A Good Year for the Roses (1988)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘There's nothing to tell.’

  ‘Don't give me that. She's a missing person. There must be something to tell.’

  ‘If you could only see my case load,’ he said.

  ‘Come off it John,’ I interrupted. ‘Don't give me that old story.’

  ‘All right,’ he capitulated. ‘I'll tell you what's on the file.’

  ‘Did you bring it?’

  ‘Listen son, if a certain chief inspector knew that I was within a mile of you, I'd say goodbye to any promotion chances I've got left. But if he thought I'd shown you anything on official paper, I'd be directing traffic outside Woollies tomorrow.’

  ‘All right, all right. Get on with it,’ I said.

  He told me the identical story I'd heard from George the first time I'd met him.

  ‘So that's it,’ I said when he was finished. ‘You're none the wiser after two months than I am after five days.’ He shrugged. ‘For instance,’ I continued, ‘who did she visit that night?’

  ‘No-one knows.’

  ‘Not even you John? I thought you knew everything that went on around here.’

  ‘Piss off,’ he said angrily. ‘How am I supposed to know, when she wouldn't even tell her father.’

  ‘You're right I suppose, but he's in a right state about it.’

  ‘A state, my arse. I think he's got worried a bit late in the game. It's a guilty conscience if you ask me.’

  He was probably right.

  ‘He was prepared to pay me,’ I told John. ‘In fact he did.’

  ‘Blood money,’ said John. ‘How much?’

  ‘A hundred quid. Half a day's wages.’

  ‘On those sort of wages you'll be retiring soon.’

  ‘Dream on,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ John continued. ‘You've done more than your half day's work. Keep the money and tell him there's nothing doing.’ He shrugged. ‘Big deal.’

  ‘I know John, but what do you think happened?’

  Counting on his fingers, he said, ‘One, she's pregnant and run off with the father, or gone somewhere to have the baby. She wasn't short of cash. Two, and most likely, she's into drugs heavily and like I said earlier, she's changed her appearance and gone underground somewhere. Three, she's met a bloke with a bit about him and she's living it up somewhere, which means she'll be back sooner or later.’

  ‘Four,’ I interrupted. ‘She left to join the gypsies, or run off with the fairies or a travelling circus. How about five, someone's topped her.’

  ‘That's a bit dramatic isn't it? Do you know how many people bugger off everyday in the UK? If they were all murdered, we wouldn't be able to move for stiffs.’

  ‘Have you seen this?’ I asked, I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top one where I had put the black box that George had given me.

  I tossed it to John.

  ‘What's this?’ he asked.

  ‘Take a look, open it.’

  He did so and poked the contents around with his forefinger. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

  ‘From George Bright,’ I replied.

  ‘And where did Mister Bright get it?’

  ‘He found it amongst Patsy's things.’

  ‘He really is a stupid bastard. What was he trying to hide?’

  ‘It's obvious,’ I replied. ‘He didn't want you to think his one and only daughter was into smoking dope.’

  ‘As if we wouldn't find out. I told you I knew all about it. And then he gives it to a cowboy like you. I give up.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘I'm not going to tell you everything I know. I've got certain sources, you know that.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ I said. I knew John of old, and there was no use pushing him for information. He'd tell me in his own sweet time if he was going to tell me at all.

  He threw the open box onto the bed where it landed on its side, spilling the cigarette papers onto the bed cover.

  ‘Some of these wankers think we're stupid.’

  ‘Not stupid, John,’ I said. ‘Overworked, that's all.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for you.’

  ‘All right John, don't keep on. I believe you looked, and I believe you're dead right about the drug angle. It's probably just a wild goose chase. But I've got a funny feeling.’

  ‘I remember you once had a funny feeling about a truck load of cigarettes, which meant three of us spending the coldest weekend of the year in the back of a Thames van in a lorry park in Camberwell. Meanwhile, if I may remind you, the firm you had the funny feeling about were hoisting a lorry load of frozen cod from Vauxhall. Free and clear.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘I always thought there was something fishy about that case.’

  He didn't exactly fall about laughing at the remark, but I could feel the antagonism evaporating.

  ‘Talking of something fishy,’ he said, ‘have you seen your wife lately?’

  ‘I haven't got a wife, you cheeky bastard. I told you that already.’

  ‘Ex-wife then,’ he said. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In Forest Gate with a dentist. And no fucking jokes about filling cavities, alright.’

  ‘Never, Nick. I was just thinking how I admire women who go for professional men.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said.

  ‘Was it going on before you left?’

  ‘I think so, but it all came to a head when I quit the force.’

  There was an awkward silence. Neither of us wanted to be reminded of that particular episode, not when we were slowly mending fences.

  ‘Now you hate her, I suppose.’

  ‘Hate her. No. Anything but.’

  ‘How do you feel about her?’

  ‘Disappointed, I suppose, And angry that the time we spent together was wasted. Precious time for us both.’

  ‘But it wasn't totally wasted, was it? You've got Judith.’

  ‘I haven't got anyone. The bloody dentist's got Judith. I see her one weekend in four.’

  ‘Why did it go so bad?’ John asked after a pause.

