Backhand Smash

by J M Gregson

  In the privacy of his office, he listened intently to what the lawyer had to offer. ‘We’d like to do a deal. If my client pleads guilty to burglary, will you forget the charge of assault?’

  The man was young. He must also be naive and inexperienced if he thought he could trade in this situation. ‘We don’t do deals, Mr Picton. Catterick is a violent and dangerous man. He needs to be locked away for a long time to protect the public. You know that as well as I do, even though the system has landed you with the task of defending him. We’re speaking off the record, as you requested, but I’d almost think you were trying to pervert the course of justice here.’ He accompanied the legal term with the blandest of his smiles.

  ‘We could throw in a guilty plea for another three burglaries. Help your clear-up rate, that would.’

  The man was desperate and that was making him reckless. Peach was enjoying being in control: like most policemen, he didn’t have much time for lawyers. They were at best a necessary evil. ‘I expect he’ll ask for numerous minor offences to be taken into account, once he knows he’s going down. I expect his lawyer will advise him to do that.’ Percy rocked a little on his seat and smiled contentedly.

  ‘The Crown Prosecution Service might refuse to take the case on, with the scanty evidence you have against my client.’

  ‘With what he’s just said on tape about the assault weapon? They’ll be happy to get their teeth into this one. Almost as happy as I shall be to see your client in the clink.’

  Peach was, on this occasion, as confident of that as he sounded. And when he told the CPS that the scum’s brief had been trying to do a deal, that would make even that over-cautious bunch of wankers anxious to put Catterick in court. Villains like this one always depressed him, but the interview and its aftermath had gone well enough to make this a thoroughly satisfactory afternoon. ‘I suggest you go back to your client and set about rustling up whatever mitigating circumstances you can. I don’t envy you that. And I don’t wish you success.’

  They told Catterick they would be opposing bail when his case was transferred to the Crown Court on the morrow, as it undoubtedly would be. He flung a few meaningless obscenities at them as they dispatched him back to his cell.

  Once the CID men were alone, Peach made Northcott remove the bandage from his wrist and examined the livid scar beneath it. He’d seen a few of these in his time, on himself and on others. ‘Healing nicely. What did the quack say?’

  ‘He was happy to let it take its course.’

  Peach had noticed the tiny pause before the prepared reply. ‘You haven’t seen the doctor, have you?’

  The DS shrugged. ‘We were busy with other things. I didn’t get round to it.’

  ‘You got that whilst you were arresting Catterick, didn’t you? We might want to present the evidence in court.’

  ‘My arm isn’t broken. It didn’t seem necessary. We’ve enough evidence, surely, with the hospital report on old Joe and the pictures we’ve got of his injuries.’

  ‘Resisting arrest, Catterick was, Clyde. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d suffered injury himself whilst resisting arrest. I might have been quite gratified, in fact.’

  ‘No need to complicate the issue, sir, is there? We’ve got him bang to rights.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, DS Northcott. But you’ve got your reputation as a hard bastard to protect, you know. It’s a good thing that your non-violent streak is securely hidden with me.’

  Northcott flexed his fists and examined his knuckles. ‘I’m not sure I want to protect that hard-man reputation, sir. But I don’t seem to have much option, with you around.’

  Peach smiled fondly at his protégé. ‘No option at all, Clyde. Your reputation is in safe hands as long as I’m around to look after you. You’re a hard bastard.’

  A phone call to the CID section asking for Detective Sergeant Northcott by name ended the conversation at this point. Clyde retreated with the phone to the corner of the room and privacy, expecting this to be a call from one of the snouts he retained from the criminal underworld he had long left behind him.

  It was not one of them. It was a light but firm female voice. ‘It’s Olive Crawshaw here, Mr Northcott – Clyde, if you will permit that informality. Following our conversation of two days ago, I am delighted to tell you that you are requested to present yourself for interview at the club on Wednesday evening at eight p.m.’

  ‘At the club?’

