by J P Lomas
‘It literally meant a bar on the original medal to say he’d been awarded the equivalent medal a second time.’
‘Well, seems a bit cheapskate to me. Anyhow they seemed to use his bravery against him. On his return from the War he took over his dad’s butcher’s shop in Littleham. His younger brother was killed at Normandy and it said his sister lived all the way over in Sidmouth.’
Debbie made the East Devon coastal town just over half an hour’s drive from Littleham sound like it belonged in the next country. Jane hoped the ambition in this girl could be realised and that she would quickly get off the local rag and at least make it to a provincial paper in Exeter or Plymouth. That might be the step up to one of the Nationals, where she might at least find more PC terms for gay and black people; though given some of the tabloid hysteria about AIDS recently that might not necessarily be a step in the right direction…
‘You are listening?’
Jane gave Debbie a sisterly smile and assured the excited girl of her undivided attention, before spoiling it all by asking for a minute to have a pee. This took rather longer than expected, as the woman behind the counter made her reasonable request to use the toilet, seem like a demand for free credit.
Having being led up a private staircase to a residential flat above the shop only on the production of her warrant card, Jane had been made to feel that it was her putting the elderly owner out by wanting to use a toilet before ‘High Season’. By this point, Jane felt that she had been overly patient in listening to the host explaining how the ‘one out back’ couldn’t be fixed until her nephew had come back from Spain. Jane wished she’d had the quickness of wit to point out that tourists were probably deserting Devon for Spain in droves not just for the cheaper tea over there, but also for the better standards of customer care. Instead, she found herself overcome by her English sense of not wanting to make a scene and became overly and pathetically grateful for being allowed to use the private toilet facilities on the premises.
On her return, Debbie filled her in on the rest of Kellow’s background.
‘It says he was caught soliciting in the public toilets in Manor Gardens, well they’re closed now and was then sent to prison. The man who caught him was an undercover policeman – well he would say that!’
Debbie grinned at her own joke.
‘Was there anything about him later on?’
‘You mean that’s not enough?’
‘It’s wonderful Debbie, but as I’m going to try and persuade the only black police officer in East Devon to give you a front page exclusive, anything else you can unearth in the archive, or from your Gran would be a useful persuader.’
‘Do you think he was killed because he was a gay, some type of hate crime?’
‘I’ll let D.I. Sobers answer that one,’ smiled Jane, ’but I thinks it’s unlikely. It was 30 years ago.’
‘Yeah, but it’s in all the papers, this AIDS thing. They’re calling it the Gay Plague.’
‘Given that one day I hope you’re going to make an excellent journalist Debbie, you of all people should be aware of not believing everything you read in them.’
Jane settled the bill, knowing even as she took the receipt that she would never be organised enough to keep it long enough to go through the hassle of claiming it back on expenses. The information had been worth its weight in gold, well worth a pot of overpriced tea. As she watched the leather jacketed Debbie zip down the street on her scooter, she envied her youthful zest, even if she still had a few corners which could be polished. And yet she didn’t think homophobia was a likely motive, although it was certainly worth a punt and they had nothing else to go on.
Chapter 4
The great and the good assembled at the local Conservative Club would probably have been very surprised to learn that one of their eminent fellowship hadn’t voted for the Party yesterday. Yet as Gerald Mallowan, a local property developer, returned to a table encircled by solicitors, businessmen and other local worthies with another bottle of bubbly, Assistant Chief Constable George Dent joined in their convivial toasts to Maggie as robustly as the next man.
Over-dressed in a salmon pink shirt, lemon golfing jumper and bottle green corduroys, Dent looked more uncomfortable in his Golf Club uniform than he did in his dress uniform. Trying his best to appear at ease, Dent just looked as if he’d rather be elsewhere. It may have been that he was just not at ease with men who were his equals. In the bonhomie of the club, Dent’s flapping ears and self-important air had given a prime opportunity for the club wits to josh him as ‘Charlie boy’, or ‘Your Highness’, much to Dent’s poorly concealed annoyance.
Yet the air of tradition and success implicit in the dark panelled clubroom was an environment Dent craved and he had spent many years cultivating his career until he felt nearly at home amid the leather chairs, green baize card tables and gilt framed portraits of former local grandees. As a senior police officer, fellow members were now unlikely to ask him to field questions about the third rate private school his parents had sent him to, or his lack of an Oxbridge education. Yet Dent still felt he hadn’t arrived and that his moment was still to come. This was why he hadn’t put his cross next to the Conservative candidate on the ballot paper; he had simply left it blank to be counted with the small number of spoilt papers in his constituency.
He’d believed in the Conservative values of the past few decades, when leaders like Macmillan, Home and Heath represented his idea of people taking their turn. Too many fly by night new boys seemed to be gaining power under the current administration. Mallowan for instance had been put up for the post of club treasurer and he’d only joined two years ago – Dent suspected the developer’s cut price addition of a new kitchen and dining room to the building had oiled the wheels of progress in his favour.
