Last Reminder dcp-4

by Stuart Pawson

  Jimmy the Fish’s lock-up was in the harbour wall, along from the museum, the candyfloss stall and the fishing tackle shop. I knew it was his, because it said ‘Jimmy the Fish’ in big letters over the open front. It’s in the training.

  He specialised in little packets of shellfish and dressed crabs, with white fish available from a cold cabinet at the back of the shop. The man himself was small and wiry, with a weatherbeaten face and tiny, twinkling eyes. A woman was behind him, her back to me, busy at some task that involved running water and a big knife.

  I eat mussels occasionally, so I opted for a change. ‘Winkles, please,’ I said, after making an inspection of his wares.

  He said, ‘Well blow me darn wiv a fevver duster, me old cock sparrer. One tennis racket of all that twinkles coming up. Get them darn yer hat an’ coat, mister. They’ll put rabbits on yer shirt an’ vest, no tin-lidding.’

  No he didn’t. He said, ‘Certainly, sir. Help yourself to vinegar.’

  I gave him a pound coin and the winkles a quick squirt of acetic acid. None of them cringed in agony, so they must have been dead. Vinegar apart, it was a bit like eating the contents of a puncture outfit. I threw the paper bag into his bin and wiped my hands and mouth on serviettes from the dispenser he had thoughtfully provided. Mrs McAnally was hacking at something with a hatchet. McAnally served a tall elderly gent with ‘his usual’, and when we were as alone as we’d ever be I flashed my ID at him and said, in a low voice, ‘I want a word.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I knew it!’ he hissed and dropped the tray of crab sticks he was fitting into his display.

  I leant across his counter. ‘The Marquis,’ I told him, ‘in twenty minutes.’

  His eyes had lost their sparkle. ‘Right,’ he croaked, with all the resignation of a man whose past had caught up with him.

  I was halfway down my orange juice and soda before the taste of vinegar went away. The Marquis is the type of pub I prefer to avoid: all pool tables, slot machines and loud music. The only consolation was that they were playing Hendrix’s ‘Hey Joe’. There was a small snug, just inside the front door, so I settled in a corner and waited.

  I didn’t recognise him in his cap, without the white coat. He poked his head furtively round the corner, then limped over and sat opposite me. I’d forgotten about his leg.

  ‘Jimmy McAnally, I presume?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ His hands were shaking.

  ‘DI Charlie Priest, East Pennine CID. Want a drink?’

  ‘No fanks. I’ve told the wife I’m putting a bet on. Best not go back smelling o’ beer, know what I mean?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I decided to go for the jugular, pretend we knew he’d liaised between Childs and K. Tom Davis. If I’d asked him and he denied it, I was wasting my time. If we were wrong, then we’d lost nothing. I said, ‘I’ve been doing some work on the Hartog-Praat bullion robbery, in conjunction with the National Criminal Intelligence Service. They have a file on you thicker than prison gravy.’ Might as well remind him of what he was missing. ‘They tell me that you carried messages between Cliff Childs and a man in Yorkshire called K. Tom Davis. I want you, Jimmy, to tell me all about those messages.’

  I could almost see the cogs going round. He’d come prepared to deny everything, but I’d jumped in first with half the story. ‘I d-don’t know no T-Tom Davis,’ he blustered.

  ‘You mean you don’t know the name of the man you carried the messages to? One about eighteen months ago, two more not long after Childs was sentenced? I’ve got the dates, if that would help.’

  ‘No, yeah. I mean, I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve got me confused, there, Jimmy. Are you saying you didn’t know Davis’s name?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘So how did you contact him?’

  ‘I had a telephone number. I’d to ring him, local call, and we met at a pub. That’s all’

  ‘Can you remember the number?’

  ‘Nah. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘So what did he look like?’

  He looked around for inspiration. ‘Big feller. Prosperous, if you know what I mean. Bit similar to the landlord here.’

  ‘That sounds like Davis,’ I admitted. He was carrying a rolled-up copy of one of the tabloids, racing page outermost.

  ‘Read the headlines, Jimmy?’ I asked, nodding towards it.

