Haggard Hawk: A Nathan Hawk Crime Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Crtime Mysteries)

by Douglas Watkinson

  The Map was a device used by an old bank-robber called Roy Arthur Pullman. He was nine feet tall, four feet wide whichever angle you looked at him from, and cursed with an even shorter fuse than mine. When he felt the need to break someone's head he simply reached for this imaginary Map of the World. He'd go through the whole rigmarole, right in front of you. He'd take The Map from his pocket, unfold it, smooth it out and even don a pair of imaginary specs. Then he'd set down his forefinger at “a more agreeable place” as he called it. In some parallel world, safely away from the damage he might otherwise have done.

  Charnley watched me go through the motions, taking The Map from an non-existent inside pocket, unfolding it, flattening it, putting on the glasses. I believe he glanced at Faraday when I finally whispered: “Los Angeles”. Then he faded from view as down went the forefinger, pulling me into Jaikie's world, via the brief e-mail I'd received three weeks ago.

  “Hi, Dad. Everything great, in case you're worried. How's it with you? Please write. J.”

  Not a great letter writer, our Jaikie. Always leaving me to read between the lines or, just lately, the gossip columns. He'd landed a plum part in an adaptation of a thirties novel, All Good Men and True. I'd got the book from the library. It was an old-fashioned romance, top heavy with tall, good-looking young Englishmen thrilling to the prospect of war with Germany. Wept over by beautiful young women with expensive educations and no desire whatsoever to use them.

  An actor, then, our Jaikie. An ac-tor with a deep, dark voice and a beautiful face. I recalled the day we'd agreed he should apply to drama school and forget university. Why the sudden change of heart on our part? Because earlier that evening Jaikie had walked onto the stage in a teenage assault on The Tempest. He played Adrian the servant, said hardly a word for two hours yet no one could take their eyes off him. Some people are like that...

  I heard the front door slam. Charnley and Faraday had left. Hideki was collecting the coffee cups. I refolded The Map and put it back in my pocket.

  

  The trouble was I knew what Charnley meant about keeping old gits at bay. When I was a D.S. at Witney this hooded man had us buzzing round like blue-arsed flies for six months. His game was to break into houses, middle of the night, entering snake-like through the smallest of windows. Then he'd rape the female inhabitants at gun point. So far so nasty.

  Then along came ex-Detective Chief Inspector Brimmer, recently retired from the Met, claiming to know who this charmer was. His sources had confided in him, he said, he'd put two and two together and got forty-one. A forty-one year old plumber from Blenheim.

  When I said I'd look into it, having no intention of doing so, Brimmer complained to my boss that I'd been indifferent. The A.C.C. Crime had me in for a bollocking, saying that Brimmer had forgotten more about police work than I'd ever know. Unfortunately, among the bits he'd forgotten were some basic procedural things that two nights later scooped us a thirty year old farm labourer from Faringdon, Clifford Arkley. He was later charged with a dozen rapes and went down for eternity.

  Did the A.C.C. apologise to me? Did Brimmer drop in and do likewise? No. So I knew what Charnley meant and with the courtesy afforded one officer by another I decided to keep out of his way. By and large.

  -3-

  For the next three days, Winchendon swarmed with coppers and the villagers were agog. Nothing this exciting had happened since 1743 when, apparently, Simon Fulbright bludgeoned his wife to death in Hermitage Cottage for having dished up a lousy supper.

  Mindful of Charnley's request I tried to keep my mind on other things besides Jim Ryder's murder and thought it might help if I tackled some of the odd jobs I'd been putting off. So, I polyfilla'd the hole at the bottom of the stairs. It had been shedding the fabric of the house for about six months and, with the piles of dust I'd swept up nearly every day, I could surely have built two more cottages. Then I planed the edge of the scullery window so that it closed and, while I was there, I replaced a tap washer. Then I made the mistake of getting ambitious. The kitchen table.