  ‘The Birch Fields Tennis Club, Mr Northcott. I’m sure you won’t be late.’

  ‘But I hadn’t definitely … I don’t think we’d—’

  But she had rung off and Clyde was left staring stupidly at the mouthpiece. He felt that this small, determined woman was more of a threat to his peace of mind than Sean Catterick had ever been.

  TWO

  Police officers have private lives like other citizens. The difference for them is that they normally choose to avoid any mention of the day job. It complicates your social exchanges, they say. People begin to watch everything they say when they find you are in the police force, as if they think that you are trying to trip them up. They think you will later review every phrase they use, every statement they make. It inhibits free exchanges and in some cases destroys all spontaneous conversation.

  Being recognized as a policeman or policewoman can even be dangerous in some contexts. The overwhelming majority of uniformed officers now travel to work in civvies and change into uniform when they reach the station. In some of the darker places in British towns and cities, police officers do not care to walk alone, whether in or out of uniform. As far as most members of the British public are concerned, policing is not a popular calling.

  Yet as far as Elaine Brockman was concerned, these problems were almost reversed. She paraded her uniform in the house in her first few days, as a challenge to parents who wished profoundly that she had chosen some other occupation. Her appearance was designed to remind her mum and dad at every turn that ‘This is what I have chosen to do. This is what I am. This is what I am going to be for the foreseeable future, so you might as well get used to it, folks.’

  But at work she wished that her uniform wasn’t quite as new and that her buttons were not quite so bright. A little blending into the background, a little routine acceptance from her colleagues as just another callow young officer, would have been welcomed. Instead, she was that object of police curiosity and derision: the graduate entry. If she was successful, in a few years she might be fast-tracked to promotion. That was the blandishment the scheme offered to those coming into the service from university. Other officers were envious, and envy brings with it hostility.

  Police personnel, despite the lurid views of their criminal opponents, are only human. Human nature meant that there was jealousy abroad in Brunton nick. There was even a desire that these toffee-nosed graduates who now seemed to arrive each year should make gaffes. These privileged young beings had been drinking and shagging their way through university whilst the less fortunate beings who were now their colleagues had been learning the hard facts of life and of police routine on the mean streets of the town. PC Brockman was a realist. She knew that there would be much mirth at Brunton Police Station if she slipped up and fell heavily upon her highly desirable backside. Metaphorically or literally: either would do. Both together would be quite wonderful.

  She needed allies, and DS Clyde Northcott seemed not only the most obvious one to choose but the one likely to be most valuable to her. With Clyde on her side, there wouldn’t be many mutterings or many snide comments. Not many of the people around her voiced any serious opposition to Northcott. He’d made DS and was in plain clothes at twenty-five. The people in uniform were snide about CID, but everyone knew you had made it when you were in plain clothes.

  When Northcott voiced his concerns about tennis to her, it seemed to Elaine like manna from heaven. It might become a bond between them, in fact. She felt the need of a bond or two as she looked around the canteen; her over-
vivid imagination told her that everyone she saw was anxious that she should fail.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Clyde asked, as if he read her thoughts.

  ‘Pretty well really. Except … well, probably the problem is me. I feel because I’ve been to Manchester University everyone here is wanting me to make a right bollocks of everything.’

  Her dad wouldn’t have liked that. He’d have said that her language was being corrupted by the career she had chosen. But all she wanted was to fit in here. Everyone wanted to fit in when they found themselves in a new place and with new people. And the coppers around her used much worse words than ‘bollocks’. They were testing her out, seeing how she would react to the ‘fucks’ and the ‘pricks’ and the ‘twats’ and whatever else they could throw at her. They must have very little knowledge of the modern university if they thought that she hadn’t heard much worse than that.

  Clyde Northcott was looking at her with his head tilted a little to one side. He might be only three years older than her twenty-two, but they both felt at that moment that he was infinitely more experienced.

