‘C’mon, Dave, we haven’t got forever,’ someone remonstrated.
‘Leave him alone,’ another added. ‘He can’t help it. It’ll come to all of us, one day.’
I said: ‘At the funeral he wore socks with little Mickey Mouses all over them. Very disrespectful.’
‘Mickey Mouses?’ Jeff Caton queried. ‘You mean Mickey Mice.’
I thought about it for a second. ‘No,’ I stated. ‘Mickey Mouses. One Mickey Mouse, two Mickey Mouses.’
‘There’s no such word as mouses.’
‘I’ve just invented it.’
‘The plural of mouse is mice.’
‘Not if it’s a name. If you were ordering two pints of Black Sheep at the bar would you ask for two Black Sheep or two Black Sheeps?’
‘Ah, you’ve got him there, Chas,’ someone said. ‘He’s never asked for two drinks before.’
Dave pressed the final picture against the wall and dusted his hands together to indicate he’d done his bit.
‘Right, so who stands out?’ I asked.
‘Him,’ John Rose stated, tapping a picture with a pencil. ‘Bono from U2.’
‘Do we know who he is?’ The image in question was of an unsmiling man in his thirties with his hair tied back in an apology of a ponytail. It’s hard to tell from photos but I guessed him to be of below average height and with a dark complexion. He was wearing a long overcoat, buttoned up to his neck, with black leather gloves and just a flash of white shirt cuff showing. A beautiful woman with dark hair was permanently next to him.
‘Peter Wallenberg,’ John told us. ‘Wealthy saviour of Heckley Town Football Club.’
‘So presumably that’s his wife, Selina.’ I guess so.
‘She’s a stunner.’
‘He walks with a limp. I wasn’t sure but I think he was wearing one of those boots with a thick sole.’
‘Like when you have a club foot?’
‘Or in his case, a football club foot.’
‘Hmm. So how does a runt like him with a club foot pull a bird like her?’
‘Well, being able to afford to buy a football club must help. The word on the streets is that he met her in a Dutch brothel, but that may not be true. Want me to have a look at her?’
‘Yep, might as well.’
Dave chipped in with: ‘We used to play for them, didn’t we, Chas.’
‘We certainly did. When they were winning games.’
Someone said: ‘God, no wonder they’re in dire straits.’
‘Anybody else?’ I asked.
Names were reeled off, some familiar and some who were strangers to me, but all, according to the troops, prominent figures in the flashier end of business life in Heckley and district.
‘Label them all up,’ I said, ‘and look into the ones we don’t recognise. John, will you have a closer look at Wallenberg while you’re looking at his missus. See how he earns his daily bread, please?’
‘Already done, boss. No visible means of support other than inheritance. His father was Frank Wallenberg who earned a fortune in property speculation back in the Sixties. He came into the business high and went from strength to strength. According to Leeds he made his stake money out of protection, gambling and prostitution, although he was never prosecuted. Off the record, they say that more than one of his girls had a key to the judges’ lodgings. His business partner in those days was a man called Crozier, Joe Crozier, known as Crazy Joe back then, who still lives in Leeds. Frank died of cancer in 1993 and his wife, Grace, took over the running of the empire. She died of the big C two years ago.’
My parents died of cancer. It knows no boundaries, respects nobody, listens to no argument. It’s the great equaliser, and a bastard of a disease.
‘So it all came to him,’ I heard someone say.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Can I ask a simple question, boss?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Well, apart from two stolen cars and possession of a firearm, what’s the crime?’
‘Ah! That’s a very good point. I’m glad you asked. There isn’t one. But there ought to be. From now on we crack them before they happen. It’s called Intelligence Led Policing, ILP for short.’
‘Right. Thanks for clarifying that.’
‘Any time. It’s what I’m here for.’ There was a long silence, broken only by a cough from Dave, but nobody came out with an apt comment. ‘Maggie!’ I snapped.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Any luck with the flowers?’