  I'd bought it in Chinnor from a bloke I thought I'd probably like because he called his business “Jones, Son & Daughters”, not that I'd ever seen a woman in the shop and the son always seemed pissed to me. The table, though, was exactly the right size and for a good two weeks it justified the four hundred quid I'd spent on it. Then the warmth of the kitchen started to buckle it and, in doing so, lifted one of the legs. The table rocked with a mocking double beat which I started to cure with folded paper under the offending leg. It worked for a day until the weight of the table pulverised the said paper and the rock returned. I cut a slither of wood to take its place. The slither worked for a fortnight until the weight of the table split it. I gave up. That was nine months ago.

  Then, as I lay in bed - it must have been the Thursday and I was really struggling by then not to think of Jim’s murder - a really bad idea came to me. Were I to measure the gap between the lifted leg and the floor and cut that amount off the other three legs my problem would be solved.

  I duly measured up, laid the table on its side and went to work with Maggie's Dad's tenon saw. With a certain sense of pride, a return to the artisan within me, I set the table back on all fours. The rock on the lifted leg remained. And two others had developed elsewhere. I spent all morning, filing, sanding, sawing, hitting and swearing until the obvious dawned on me. There was nothing wrong with the table. It was the floor! With a terrifying forward glimpse of flagstones being lifted and re-laid, I surrendered. The table could rock.

  At that point Hideki appeared and looked round the kitchen, covered in tools, sawdust and broken dreams. He laid a sympathetic hand on the table and pressed.

  He asked with a frown: “What is this?”

  It's a table, I wanted to say. Shorter than yesterday but still a table.

  “What is what?” I asked.

  He pressed again, the table rocked in several directions.

  “Rock,” I said. “Verb. I rock, you rock, he rocks, the bleeding table rocks...”

  “In Japan we have thing? You put under leg?”

  Everything he said these days had a question mark buried in the tone of it, a request to have his English checked. I usually did so with a brief nod.

  “I'll bet you have,” I said, nodding.

  “And then you turn...” He made a screwing up motion with his fingers. “Table go up, table go down. You have them in England?”

  “Who knows?” I said.

  “I e-mail my mother, she send.”

  I looked at him, suddenly realising that the daily routine of Beech Tree Cottage had been shot to hell in more ways than one. He had not gone to Rondon.

  “No, no, I stay here to see murderer caught?” he explained.

  “Might take a few days.”

  He shrugged. He was a man with all the time in the world.

  “How was murder?” he asked.

  “How was the murder committed, you mean? A shooting. Bang!”

  I fired an imaginary shotgun.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why was he murdered? If we knew that we'd be halfway to catching his killer.”

  Hideki's eyes twinkled. “You are going to catch him?”

  And there I was, courtesy of my house guest, back thinking about it.

  “Not me, no. Others will do that. I am retired.”

  Hideki nodded. “Ah, so. You had bad sleep.”

  I hadn't the stomach for an explanation of tired versus retired. It would end, I knew, in us wrestling the English language to the ground and kicking it to death. Instead I told him to be ready in five minutes, we were going to the pub for lunch. He understood that perfectly.

  

  The Crown was our neighbouring village's yuppie pub, with Y registration BMWs on the car park to prove it. It was fuller than usual this Thursday lunchtime, a fact which the landlady, Annie McKay, put down to the temporary closure of The Plough. A Wag at the bar with gelled hair and a small group
of admirers said she ought to shoot people more often if this is what it did for business. His friends laughed appreciatively. I heard one of them say it was Jim's old boss who'd pulled the trigger, getting even for the loss of two million pounds.

  For the sake of his English I made Hideki order the food and drinks. Bread isn't popular in Japan but as soon as he realised that we put raw fish into some of our sandwiches he became a big fan.

  “Two round of smoke salmon, please,” he said. “On brown. And orange juice for me. And for Nathan cheese and tomato on brown. And glass of red wine.”

  I nodded all the way, making a mental note to explain about the indefinite article fairly soon. Then he felt his pockets for money which he knew he hadn't brought with him. I eased him aside and said I'd call him when his expensive raw fish sandwiches were ready. He bowed slightly and went over to a corner table where two girls he’d become pally with were delighted to see him.

  Uncle Elvis was at the other side of the bar, sitting with his mother, both seeming to hang from a cloud of cigarette smoke. The old lady pushed her empty glass across the table and without a word Elvis rose and came over.