  ‘The job mainly, but we both changed. We blamed each other of course, but people do change after twelve years. Christ, we were just kids when we got married. Our goals became different. It was more my fault than hers I suppose. I used to leave her on her own for days when I was working, or just raging about. She felt neglected after the baby came. I expected her to cope, and she couldn't, not alone.

  ‘It seemed like I did everything wrong. Every bloody thing. And she never enjoyed anything any more, not with me anyway. It got so that if I had a drink or a joint, or even a bloody cigarette, she'd object. It's funny because I've given up smoking now, but there you go. Anyway, she never said much, just gave me that hurt kind of look, as if I'd beaten her. We finally got to the state where the only way one of us could be happy, was for the other to be miserable. And that's the time to call it quits. But of course we didn't. We just went on pretending that everything would work out all right. The sexual side went totally out of the window. She was insatiable when we first got married. In the end we were screwing once a month if we were lucky. And that was bad luck. Under sufferance, if you know what I mean. The funny thing was, the more she didn't want it, the more I did. At the end she was slopping round like an apprentice bag lady, just to turn me off. Once upon a time she'd have done anything just to get me at it, and it didn't take a lot.’ I stopped, slightly embarrassed at being so frank, and went to the kitchen for more beers. The sound of the tabs popping was loud in the silence of the room. John took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I refused and went to get him an ashtray. When we were comfortable again, he asked me,

  ‘So you went to pastures new?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘But not recently, not for a long time.’

  ‘But you've got the flat, and new clothes and that Jag. Now there's a bird puller if ever I saw one.’

  ‘Not any more mate. It
's just transport now. A way of getting from A to B. Laura got the Fiesta and I got the Jag.’

  ‘You must be going soft.’

  ‘I'm not interested, not any more. Laura cured me of that.’

  ‘It sounds like a few harsh words were spoken.’

  ‘Sure. I don't think I ever forgave her for falling out of love with me. But I still needed her and the baby to keep going. I had them in the palm of my hand and I let them slip away. I lost the lot.’

  ‘You still love her, don't you?’

  I looked at him. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘She turned into the coldest cunt I've ever known.’

  We sat in silence drinking. Eventually I asked. ‘How about you John? How's everything with you these days?’

  ‘Same as ever Nick. Margie keeps the place together. The kids are at the comprehensive now. The bills get bigger every month. I still fuck around with a mystery every now and again. Margie never says anything when I vanish for the odd night. Life goes on, son. Just live it. You think too much. That's always been your trouble. You fucking failed college boys are all the same. You were too sensitive for the job, and that's a fact. You don't like to get in and mix it flesh on bone. You're like a debutante who wants to fuck with her knickers on. No body contact, see. If you'd have stayed on the force you'd've ended up in charge of neighbourhood watch in Kingston or somewhere.’

  He lit another cigarette. I wished I still smoked.

  ‘You were always self obsessed,’ he went on.

  ‘You sound just like a bleeding psychiatrist,’ I retorted.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And I've had some experience of them. But you know all about that don't you?’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘I went a bit strange after Laura kicked me out. A nervous breakdown the doctors called it. I pulled a few numbers, broke up the house a bit. I'm not proud of it, but it happened.’

  ‘Are you alright now?’

  ‘Well I'm not going to stick a bread knife into your wig, if that's what you're worried about.’

  He gently touched the top of his head with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Still a bit touchy about the old barnet,’ I said, and grinned.

  He jumped up suddenly and said. ‘Listen I've got a bottle of vodka in the car. Blue label Smirnoff.’

  I guessed it was his way of saying we were friends again.

  ‘Is one of your massive case load an off-licence job by any chance?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Could be. If a satisfied customer wants to show a token of appreciation, who am I to argue? Got any mixers?’

  ‘As a matter of fact there's a couple of cartons of orange juice in the fridge. I've got to get my vitamin C.’

  ‘Next you'll be telling me you eat up all your veggies too. Still, good enough. I'll go and get the bottle. You polish the glasses.’

  He went down to his car and got the vodka. It was our favourite liquor. We'd seen more bottles of it off in our time than I care to remember.

  We did not speak about Patsy Bright any more that night. I think we had both temporarily forgotten that she was the reason for us meeting again. We killed the booze instead and listened to Run DMC, 52nd Street and LL Cool J and all the other soul bands being broadcast by the pirate stations on my little FM radio.

  We talked about the old days, the people we knew and the things we had done.

  I don't remember much of what we said, but I do know at one point John apologised for shooting me. Finally when every drop of alcohol in the place was gone, he drove his car rather unsteadily away in the small hours of the morning.

  I stood at the window and watched the red tail lights of his car disappear up the road. When they'd gone it occurred to me through my drunken haze, that if nothing else came of the Bright affair, at least I had regained two friendships during the first few days on the case.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt as if someone had hit me right over the head with a club hammer. Meanwhile, something extremely unpleasant seemed to have crawled into my mouth and died. I lay for a while counting my blessings. When I got as far as one, I decided to get up. My throat was sandpaper dry, and a limited megaton nuclear engagement was taking place inside my skull. I fumbled for my watch on the table beside my bed and knocked a glass onto the floor. It rolled under the bed leaving a sticky trail of last night's vodka and orange. I left it where it lay. My watch showed me that it was past nine o'clock. I didn't even know if it was night or morning.