It was why he wasn’t overly bothered about the lack of progress on the Exmouth Murder. It had been Sir Robert’s idea to bring in more incomers like Sobers to the force and Dent didn’t like the idea. He favoured the old idea that it was Buggins’ turn. As far as he was concerned, he was Buggins when it came to becoming the next Chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall. He knew Baines was leaving in the New Year and he’d already been sounded out about becoming the new Deputy. That would place him within sight of the summit and not even Sir Robert could go on indefinitely. Thirty years of being a good committee man had earned him that right. If it became accepted practice to bring in people from other forces, then he might lose out on the promotions he felt should be his for the asking.
If the Chief Constable’s policy of bringing in new blood failed, so much the better for his own prospects. It wasn’t even that Sobers was black; it was that he was from London – the big flash policeman sent to shake up their unsophisticated rural ways. Well, Dent wasn’t having any of that. The Exmouth murder should have been headed up by a local, just as the next Chief Constable should be a local. Though quite when Sir Robert would be ready to go was anybody’s guess; he seemed far too comfortable in the role for Dent’s liking.
He was brought back to reality by a direct question from Roy about Sunday’s match. Fortunately, it was obviously a rhetorical enquiry and could be dealt with by a knowing smile. As long as there wasn’t a more specific follow up question, unlikely with the Big O as he liked to hold court, then what Dent knew or didn’t know wouldn’t be found out. Despite the fact that he’d only been pretending to follow the conversation about football that Roy and Harry were having at the bar, his smile of comprehension had been genuine enough when Harry had complained about the sheer number of foreign players flooding into the game.
As a man who had once boned up on the names of golfers and rugby players in a bid to follow the more usual conversations in the club, he was usually at a loss as how to place the names of football players; however even Dent was aware that names like Ardiles and Villa weren’t those of British born players and also wise enough to follow the general conversational drift that they were an insidious influence on the E
nglish game.
Black coppers, foreign footballers and female Prime Ministers were not Dent’s idea of the natural order of things.
****
Set back from the seafront, on a patch of scrubland known as the Maer, stood what passed for Exmouth Zoo. Sobers could see why so many people were against such places as he parked his car by the entrance. Green paint peeled off the wooden façade and the once garish sign now read ‘We com o Exmo th Zoo’. A couple of cockatoos placed in a cage by the entrance refused to perform for the family of holidaymakers making desultory attempts to provoke a reaction.
At right angles to the zoo, stood another cabin with cut out letters spelling ‘Amus me ts’ – no attempt had been made to electrify any of the signage. A veranda ran down the longer side of the building and there was a wooden door wedged open with a fire extinguisher leading into a gloomy cavern from which emanated a seemingly random sequence of electronic beeps and bleeps. Looking back at the beautiful strand behind him, framed by green sea and blue sky, Sobers wondered why tourists would be lured by such siren songs to this place. Through the darkened entrance he could just make out a group of children and teens transfixed by the flashing machines in front of them.
Perhaps he was getting old? Though only just on the wrong side of 40, Sobers sometimes felt he didn’t understand the modern world. His mum had told him he’d been born in the wrong century; he’d pointed out he had been born in the right century – otherwise he might have been a slave. It was just that there was so much stuff nowadays which seemed so important to so many people and he couldn’t get worked up about it. There had been colleagues in London who had gone giddy with excitement about the computers suddenly springing up everywhere, whilst his sister had been desperately working overtime to afford something called a Spectrum for his nephew Josh.
Inside the stale air of the shack, youngsters either singly, or in small intent groups were gathered in front of head high cabinets displaying Pop Art illustrations of explosions, aliens and spaceships in bright garish colours. At least one tiny finger would be hammering on a button as its owner stared mesmerised at a television style screen on which pixels rapidly dissolved and reappeared. Small acolytes would often stand reverentially by the child playing, staring dumbly at the images on screen and occasionally offering esoteric words of encouragement to the player. A couple of pinball machines jammed in a far corner reminded Sobers of a more familiar age than the machines which displayed names like ‘Pac-Man’ and ‘Pole Position’.
The trouble was that none of the young people in this arcade looked anything like the photograph he had of Darren Price. He’d have to check out Price’s other amusement arcades in the town centre and up at the holiday camp. Resisting the urge to confiscate a packet of John Player Special from a group of young teenagers, Sobers stepped back out into the refreshing air of the Esplanade and let his eyes rest on the ebbing sea in front of him.
In the far corner of the cabin, Jez wondered what the sharply dressed West Indian had wanted. Dismissing the idle thought, he turned back to watch Steve breaking the high score he had just set.
****
B is for Bonfire.
Some people think it derives from the French and means good fire. That’s far too literal an interpretation. Most likely it’s simply a contraction of bone fire. That strikes me as a very medieval concept, though quite suitable for my mood. Something from the Dark Ages.
I wonder why the smoke was so thick and black? Did I use too much petrol? At least the evidence has been destroyed. Those clumsy gloves were the last item to be hurled on to the bonfire. Next time I’ll buy a more suitable pair.