  “Howdo, Nathan,” he said. “You're on the same kick as me and Mother, I expect.”

  “What kick is that?”

  “Pastures new, mate. Stands to reason, with Jim a gonner and Julie a cabbage, where we all going to get rat-arsed?”

  “I shouldn't write Julie off too soon,” I said.

  On the edge of my hearing, the Wag and his fan club had moved on. Jim had now been shot by people he'd met in prison and presumably upset.

  Elvis said: “Yeah, well I don't like Tommy anyway. I thought he was temp'ry but with Jim gone she'll have to promote him. Won't please Mother, she don't like that arsey tart he's banging. So all in all The Crown is now my local.”

  “Looks like you've got a new customer, Annie.”

  “I'll order the new Mercedes,” she said and moved away to get Elvis's drinks.

  Elvis drew on a roll-up cigarette almost as thin as the match he'd lit it with and closed one eye as smoke drifted towards it. Or was it a deliberate wink, given that he lowered his voice and confided:

  “You know, me and Julie, we had this thing going. Don't tell anyone, but with Jimbo being inside she had certain ... needs.”

  I watched his face for signs of self-mockery but there were none. He must have been a good looking man at one time, though. Still was underneath the purpling skin. The sweep of white hair lapping at his collar gave him an academic bearing and the dark eyes seemed to peer out at the world on behalf of a scholarly mind. But, in spite of appearances, a thirty second conversation with Elvis was enough to convince you that his marbles had left the building long ago.

  The Wag and his friends had moved on again. Suppose it had been one of Jim's customers, getting their own back for food poisoning or over-charging? Stranger things have happened.

  “Here, you were a copper,” said Elvis. “Where've they all gone, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The tits on birds like Annie and her at the end there.”

  He jerked his head at a slim, attractive girl standing at the far end of the counter.

  “It's not really a police matter,” I said.

  “Mother says it's all this circuit training they do, bounces it off 'em. One thing you can say for Julie, she's no gym junkie, eh! Hey up Jack, come to join the deserters?”

  Jack Langan had entered and came over to us. He was looking worried, but then again he always looked worried. I gestured to the pumps.

  “Pint of Morrells, mate,” he said. “You ain't seen my niece, have you?”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “Kate.”

  Elvis said we hadn't.

  “Typical,” said Jack. “Supposed to meet me here, wants her boiler moving. Christ, it's like doing a bloody square dance with that boiler. Here in the corner first, then back in the fireplace, then dozy-do over to the recess. God knows where she wants it now.”

  “Back to the corner, I should think, if it's a square dance.”

  He chuckled and settled on the stool next to Elvis.

  “What's all this murdering stuff about then?” he asked, once he'd got comfortable. “I mean you can understand it in London or New York, but Winchendon?”

  “I'm trying to keep out of it,” I said.

  Jack thought that was a waste of resources. “Man of your experience? Jesus! They should rope you in. I saw this documentary the other day...”

  Jack had seen a documentary on everything, from Archimedes to Zsa-Zsa Gabor. He had a semi-endearing habit of taking you through them, in fine detail, even if you'd seen them as well. I jumped in quickly.

  “I saw that too. All of it. They're taking old coppers back to work on burned out cases.”

  Annie put Elvis's drinks down on the bar.

  “And a pint for Jack,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

  As I dug for a twenty-pound note and Elvis wrongly assumed that I'd pay for his drinks, so Kate arrived and fancied a large vodka and tonic. All in all it had turned into an expensive five minutes but at least we were spared a re-run of the documentary on ex-coppers.

  Kate Whitely was tall, like her younger sister Giselle, with the same fair hair and blue eyes. They both had a naturally tanned skin and exuded the lanky sexiness that was fashionable that summer and no doubt beyond. But unlike Gizzy, who could prattle with the best of us, Kate was more measured in what she said. Maybe marriage had knocked the stuffing out of her. Her ex-husband was a teacher from Manchester, twelve years her senior, who had known her as a child in his classroom. Jack hadn't liked that and I can’t say I’d have been overjoyed either. They'd married on her twentieth birthday and five months later were divorced.

  She pecked Jack on the cheek and set her bag down on the bar.

