his hands, that he thought again about what Joe Wharton had said.
The chairman’s unexplained absence was a little curious, as was some of his other recent behaviour. He’d make discreet enquiries of the secretary tomorrow, and see if Darren Pearson knew what was going on.
EIGHT
Darren Pearson was having a hectic day. He was used to that and normally he would have welcomed the opportunity to immerse himself in something other than the problems of his private life.
But today was different. He had been asked to make official appointments with the manager of the club in the early afternoon and with its chairman an hour later. He saw both of these men quite often, but when they asked for formal meetings, it usually meant there was something of considerable importance to be discussed. At the moment, he could have done without that.
He spent a solid hour giving an initial briefing to the latest additions to the club’s band of official stewards for first team matches at Grafton Park. If you could control the areas within and behind the stands with your own employees, you saved a fortune on policing costs. But the police reviewed internal arrangements every year to make sure they conformed to the rigorous standards put in place since the disasters in Sheffield and Bradford twenty years earlier. Your own staff had to be properly briefed, then trained in crowd control and elementary first aid before they were accepted as club stewards. Nevertheless, the savings on police overtime rates made an army of club-directed stewards essential for a club like Brunton Rovers.
Darren leavened what seemed to him to be dull stuff with humorous anecdotes of past mishaps and one or two jokes of his own about the misconceptions people brought to this job. He was surprised how he seemed to keep the largely male audience’s attention; there was even a ragged round of applause when he finished his address and sent them off for coffee. He saw himself disconcertingly for a moment from the back row of his audience. From this imaginary standpoint, he marvelled at the act he was able to put on; how little these people must suspect of the turmoil which would take over this confident instructor’s mind at the end of the day.
He was trying to relax in his office with his coffee when Edward Lanchester popped his distinguished white head round the door. ‘Got a minute, Darren?’
‘Of course, Edward. Always a pleasure to see you!’
It was a pleasure, really, thought Darren, trying not to resent the way the old man apparently thought he never had anything important to do, so that there was never any need for an appointment. Probably things had been less hectic in his time all those years ago. Probably he’d also have had other things then than the present and future of his beloved Brunton Rovers to occupy him all day! He liked Lanchester, who had no doubt been a lion in his day. Edward was as honest and straightforward in his dealings as the day was long and surprised when others were not the same.
Darren made sure his visitor had a cup of coffee and his favourite shortbread in his hand before he said, ‘What can I do for you, Edward?’
‘Very probably nothing, Darren.’ Lanchester leaned back and stretched his legs reflectively in front of him. He was much shrewder than many people realized, often using his age and a slightly bumbling air as cloaks for subtle probings. ‘A little information. Perhaps even less than that – a little gentle speculation might be all that you feel you can offer. Off the record, as our journalistic friends always assure us. And with the assurance that it would certainly not go beyond these walls, of course.’
Pearson found himself intrigued, despite his irritation at the gentle wordiness of the request. ‘I’ll help you if I can, of course.’
‘Maybe you will just put an old man’s fevered imagination at rest. That in itself would be a service to me. I was wondering if you knew where our present chairman was on Wednesday night.’
‘Wednesday? That wasn’t the first match Mr Capstick has missed, by any means. He has a variety of business interests and a fortune to maintain.’
‘But he doesn’t miss many matches, home or away. And doesn’t he usually let you know when he is going to do so?’
‘I suppose he does, yes.’ Darren realized that the old man’s oblique approach was masking a real suspicion. One that he had entertained himself, he thought, but hadn’t previously cared to voice, even to himself. ‘Jim Capstick didn’t say anything about why he was going to be away on Wednesday, though.’
‘Odd, then. Out of kilter with his normal behaviour.’
‘But not sinister. I don’t think we should make too much of it.’
‘I agree, probably not sinister. Just a thought, that’s all. And a thought that should be kept strictly between the two of us, as I said.’ Edward nibbled his way thoughtfully through a mouthful of shortbread. ‘The only reason I mention it at all is that Joe Wharton was sounding me about it.’
‘Thanks for the warning. If Mr Wharton gets on to me, I’ll be ready for him.’
The two men paused for a moment and sipped their coffee ruminatively, united by a mutual distrust of the men and women whose business it was to make bonfires from the thinnest wisps of smoke. Then Lanchester stood up and said, ‘I won’t take up any more of your time then, Darren. It was probably entirely innocent and nothing to do with us, but it would be interesting to know where Mr Capstick’s been over the last couple of days, don’t you think?’
He left without another word, the final image he left being that of a smile which was surprisingly mischievous in one of his advanced years. Wily old bird, thought Darren admiringly. He wasted the next five minutes of his hectic day speculating exactly where the powerful and now mysterious Jim Capstick might have been on Wednesday and Thursday.
Percy Peach knew how he was going to play this. His strategy would depend entirely on his chief not detecting what he was about, but he had every confidence in Tommy Bloody Tucker’s abysmal powers of detection.
‘I wanted to see you about that case you were involved in, Peach.’
Percy was pleased to see that his chief was already uneasy. ‘The assault on a police officer case sir? Yes, I got your message. Every
thing’s going swimmingly. Those young ruffians Ahktar and Malim were remanded to the Crown Court by the magistrates, as we anticipated. We should get those two custodial sentences for this. As the victim and chief witness for the Prosecution, I won’t let you down, sir. Well, it’s a cast iron case, isn’t it? Young thug sealed his fate when he came at me with a knife like that, didn’t he?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose he did. Percy, I wonder if you’ve considered . . .’
Words failed the chief superintendent, and he squirmed ingloriously upon his chair. He did a good squirm, Percy thought; he’d like to see more of it. The use of his first name was a sure sign of weakness on this occasion, he decided. ‘You’d like me to make the most of my injuries, sir? Well, I can certainly do that – wring my wrist and grimace a bit, and so on – but I think you’re perhaps worrying unnecessarily. They’ll go down without any histrionics from me.’ He knew perfectly well that they wouldn’t, that PC Forsyth’s over-zealous follow-up had destroyed any chance of a conviction, that no case would ever be brought to the Crown Court. But he also knew that Tommy Bloody Tucker’s pusillanimous soul was about to twist his tongue towards abject retreat, so he was confident of his ground. You owe me one, young PC Peter Forsyth, if I bring this off for you and preserve your skin from top brass damage. ‘I’ve been through the defence case, sir. They’ll be silly if they don’t plead guilty and beg for judicial mercy.’
‘I appreciate that, Percy. But can I ask you to consider for a moment that there may be wider issues to bear in mind here?’ Tucker cast his arms helplessly wide, then squirmed again at the incomprehension in his listener; Peach beamed his approval of that exercise.
‘Wider issues, sir? I seem to remember you saying when I was nursing my bruises, “We should make an example of these thugs . . . I want you to throw the book at these people”. Well the book has been well and truly thrown sir, in accordance with your instructions.’
