Over the Edge

by Stuart Pawson

  On the way back to the nick I got caught in the school run at Heckley’s only private education establishment, and what should have been a fifteen-minute journey took me nearly seventeen. I marched into the office complaining: ‘What time do they finish at the Valleyside School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen, these days? In my day it was strictly nine till four. They only do half a shift.’

  There were nods of agreement. ‘And they get taken both ways in a four-by-four,’ someone said.

  ‘Well, you can’t expect little Coriander and Battenburg to walk there, can you?’ another added.

  ‘No, you mean Mezzanine and Lintel.’

  ‘Or Hernia and Placenta.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Any messages?’

  ‘On your desk. One of your women wants you to ring her. How’d it go?’

  ‘As expected. Misadventure.’

  I took my jacket off, trying to look nonchalant, and hung it behind my door. Back in the big office I spooned coffee into a mug and pressed the button on the kettle. When I’d made myself a brew I returned to my office and just happened to read the message.

  It was from Mrs Dobson, Dale’s mother. Not what I’d been hoping for. Would I ring her? Ah well, I thought, we live in hope. It was timed fifteen minutes ago, not long after I’d dropped her off. I dialled her number.

  ‘There was a note for me,’ she said, recognising my voice. ‘A letter, been put through my letterbox. No stamp on it. It says: Arrange a funeral with Golden Sunsets Funeral Directors. The bill will be taken care of. That’s all.’

  ‘No signature?’ I asked.

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Do you mind if I send someone round to look at it?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  It was a slightly ambiguous answer so I interpreted it in our favour. ‘I’ll send someone straight away. Maggie, who came to see you.’ I looked through my window into the main office and gestured for her to join me. ‘Meanwhile, try not to handle the note too much.’

  ‘What do you think I should do about the funeral, then?’

  ‘I’d do as the note says, no expense spared. Give your son a decent send-off.’

  Maggie collected the note and we sent it to the forensic laboratory at Wetherton. While she was talking to Mrs Dobson, John Rose knocked on doors. Someone saw a car pull up and a man walk up to Mrs D’s front door. It was a large car, but they didn’t recognise the make. The man wore a suit and had broad shoulders, ‘like a weight-lifter.’

  The report came back about the money, and two days later we had the one on the note. Lots of prints on the money but no matches found. The note, on the other hand, was remarkably clean. Cleaner than would normally be expected.

  ‘That’s it, Rodger,’ I said. ‘You’ve given it a good run. It’s all very fishy, but so were the Twelve Apostles. We’ll see who’s at the funeral, just for the record, then we’ll have to drop it.’

  ‘Fair enough, boss,’ he replied. ‘Do you want me back on nights?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Rodger. You’ve done your stint. Do you want a spell on days?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. With Dav on nights I hardly see her. It’s ruining our sex life.’

  ‘Uh!’ I snorted. ‘What’s a sex life?’

  It was back to burglaries. We caught a couple, and the CCTV camera in a cornershop enabled us to bring a halt to a string of robberies, so we were earning our corn, if not exactly repelling the rising tide of crime. Much of it has to do with perception. Ask anyone what they think of the crime rate in, say, Canada, and they’ll say it is relatively low, people don’t lock their doors and the streets are safe to walk down. The facts are different, and their murder rate is approximately twice that of the UK.

  The troops handle all that. I was bogged down with the National Intelligence Model and Income Generation and Sponsorship. We were being encouraged to tout local businesses to see if they wanted to sponsor a police car, but I wasn’t enamoured at the prospect. If they expected me to drive round in a car with Pogson’s Pork Pies emblazoned on the side they were mistaken. I don’t like Pogson’s pork pies. They give me heartburn. And then there’s the little matter of the National Intelligence Model. This is a scheme produced by NCIS to make people like me more professional and to be guided by intelligence. Instead of bashing down doors I should sit back with the The Times crossword, the collected works of Proust and a glass of single malt, and wait until the blinding light of inspiration strikes. Lancashire had been running a pilot scheme for two years, so anything could happen.