  ‘The best thing,’ he said, ‘is to forget all about them and just get on with it. Decide each situation on its merits. If in doubt, ask for guidance from a senior officer. You’re still only a PC. You’re learning the trade. There’s nothing wrong with asking for advice. It’s what junior officers are supposed to do. Plunging into tricky situations on your own isn’t mature; it’s daft.’

  She knew he was right: it was sound counsel. But she said, ‘It’s all very well for you, Clyde. You’ve proved yourself. You’ve made DS. You’re Percy Peach’s bagman. That’s the job everyone here would like to have.’

  He grinned ruefully. ‘It doesn’t always feel like that. Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize slavery’s been abolished. But he looks after you, does Percy. He’d never admit it, but he’s got a soft centre. You’d want him in your corner if you were in trouble.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. He doesn’t acknowledge the likes of me. And I’m too scared to speak to him.’

  ‘He’ll know all about you, will Percy. Bugger all happens here without him knowing about it. Even Tommy Bloody Tucker is scared of Percy. And he daren’t check him, because it’s Percy who provides the clear-up rates he rides on.’

  ‘I thought before I came here that Chief Superintendent Tucker would be a real live wire. When I listen to other people talking about him, I realize what a wanker the man is.’

  Dad wouldn’t have liked ‘wanker’ either – not from his daughter’s fair lips. It was very mild for Brunton Police Station. Clyde sprinkled salt on his chips, then bit into one rather fiercely. ‘You should take police gossip with a pinch of salt, Elaine. But you can assume everything you hear about Tommy Bloody Tucker is correct.’

  Elaine finished her yoghurt and studied her spoon thoughtfully, not daring to look at the big man on the other side of the table. That was the English way when you were about to offer a compliment. ‘I’m grateful to you for your advice, you know. These things might seem obvious to you, but when you’re a new girl on the block, you need someone who knows his way around to guide you.’

  ‘They’re not a bad lot, you know, when you get to know them. They’re not given to sentiment – dealing with the villains of the town soon knocks that out of you. And you’ve probably already found that they have a rather broad and basic sense of humour. But their humour’s mostly connected with rank. Whilst you’re still a humble PC, that will protect you. They’d far rather see Tommy Bloody Tucker fall flat on his arse than a humble PC, even a graduate-entry PC. If it’s any consolation to you, I had to watch my step when I donned the uniform.’

  She raised her eyebrows, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t joking. It seemed inconceivable that anyone would dare to take the piss out of this formidable figure. ‘Because of your colour?’ She’d forced herself to use the word, knowing instinctively that the ‘ethnic background’ phrase that had sprung to mind would be dismissed contemptuously as namby-pamby in the police canteen. In the student community that she had so recently inhabited, it was usually assumed that all police forces were institutionally racist, because that suited student prejudices.

  Clyde smiled. ‘There was a little of that, I suppose. But not much. It was mostly because I’d been in the other camp, as they saw it. I’d been a petty criminal, on the wrong side of the tracks, before I came here. I suppose some saw it as switching sides, as too big a jump for me to make. I had to convince them I wasn’t still working for the other lot. A few Saturday night scraps with the drunks helped. They realized that it was better to have me on their side.’ He grinned at her, seeking now to make the whole exchange less serious. ‘I don’t recommend that solution for you, though the gossip tells me you can look after yourself.’

  She answered his smile, as relieved as he was to dispel the seriousness of the conversation, feeling that despite the fact that they were such physical opposites she was close to him. She might even take Clyde home some at some time in the future, if things went on being good between them. Mum and Dad would like that; they were determined and old-fashioned liberals. Good people really. She felt a sudden surge of affection towards her parents that took her by surprise. Mum and Dad were the kind of folk you joined the police to protect.

  DS Northcott twisted his paper napkin in his hands and she realized that he was wondering how to phrase something. Eventually, he said, ‘I was hoping that you could advise me on something, Elaine.’

  It was the first time he’d used her forename, though he’d told her that she should call him Clyde on her first day here. She said, ‘It can’t possibly be on a police matter. You have all the answers there and I have none.’