  I crawled out of bed and gently parted the curtains. The sun was high. It was a new morning. I was seeing the world through a filter of fine gauze. It was a half litre hangover. The kind I hadn't had for a long time. I hoped that it would be a long time before I had another.

  I made a mental note not to drink with any policemen again. They never know when to stop. Well they do. When the alcohol is gone.

  As I walked very slowly to the kitchen to put on the kettle, I collected the rubble left over from last night's reunion. I stacked the glasses in the sink and threw everything else into the garbage bin. When I found Patsy Bright's photo lying face down on the floor, I apologised to her aloud and propped the picture against my mirror as I shaved.

  I chatted to her as I scraped the stubble from my face and continued the conversation as I drank a cup of tea.

  I was inclined to take John's advice and let the case go. I thought I'd phone George Bright and give him a blank. He could have his money back or not, as he pleased. I'd more than put in half a day's work. I couldn't really have cared less. All I cared about was the army of little men marching around inside my head.

  I asked Patsy's advice, but she wasn't forthcoming. There was something about her eyes, though, that told me to continue. Why couldn't I get that damned picture out of my mind?

  I found some clean clothes and got dressed. The day was dry and rather cool, so I took a jacket when I left the house. I breakfasted at my favourite cafe in the High Street again. I might even have exchanged witty repartee with the waitress with body odour, but I can't remember.

  When I unlocked the office door, I felt a little better for having some food inside me; a little, but not much. My skin still felt as it were peeling off, but that's what strong drink will do. I picked up my mail and slumped into my chair. It seemed as if I was getting lucky again. That morning I could win a trip to Barbados or a free packet of king-size cigarettes.

  I consigned the post to the waste paper bin and tried to plan my day.

  I wanted to ‘phone George, but first I needed to call a few acquaintances in the legal and financial world to suss out if there was a way I could earn a few shillings and start making an honest living for myself.

  I was already on an unofficial retainer from a large law firm based in the city. Of course it was the old pals act again. One of the partners was a guy whom I'd helped on a big case when I first went into plain clothes. He'd lost his star prosecution witness in a long firm case, the illegal profits of which had run into millions. The witness’ family had received some pretty heavy threats from the accused, even from their remand cells. So the witness had dropped out of sight.

  Then I'd found him. It was as simple as that. If he'd managed to stay hidden, my lawyer friend would have been relegated to fighting car insurance cases in the small claims court, or something similar. As it was, he went from strength to strength.

  I was living from week to week after coming out of hospital, when I got in touch with him again. He welcomed me and fronted the lease on the office and a little spending money. He must have been really grateful, as usually getting money out of lawyers is like getting blood out of a conker.

  When we'd met to discuss business, I hardly recognised him. Gone was the nervous young man I remembered from Lambeth Crown Court, to be replaced by a plump, sleek upwardly mobile individual, who had the habit of touching the side of his nose and winking when asked a direct question, like someone out of a Dickens novel.


  I didn't like him any more, but fate and cashflow problems make strange bedfellows, so I hitched my wagon to his rising star. Then, just as I was about to open my office, he'd vanished off to his villa in the Algarve with his wife and small son, leaving me hanging around like a chicken drumstick in a vegetarian restaurant.

  ‘Don't worry,’ he said when I spoke to him just as he was leaving for the airport, ‘there'll be plenty of work for you soon. I'll drop you a postcard. If you need any dibs, get in touch with my secretary. She'll take care of you until I get back.’ So left at a loose end, I finished painting the office, stuck the ad in the paper, and here I was.

  After a couple of hours, I'd made some headway using my benefactor's name as an extra lever as well as my own credentials. I must confess, I left out some of the juicier details of my career in the police force. There was nothing definite, but with a bit of luck there would be some work trickling through within a week or two.

  At a little after midday, feeling a little better with myself, I tried to get hold of George. There was no answer at his home, so I tried the number on his business card which I had stapled to one of Patsy's photographs. After three rings the answerphone cut in. A voice I did not recognise echoed down the line and told me that Bright Leisure was temporarily out on call and pleaded with me to leave a message after the tone. I hung up without speaking as I always feel strange talking to machines. I had enough problems talking to people.

  I checked the time. It was exactly twelve thirty. My mouth was bone dry again, so I sauntered over to the pub for a drop of lunch, which I drank straight from the bottle back at my desk.

  I pondered as I drank how soon standards slip when you spend most of your time on your own. Cat strolled in as I was finishing my bottle of beer, but I couldn't tempt him to join me.

  At one o'clock, the telephone rang. I mentally chalked up another first and answered it half expecting an order for the defunct coal merchant's. The caller was male with a strong West Indian accent. The kind that can easily drop into street patois if the speaker suspects that he is being spied on. He asked for me by name.

  ‘Speaking,’ I said.

  ‘You're looking for a girl,’ the voice said.