  “Not working today?” he asked.

  “Day off,” she said.

  “Kate's a designer with Turner's, the wallpaper mob. We've got one of her designs in our front room. Branches with berries on.”

  “Autumn Sprig,” she said right at me, in case I should ever re-decorate.

  Elvis glanced away at his mother who mouthed fiercely that he should bring her drink to the table. He shouted back that he'd be right there but stayed to hear Jack and his niece discuss her boiler. Basically she wanted it back in the fireplace. Jack said he'd be round tomorrow. He had a key but would she turn the hot water off overnight.

  “And what about Jim and Julie, then?” said Kate.

  “We were just saying,” said Jack. “This killing people, what's it all about...”

  His voice tailed off and he stared into the pint of Morrell's, seeking the courage to say to Kate:

  “I suppose you haven't got round to seeing Gizzy?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  The two sisters had had a row a couple of months back. About Tom. They hadn't spoken since, much to Jack's distress, and in spite of his constant efforts to reconcile them.

  “You don't think this is different?” he said. “You know, like a reason for letting things drop?”

  “She knows where I am if she wants me. How's the brain cell, by the way? Bearing up is he? I guess he will be, given that he stands to inherit The Plough.”

  I looked at her. “You're kidding.”

  “So Gizzy reckons. She’s seen a draft copy of Julie’s will, grabby little bitch.”

  “Please, don’t talk about her like that,” said Jack, face all screwed up with anxiety. “She’s a good kid. Good worker, smart, knows what she wants.”

  “She wants The Plough,” said Kate, insisting on having the last word.

  Saving us all from an awkward silence, Elvis's mother called out from the corner:

  “Billy! Leave your copper friend and bring me that drink.”

  There was threat in the words, reaching back into Elvis's boyhood, if the way he suddenly froze was anything to go by. Then he remembered his age and called bac
k to her, defiantly.

  “He's ex-copper, Ma. He's an 'as been not an is now.”

  The pub went suddenly quiet. Every pair of eyes was on me, my status well and truly declared. Has been. I was monumentally pissed off and turned to Elvis. The flowing white hair was right for grabbing, the head would come down onto the bar with a crack they would hear in the next village. But by some miracle I held off. Elvis hadn't meant it the way it came out. He'd meant the truth, that I had been a copper and wasn't one now.

  I took the gin and tonic over to his mother. Since I'd paid for it I felt I had every right to throw it in her face. The Wag stood back and gave a low hoot to warn of impending conflict. The old lady looked up from beneath the brim of a frayed straw hat, piercing blue eyes in a wrinkled face, all freckled and whiskery. Lips concertina'd in defiance, not a hint of fear in her demeanour.

  I looked at her for a moment, then said: “Your drink. Sorry you've had to wait for it.”

  I set it down on the table in front of her. Her mouth relaxed, she drew on her cigarette and waved me away with the back of her hand.

  As conversations round the bar were picked up again, so the Wag felt impelled to say: “Losing your touch, then?”

  One of the girls giggled. She fell silent, indeed the whole place fell silent yet again, when I asked: “You reckon he's funny?”

  She turned away. Others of the entourage fell back too, leaving the Wag isolated. I was searching for The Map. I must have left it in my other jacket.

  “She reckons you're funny,” I said to him. “I don't reckon you're funny.”

  His eyes were jumping like beans, his neck and face reddened in pure fear. As I grabbed him by the lapels an unmistakable voice next to me said: “Nathan, we go now.”

  I looked down to find Hideki's hand on my elbow. I relaxed my grip on the Wag's jacket and Hideki steered me safely from The Crown.

  

  Back at Beech Tree Cottage I tried to put lunchtime at The Crown in the box marked “Forget It” but the lid wouldn't close. It's one thing to know the truth about yourself and keep it hidden but to suddenly realise that others can see through the disguise is to be finally dispossessed. Of image. Respect. Status. It is to join the ranks of the 'as beens not the is nows. Earlier that morning I'd been merely retired, as if I had a choice in the matter. By one o'clock I was on the scrap heap. And now I wanted to stick a fist in my mouth and gnaw it down to the bone.