‘Nothing special. We collected all the tags at the crematorium – it’s what happens, so the bereaved can send out little thank you notelets to all concerned – and made a list. The only thing noticeable was that there was another wreath of lilies at the church from Peter and Selina but one at the crematorium simply from someone called S. ‘With all my love, S,’ is what it said.’
‘So he was knocking off the boss’s wife?’
‘Looks like it. Why else would she send a personal wreath to the crematorium, over and above the one she and her husband sent to the church? Want me to check with my sister-in-law at the florists?’
‘No,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘We’ve pushed this as far as we need. Keep it all handy because I’ve a feeling that we’ll be hearing about Mr Wallenberg again, one day. That’s it, boys and girls. If there’s nothing else I suggest you all dash off home to the bosoms of your families.’
I stayed behind, writing it up in my diary and tidying a few other things. It’s amazing how much you can get through when there are no interruptions. At 6.30 I rang Rosie. She was in.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Which?’ I replied. ‘Pleasant or a surprise?’
‘Both, of course. How are you?’
‘Fine, just fine. Nothing too heavy at work so it’s all going hunky dory. How about you? Last time we spoke you thought a couple of girls in the new class might give you some grief.’
‘Hmm, yes. Something happens to them at about thirteen. They’ve had their navels pierced and walk around with bare midriffs. It’s not a pretty sight, but the head has taken them out of class and told their parents to send them to school more suitably dressed. Are you still at work?’
‘Just about to leave and I’m starving. Do you fancy a tea-time special at the Bamboo Curtain?’ I have to be circumspect when I invite Rosie out. Make it sound casual, like we’re just buddies and I’m going to the restaurant anyway because I need to eat. That way, I’m in with a chance. Any hint of romance, however, or any suggestion that it might be a date, and the portcullis comes down.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’ve eaten already.’ Damn. I must have sounded too eager. ‘And I’ve just started stripping wallpaper from the hallway. Keeping busy, as per doctors orders.’
‘Did he mean it so literally? Reading a book could count as keeping busy, couldn’t it?’
‘Hmm…perhaps, but I think there should be an element of physical effort.’
‘OK, so read a book while popping chocolates into your mouth.’
‘And then I’ll get a big bum. Tell you what: I’ll have done in there in about an hour, and it’s thirsty work. A quick drink would be most welcome, if that’s OK with you.’
Oh! I thought. Perhaps I hadn’t pitched it too badly, after all. I went home for a shower and to change my clothes and refresh the aftershave. We drove up on to the tops to a road-house with fake beams, a children’s room and fizzy beer. Not the first choice for a connoisseur of real ale, but one I knew would be reasonably quiet on a Friday night.
Rosie was wearing her customary red sweater, but with black trousers, leather jacket and boots. As she slid into the passenger seat I wanted to tell her how terrific she looked, wanted to throw my arms around her slim shoulders, wanted to give her a welcoming kiss, but I didn’t. I said: ‘Hi. Did you finish the wallpapering?’
‘Wallpapering’s tomorrow,’ she replied. ‘Tonight it was stripping the old st
uff. You look smart. Thanks for coming over.
‘Thank you. We aim to please. Not going to see your mother tomorrow?’
‘No, I’ll go next week. If I didn’t go at all she wouldn’t know. She can’t remember my name and two minutes after I leave she’s forgotten that I’ve been. It’s a tragic way to end your days. Where are you taking me?’
We sat in a corner, near a gas fire with realistic logs ablaze on it, and shared our week’s triumphs and disasters. Rosie told me all the school gossip, which mainly concerned the diversion of funds from the schools sports facilities into yet more computers, and I told her all about the funeral. It was really cheery stuff, so I decided to change the subject.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘three of us from the office are going to the Town Hall for a lecture by Tony Krabbe.’
‘The mountaineer? That should be interesting. He’s climbed Everest, hasn’t he?’
‘Mmm. I never thought to invite you along. In fact, I was invited myself. If you’d really like to come I could tell one of the others that I needed his ticket.’