  It’s all about catching big fish. I’ve nothing against catching big fish. I like catching big fish. Quite a few had fallen for my lure and found themselves in the pan with a glazed look on their faces, but if that big fish had felt a hook through his snout the first time he ever poked it out of the water, he might have led a different life.

  Monday morning I was wrestling with POP versus SARA when big Dave came into my office and plonked down in the spare chair. Long ago I discovered that if you could only remember what the acronyms stood for you could not only get by, but you could pass yourself off as an expert. What they meant was irrelevant. So there I was, elbows on desk and head in hands, silently mouthing ‘Problem Orientated Policing’ and ‘Scanning, Analyse, Response, Assessment’ when I heard the chair creak and saw his size elevens appear near the left leg of my desk.

  ‘Don’t knock, sit down,’ I said without raising my head.

  ‘Brought you a coffee,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I told him, sitting back in my chair.

  ‘What’s that you’re on with?’

  ‘Bullshit from HQ. Did you know that there’s a special department in NCIS, employing seventeen graduates, just to think up silly initials for things? I’ve been trying to sum up the way we work, in the real world. The best I can come up with is Finger, Arrest, Restrain, Trial, commonly referred to as FART. Think it will catch on?’

  ‘It’s bound to. And it’s nice to know that our immediate senior officer is using his time gainfully.’

  ‘I do my best. Was there anything special?’

  ‘A couple of things. Sophie’s coming up at the weekend, so you’re invited over for Sunday lunch, and Dale Dobson’s funeral is on Wednesday.’

  ‘Great. Put me down for both of them. In fact, we’ll both go to the funeral. If the flowers are anything to go by it’ll be a big affair.’

  ‘You can say that again. Oh, and you owe me twelve quid.’

  ‘That’s three things. What’s the twelve pounds for?’

  ‘The Tony Krabbe lecture. It’s next Saturday.’

  ‘Right.’ I waved a weary hand at the papers on my desk.

  ‘It’ll make a nice change from this lot.’

  Sophie, my goddaughter, is tall, beautiful and intelligent, and in her final year at Cambridge University, studying history. Her dad is fiercely proud of her and any young man who wants to win Sophie’s hand in marriage will need the courage of a lion and the diplomacy of a Daniel. Daniels and lions’ dens are what spring to mind when one thinks of big Dave ‘Sparky’ Sparkington and his daughter. Which could mean trouble for a certain rugby-playing youth called Digby Merriman-Flint because Sophie is pregnant by him. I knew it, but her parents didn’t, and when they found out a Richter force ten would rock Heckley. I was already having doubts about accepting the lunch invite.

  John Rose came into my office. ‘I’ve just been to the old Bridewell,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, John,’ I told him. ‘We’ve only been out of there eight years. You’re bound to forget and go back now and again.’

  ‘I didn’t forget. I went to see what they’re doing with it. One of the cells is full of new tackle for this National Intelligence Model initiative. There’s all sorts of good stuff.’

  ‘Ah!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m supposed to be an expert on it.’ I shuffled the papers on my desk and found the one I wanted. ‘It’s all in here. Except, as I underst
and it, we are to concentrate on NIM, or intelligence led policing rather than on POP, or people orientated policing, which is what we do now.’

  ‘Problem oriented,’ John corrected.

  ‘Is it? Well, it’s the same thing,’ I replied. ‘The people are the problem. Except there’s a paper here somewhere that says the two are compatible. It’s like the Bible – read into it what you want to hear. I’m asking the Staff Development Centre to organise a course or a training day, but first someone has to tell them all about it. Fancy taking it on?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘Good lad. And we need some suggestions for the website. Just a couple of sentences. Have a look at what the others have said and pick the best bits out. Devon and Cornwall, or Hampshire. They’ve nothing better to do.’ Maggie appeared outside my door looking windswept, and made a knocking motion in mid-air. I waved her in and turned back to John. ‘So what sort of stuff is there?’