Had the butcher’s bones burnt? Surely the temperature would have had to have been extremely hot for bones to burn? Perhaps they had blackened; aren’t skeletons only white at Hallowe’en?
For me fire is something which purifies; from the ashes of the old a new world will rise.
On the radio Michael Foot is coming to terms with his party’s defeat. My fire has been barely mentioned on the local news, much as I had anticipated. At least Foot’s more palatable when you can’t see him. If only he’d taken more care with his appearance, Labour might have got a few more votes.
You cannot imagine her appearing in public in an old duffel coat and unkempt hair. She takes care to always be immaculate when being interviewed. She looks the part. Like me she plans ahead and knows that failure is for the old and weak.
Foot’s policies were old and ugly and the world no longer holds a place for the old and the ugly.
****
The explosion tore through flesh and steel with equal efficiency. It took a moment for the astonishing pain to register as the screams and cries of injured comrades filled the air. As flames consumed his world, he wondered if it would be death by fire, or death by water? Connie’s face flashed in front of him; he would never see her again.
Jerking awake, Calum Baker came to in his wheelchair, his upper body drenched in sweat. The vivid flashbacks were still as intense as ever and he couldn’t remember having pushed himself into the garden. He turned around to look through the French windows, but the answer-phone’s unblinking light told him there were no messages. Just as there had been no messages yesterday and the day before that; sympathy and condolences could only last so long.
Not being invited to the victory parade had been the first indication that all the talk of carrying on and rising to new challenges had been just talk. No-one wanted to see the cripples, as that would mean acknowledging the true cost of the victory. It was far better for Britain to try and forget the less palatable images of the Falklands and focus on the splendid and rapid victory they’d managed to achieve.
Wheeling himself into the living room he tried to recall when Connie had said she would be back. Having only seen his nurse yesterday, he was feeling lonelier than ever. When it got this bad, he sometimes wished the Argies had been a bit more accurate with their bombs. Other marines with similar injuries were apparently leading remarkably fulfilled lives according to the doctors; he envied them. Turning on the television for company, he tried to fill another day in the rest of his life.
****
Sobers went from enjoying a relaxing balloon flight over a seascape both familiar and strange to the sudden and sharp revelation that he hadn’t set his alarm the night before. No wonder he’d felt refreshed, a whole extra hour in bed, but less than half an hour to heading up the morning briefing. With no time for breakfast, he rushed to the bathroom of the cottage. Topsham was a pretty village half-way down the river between Exeter and Exmouth, but it was that half-way which now troubled Sobers. Even without traffic, it would take him too long to get to Littleham Village on time. He cursed the powers that be who had closed the local police station in central Exmouth, at least getting there would have saved time, yet getting to the far side of the town was going to double his journey.
It was as he was scrambling out of the front door, hoping against hope that a fast driving black man in a newish car might for once evade the attention of the local traffic cops, that he saw the envelope with familiar handwriting and a London postmark. Grabbing it off the mat, he stuffed it into his briefcase and flung himself into his silver Metro.
In his haste he shot past the turn at Littleham Cross and found himself trying to navigate a way through the 1950s housing estate which separated the Cross from the Village. In retrospect, he thought it would have been better to have turned back. The hideous statue of the gigantic wooden beer drinker, which marked the turning to the crime scene, was easy enough to find and yet he had a feeling that this was just going to be one of those days…
Some of the local boys had named this estate as the most likely place to find the killer – one of the more popular theories doing the rounds was that the fire had been started by some delinquent teenager and for many of the team that was just shorthand for someone who lived in a council house. Sobers himself hadn’t dismissed that theory, although he didn’t like the lazy thinking
which accompanied it. He’d seen too many of his friends and family incorrectly categorised by such views.
He knew that there must be some social problems on the estate, but these low rise properties with their neat hedges and tidy gardens seemed to be a more natural part of their environment than the islands of concrete and walkways in the sky he was more used to policing. Many of the flats had colourful floral displays on their balconies and most of the gardens were either well looked after, or in some cases were worthy of a spread in a Sunday Supplement. You could bet that many of these families sent their kids to the same schools; were treated by the same doctors and used the same dentists as the rest of the town. In London you could have millionaires at the end of one road and sink estates at the other and never the twain would meet.
After reversing out of one of the endless cul-de-sacs which seemed to make up most of the roads leading off the estate, he finally extricated himself from the maze of crescents and closes. Passing by the recently shut shoe factory, he found the correct turning for Littleham Village.
Sitting at his desk in the incident room, Sobers was already regretting that the layout of the village hall made it into an open plan office space, when he found the envelope at the bottom of his case. He knew his late arrival had already been reported to his seniors and that no-one had bothered to cover for his absence. He’d half hoped that Jane Hawkins might have taken the initiative to brief the team for the day, although his better self partly hoped that she might not have done so out of actual respect for his rank. It was only later that he found the post-it note on his desk from Jane explaining that she’d been absent that morning as she was meeting a journalist.