‘Ha ha, you wouldn’t, would you?’
No, but I could have wheedled and pleaded with Sparky, told him how much it meant to me, until he handed his ticket over. I said: ‘I’d’ve tried, but they’d probably have told me where to go.’
‘It’s made of limestone, you know. It was at the bottom of the sea, once.’ Rosie knows stuff like that.
‘What, Mount Everest?’
‘Chomolungma to the locals. Mother Goddess of the Universe.’
‘That’s interesting. So presumably it just popped up out of the sea when India crashed into Asia?’
‘Um, well, yes. Not the language I’d use, but the essence is there.’
I said: ‘I know him, Tony Krabbe, went to school with him. We were in the same football team.’
‘Were you? What’s he like?’
‘He was OK, a bit of a golden boy, even then. Literally. He had fair hair, which was always on the long side. All the girls thought the world of him, as did most of the teachers. He was in the year above me. I quite liked him.’
‘Don’t tell me: you had a schoolboy crush on him.’
‘Ha! You can read me like a book.’
I took Rosie home, left the engine running as we stopped outside her house, thanked her for coming out with me. She said it was nice to have a change of scenery but didn’t invite me in for a coffee. There was an awkward silence as she opened her door to go, then she leant over, pecked me on the cheek and was gone.
I drove home feeling pleased with myself. Rosie has had her bad times, but was coping well, had her life under control. She once told me about the lines she’d drawn in the sand, beyond which she wouldn’t trespass. No alcohol in the house and never drink alone. That made good sense, and just the odd drink at other times. Go to work, even during the bad spells. Quit once, ring in to say you couldn’t make it, and the bar would be that little bit lower the next time. Shower and change knickers and bra every day. I’d pulled a face, saying I thought that was excessive, and we’d had a laugh. By being a friend, but not making any demands, I hoped I was helping her. My motives were suspect, entirely selfish, but it’s the practicalities that count.
I hadn’t had a crush on Tony Krabbe. In fact, the idea of boy-boy relationships of a sexual nature never occurred to me back in those days. Homosexuality was thought to be a product of the public school system, and just wasn’t on the curriculum at wholesome, coeducational Heckley Grammar. But I had admired him.
Once every year we had a plum football fixture against the local private school, which we looked forward to for a variety of reasons: their pitch was level; the grass was short; they had hot showers; they fed us lemonade and biscuits after the game. But most of all we liked going there because they were useless.
We were leading four-nil with a minute left to play when Krabbe was brought down in their penalty area. He’d scored two of the goals and was now looking at a hat-trick. I was keeping goal at the other end and had made a couple of brilliant saves, but otherwise it had been a quiet game for me.
Krabbe, the captain, placed the ball on the penalty spot, stood as if to compose himself for the kick, then turned and waved for me to come up and take it. He didn’t have to do that. It was almost unheard of. I jogged up the field, slammed the ball into the back of the net and we won five-nil, with C Priest on the scoresheet.
I’ve been on all sorts of courses while doing the job, and I have a certain amount of responsibility. My staff work long hours and are often exposed to danger. I ask them to do things, get into situations, which are above and beyond what an employer can normally expect of his workers. Until now I’d completely forgotten the Krabbe incident, but suddenly I couldn’t help thinking that his generous gesture had taught me more about man management than all the training sessions and away days that I’d ever attended.
There was a message on the ansaphone when I arrived home. It was Rosie, thanking me for the drink, but the unspoken message was to thank me for not putting any pressure on her. I went to bed feeling reasonably happy. Totally confused, but reasonably happy.
There’s a tourist attraction on the southern edge of the city of Leeds called Thwaite Mills. It stands on an island in the River Aire as part of the city’s industrial heritage, preserved for posterity as a reminder of the days when work meant bending one’s back, producing something. The river turns a pair of water wheels, the water wheels rotate a series of shafts, and an ingenious arrangement of pulleys and belts transfer the power to various applications. Grinding, mixing and grading. In the nineteenth century barges would bring stone, corn, oilseed and logwood to the mill, and sail away laden with flour, china clay, chalk, dyestuff, putty and fuel oil. Nowadays the wheels only turn as a curiosity, when there is an audience, to demonstrate the inventiveness of our forbears.