  ‘All sorts. Must be tens of thousands of pounds worth. Cameras, VCRs, projectors, computers, software. Covert operations hardware. There’s even a Land Rover according to the Intelligence Unit.’

  ‘Covert operations?’

  ‘Yeah. Mini cameras, listening devices, you name it, we’ve got it.’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘New equipment for the DIU,’ I replied. ‘High-tech stuff. They’re going to replace you all by robots. How’ve you gone on?’

  ‘Well I hope they don’t feel the cold. I’ve gone on OK. I’ve collected all the tickets from the bouquets and the wind is cutting like a bread knife up there. I intended coming straight back and preparing a list, but I decided that one of them – a large arrangement of lilies – warranted immediate attention, so I did some detectiving. The card says Drive on, Mr Speed. In loving memory of Dale. Taken too early, but never forgotten. From Peter and Selina.’ She handed me the card, adding: ‘I reckoned there must have been at least 70- or 80-pounds worth. That’s a lot of money just to chuck down at the side of the road.’

  I said: ‘Peter and Selina. There can’t be too many couples with those names. It’d be interesting to learn who they are.’

  Maggie pinned me with tight-lipped glare. ‘I said I did some detectiving. He is Peter Wallenberg and Selina is his delightful trophy wife.’

  ‘The new chairman of Heckley Town FC?’ John exclaimed.

  ‘The one and only,’ Maggie confirmed.

  ‘How did you learn all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, let’s say one of your robots couldn’t have done it, unless it just happened to have a sister-in-law working in Heckley’s largest florist shop.’

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, turned the card over, tried to dislodge a piece of Eccles cake from between my teeth with my tongue. ‘Sister-in-law?’ I said when I decided it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘She’s Tony’s brother’s wife. That makes her my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Right. Well done, Maggie. There’s no substitute for knowing the right people but let’s not compromise her any more.’ I turned to John. ‘Would you say that this qualified as intelligence-led policing?’

  ‘Spot on, I’d say.’

  ‘Me too, so all this covert observation stuff: let’s have it organised for the funeral. Rodger is right: there’s more to all this than we know about. Ask the surveillance unit if they’d like to try out their new toys and bring us photographic evidence of everybody who attends. Young Dale had friends we wouldn’t normally associate with a litte scrote like him.’

  We’d had a dry summer so all the trees had turned colour earlier than usual. Now we were in a cycle of changeable weather, with the wind working its way all around the compass every couple of days. When it was from the north and east we buttoned our jackets for the short trip between house and car, car and office. Soon, when the cold spells joined up, we’d extricate sweaters and vests from the drawers and cupboards where they’d hibernated for the summer. I like the cold weather, but the secret is to dress properly for it.

  On the day of the funeral I put on the suit, with a white shirt and respectful black tie. Then I realised that I’d bought the tie for my father’s funeral and worn it at my mother’s, too. I took it off again and found a beer-stained blue striped one from the staff college. Respect was one commodity I wouldn’t be displaying. It was a good day for a funeral – bright and nippy—so underneath the shirt I wore a Helly Hansen base layer, as worn by all decent mountaineers, fishermen and market-traders. I considered the longjohns but decided they were slightly over the top.

  Superintendent Gilbert Wood hadn’t been too pleased when I told him what I wanted to do, but he soon came round. He usually does. These days we’re not allowed to use trickery or any of the other ploys expected of a detective in the pursuit of criminals. To do so is to invoke cries about the invasion of the culprit’s civil liberties. And when we mount covert observation of a suspect we are supposed to inform the suspect first. My job is to go out and collect evidence to incriminate villains. Gilbert’s job is the make sure that the evidence will stand up in court. Well, that’s the way I see it.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a relative,’ he replied with impeccable logic after I’d told him about the flowers from Peter Wallenberg.

  ‘Hmm, yes, I suppose he could be,’ I agreed.

  ‘But it’s unlikely.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Is this the Peter Wallenberg who’s the new chairman of the football club?’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  He rummaged through a pile of papers in his In tray. ‘There’s an invite from him, somewhere.’