  He forced a smile and she decided that he was more attractive like this. She liked her men to look vulnerable occasionally. She’d never thought that the formidable DS Clyde Northcott, the ‘hard bastard’ of police gossip and the talk of the women’s locker room, could ever look vulnerable. He said, ‘It’s this damned tennis club and your friend Olive Crawshaw.’

  She grinned, happy to be on ground where she felt at home and he felt uncomfortable. ‘Birch Fields is quite an exclusive club. You should feel honoured to be invited – especially by Olive Crawshaw.’

  ‘I don’t do exclusive. I’m no good at exclusive.’ He looked suddenly like a small boy admitting that he couldn’t swim.

  ‘You’ll be all right with Olive on your side. It will be like being Percy Peach’s man here. She’ll see you through any initial difficulties.’

  ‘But I’m not even sure I want to join.’

  ‘You need the exercise. You roar about on that great bike of yours, but you don’t go to gyms or play any sports, apart from a few games of football during the winter for the police team.’ She was shocked by how motherly she sounded, with this man who was three years older and infinitely more experi-enced in life than she was.

  For his part, Clyde was surprised by how much she seemed to know about him. He would have resented that in a young male recruit to the service, but he found he rather liked it in her. Sexist, it must be. ‘I used to enjoy sport when I was a kid. Had a trial with the Rovers, but didn’t make it. I was like all kids – I wanted to play in attack and score goals. I should have been a defender.’ His torso moved a little at the table and his neck muscles tensed for a moment, as if he was preparing to head away a shot at goal.

  ‘If you’re frightened of making a fool of yourself on the tennis court, we could—’

  ‘I’ve played before. Quite a lot when I was a kid. Only on the public courts in the park – not in a club. But I wasn’t bad. Not then.’ He was surprised how important it was to him that this lively girl didn’t think he was a novice.

  ‘That’s good, then. It will soon come back, once you get hold of a racket again.’

  ‘I played a fortnight ago, actually. At Birch Fields, as a guest. A pal of mine invited me along for a game. It was afterwards that Mrs Crawshaw decided I sh
ould become a member. She plonked the application form in front of me and signed as my proposer.’ He packed all the facts of the situation into one swift speech, as if he wished to be rid of them and thrust the initiative into the hands of PC Elaine Brockman.

  She giggled. ‘Well, there you are, then. No use trying to resist Olive Crawshaw. You’d be like Canute trying to turn back the tide.’

  ‘That’s exactly how it feels. I’m used to making my own decisions; this one’s been made for me.’

  ‘Lie back and think of England, Clyde. You might even enjoy it.’

  He did not share her mirth. ‘It’s all right for you. It’s not you who has to suffer the agonies. I’m supposed to turn up for interview on Wednesday evening, then play at the weekend if I’m accepted as a member.’ He stared glumly at the table and his empty plate. ‘I could always mess up the interview, I suppose. If bloody Mrs Crawshaw would allow me to do that.’

  ‘I’m a member at Birch Fields myself, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know.’ He looked as if he was revising his attitude and reconsidering his reactions.

  ‘I haven’t played much over the last three years whilst I was away at university.’ She smiled at the big man, wondering how to put this tactfully. ‘Are you worried about being made to look foolish on the court? Everyone has to begin, you know. Everyone starts as a novice.’

  ‘I’m not a novice. Well, not really. I told you, I used to be quite useful on the public courts. But I’m out of practice. And I’ve never played at anywhere like Birch Fields. I don’t know the etiquette of places like that.’

  ‘It’s the same game, you know, wherever it’s played. The court is still seventy-eight feet long and thirty-six feet wide. The net is still three and a half feet high and the service line is still twenty-one feet away from it.’

  Things you learn as an enthusiastic child stick with you: the figures came back to her as swiftly and as effortlessly as a Federer backhand. Clyde was impressed. ‘I used to have a good serve.’ He grinned in fond remembrance, opening his broad chest almost as if he was about to throw a ball up.