The schoolchildren showed more interest in the mill than the teacher had expected. It was Friday afternoon and the weekend beckoned, but they listened politely to the guide, made notes and ticked boxes on the multi-choice questionnaire they’d been provided with. The place reeks of age, and it’s easy to imagine the bustle and hubbub when it was working at full speed: the pulleys spinning; the transmission belts flapping and beams of sunlight slanting through the airborne dust. Sacks would be filled, hoisted on to strong but aching shoulders and carried to the waiting boats in an endless procession.
The kids gathered round as the guide told them how the big, eighteen foot wheels were controlled, then peered over the handrail as he started to open the sluice and the black water churned as if by some unseen monster of the deep.
As the wheel creaked and groaned and the first paddle rose out of the water they thought it was a joke, played on them by the staff in a feeble attempt to keep them interested. It happened all the time. Or perhaps it was somebody’s left-over Guy Fawkes, tossed into the river rather than into the flames. When the streaming body lifted clear one or two girls giggled nervously, unsure of their first conclusions. When the head lolled over and they saw the bloated face and empty eye-sockets, there could be no doubt what it was, and the screaming started.
I heard it on the local news as I drove home from the office, Saturday lunchtime: ‘The body of a man found in the River Aire at Thwaite Mills is believed to be that of a local businessman who hasn’t been seen for over two weeks.’ I used to work in Leeds and knew the location well. If he’d been in the river a fortnight he probably fell in somewhere near the city centre. Leeds Bridge was a good place for it. In my day it was all run-down warehouses near there, but now it has been redeveloped and turned into a yuppie colony. It’s easy to fall into the river when you’ve done a few lines of coke on top of all that nouveaux Beaujolais. I thought no more of it, defrosted a chicken rogan josh for lunch and spent the afternoon doing damage limitation in the garden. I cleared the borders of dead stuff, mowed the grass – I never refer to it as lawn – and raked up the first flush of dead leaves. I was complimenting
myself on being ahead of the game when it occurred that they were probably left over from last year.
Dave came to pick me up to go to the Tony Krabbe lecture, and Jeff Caton was already with him. Dave was wearing his Gore-Tex anorak.
‘Thought I’d look the part,’ he explained. ‘Professional, like.’
‘Wally, you mean,’ Jeff said.
‘Take no notice,’ I said. ‘You look just fine, and if it snows in the town hall you’ll be prepared for it.’
‘Did you hear about Joe Crozier?’ Dave asked asked.
‘No. Who’s he?’
‘One of the names that cropped up when we were talking about Peter Wallenberg, yesterday. Don’t you listen?’
‘Not always. Sometimes, when Jeff and John are speaking I have a tendency to drift off. Give me it again, please.’
Jeff took over. ‘Peter Wallenberg inherited his fortune from his father, Frank, who was a crook. His partner was Joe Crozier and between them they had Leeds and most of the old West Riding just about sewn up. Prostitution, protection – you name it, they controlled it. Well, yesterday, they fished Joe’s body out of the river. A bunch of schoolkids were being shown around this old museum when up came a floater.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Connections. Old friend Nigel is investigating detective. I rang him to see if he fancied a drink, later.’
‘As you do.’
‘Yes. As you do.’
‘Young Mr Newley?’ I grinned at the thought of it. Nigel was one of my protégés and destined for high things, if he could shake off the cosy dust of Heckley and a few of the bad habits I’d passed on to him, and make his own mark in the force.
‘I heard about the body,’ I said. ‘At a guess it went in somewhere near the city centre. So what’s it to do with us?’
‘Nothing,’ Jeff said. ‘It’s just one of those strange occurrences. You go all your life without hearing a name and suddenly you hear it twice in two days. It happens all the time.’
Over the Edge Page 5