  ‘An invite?’

  ‘Yes, to a charity do in the new hospitality suite in the grandstand. Raising funds for something. I’ve probably thrown it away. They send you a free ticket and it costs you about fifty quid in raffle tickets.’

  ‘Ah, the spirit of Scrooge is alive and well. So we can go ahead with it?’

  He wasn’t happy about photographing all the mourners, but I pointed out that we had asked the grieving mother for permission, to which she had agreed, and he was pacified.

  ‘It’s cold, innit?’ Dave whispered, two days later, as I joined him on the back row of the crematorium. ‘I nearly put my longjohns on.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Like my socks?’ He proffered a leg and hitched his trousers a few inches. The socks had little cartoon characters all over them.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many red noses outside a circus.’

  I smiled. He was right. Everybody was white-faced from the cold and red-nosed from sniffing. I think that was the cold, too, rather than sniffs of grief, but I could have been wrong. A young woman with two toddlers was weeping copiously and I saw a few dabs from tissues. Dave and I were at the crematorium but there was a church service first at St Hilda’s. I was surprised how many people came. Usually, I thought, all the business was done at the church, with the crematorium only dealing with the disposal of the body, as the businesslike language of the undertakers puts it.

  Mrs Dobson was in the careful hands of Maggie. I didn’t want any of Dale’s friends talking to her. She was vulnerable, they were plausible and wealthy, and I needed her on my side. When they arrived from the church Maggie led her to the front and sat down beside her. We didn’t exchange glances.

  ‘36 here,’ Dave whispered. ‘Plus me, you and Maggie and three from covert ops.’

  ‘That’s about 34 more than I’ll get,’ I replied. ‘Wonder how many went to the church service.’ A woman in a black coat with fur collar and hat walked to the front to offer her condolences to Mrs Dobson. They shook hands and the woman made her way towards the back of the chapel again, looking to her left and right as she decided where to sit. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked. ‘I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘She’s a DC at HQ.’

  ‘Is she?’ If she had a camera hidden in her hat – and, I discovered later, she did – she had probably just recorded the e
ntire congregation.

  A vicar gave a diplomatic speech about Dale’s life, making him sound like a misunderstood genius who’d lived ahead of his time, and not the racist yob we knew him to be. He stopped short of listing him alongside Van Gogh, Lawrence of Arabia and Elvis, but it was a close thing. Dale was snatched from us by a jealous God’s fickle hand, and the loss was ours. This was a condensed version of the eulogy he’d spouted at the church, and I was glad to be spared the real thing.

  A skinhead in a tuxedo stumbled through Do not stand at my grave and weep, his voice wavering and fading at the difficult bits due more to his inability to read rather than any emotion, and Dale Dobson, deceased, was sent on his last ride to the sound of Tina Turner’s Simply the Best coming from a cheap ghetto blaster. Most of the men in the congregation went forward to lay a hand on the coffin before it went squeaking and jerking into the furnace. I rummaged amongst the literature provided – Bible, hymn book, order of service – to see if there was a sick bag.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We all went our separate ways after the funeral, picking up the threads of the other jobs we were following. Dale Dobson’s standing in the criminal community wasn’t such that crime came to a respectful halt while he’d been lying in state. That night the sky was filled with exploding fireworks, and bonfires lit up the countryside, but they were to celebrate another death, 400 years earlier. We were promised the photographs for Friday morning, so I called a meeting in the afternoon.

  ‘Best funeral I’ve ever been to,’ Jeff Caton said. ‘The vicar did a lovely job. Everybody cried their eyes out.’

  ‘How many were there?’ I asked.

  ‘About 150, including children. There were three young women with toddlers who all looked similar. He appeared to have a penchant for anaemic looking blondes aged about seventeen.’

  Dave was Blu-Tacking a selection of the best pictures on the wall all down one side of the office and we crowded round to inspect them as each new image was revealed.