  ‘Headlines?’ he repeated unfolding the paper. There was a photo of Lisa there, in a bikini and a professional pose. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

  ‘That’s Davis’s daughter-in-law,’ I said. ‘She was found with her throat cut. Some of us are wondering if it was a warning to him. We reckon he’s looking after the Hartog-Praat gold for Cliff Childs. Maybe he’s been dipping his fingers in. What do you think?’

  The paper was shaking as he read it, amplifying his nervousness. ‘Mother o’ Mary,’ he whispered, turning to page two for the rest of the story. ‘I don’t fink noffing, Mr Priest,’ he replied, clumsily refolding the pages.

  ‘Well, I do, Jimmy. I think plenty. First of all, I think you’d better tell me the contents of the messages you carried between Childs and Davis. So let’s have it.’

  He stared at the Formica table top for a while, then said, ‘I’d like that drink now, if you don’t mind.’

  He was playing for time, trying to calculate how much would satisfy me, how much he could keep concealed.

  ‘Uh uh,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Later. You’ll enjoy it a lot more.’ I drained my glass and pushed it to one side, waiting.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I was inside, got a message from Childs to come up to Yorkshire as soon as I was free and ring this number. Somewhere near Wakefield, he said it was. Told me there might be a bob or two in it for me, one day. So I did.’

  ‘And what was the message?’

  ‘Noffing much. Davis had to ’ide the stuff somewhere-’

  The stuff?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Did he say what it was?’

  ‘No. Just the stuff.’

  ‘But you had a good idea what he meant?’

  ‘I knew what ’e was inside for, Mr Priest.’

  ‘OK. Davis hides the stuff. Then what?’

  ‘He’d to give me half of the ’iding place. Childs was scared that Davis might snuff it while he was inside, but he didn’t want anybody else to know where it was. I took ’im half of it, someone else took ’im the other half.’

  ‘Who was the someone else, Jimmy?’

  ‘Lord ’elp me, Mr Priest, I don’t know.’

  So that was it. McAnally only knew half of the story, so there was no harm in stringing me along. And the other guardian of the holy grail — Morgan — was already safely dead. McAnally had nothing to lose. I picked up my glass, realised it was still empty and pushed it away again. ‘I’m not interested in you, Jimmy,’ I told him. ‘I knew the dead girl, Lisa Davis. This is personal. I want to find that gold before anyone else finds themself breathing through their larynx. You’d better tell me the rest of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the girl, Mr Priest, I really am, but blimey, I’ve told you everyfing I know, so ’elp me.’

  ‘Well, for starters, you could tell me your half of the hiding place.’

  He waved his hands in the air, agitated. ‘It didn’t make sense, Mr Priest, honest it didn’t.’

  ‘Jimmy,’ I said. ‘All this “Mr Priest” is making me feel old. Call me Charlie. Don’t read too much into it — I’m still the cop and you’re still the cheap ex-crook, but call me Charlie. OK?’

  ‘Right. Fanks, Charlie.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘Like I said, it didn’t make sense.’

  ‘Go on,’ I urged.

  ‘It was just…St Sebastian, that was it. The martyrdom of St Sebastian. Crazy, innit?’

  ‘The martyrdom of St Sebastian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re right, it doesn’t mak
e much sense. Maybe if we knew the other half…’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’d be different. We’re only singing off ’alf the hymn sheet, ain’t we?’ He leant forward on to the table and smiled for the first time. A load was off his shoulders, and he hadn’t disclosed anything worthwhile. He’d confirmed what we’d guessed, and given us a cryptic clue that was about as much use as a Teflon flypaper.

  I hit him with, ‘Tell me all about Johnny Morgan.’

  He slumped backwards in shock, as if a sniper across the street had taken him out. ‘J-J-J…’ he stuttered, then shut up.

  ‘Johnny Morgan,’ I reminded him. ‘The two of you shared a cell. I’ve heard that you can become quite close, banged up like that. Happen with you and Johnny, did it?’

  ‘Johnny’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘You brought a ghost up, that’s all.’

  ‘He was the courier for the other half of the message.’

  ‘Was he? I didn’t know. Anyway, he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead and you lost a leg in a car accident. Any chance the two are linked?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Nah, no way. He was knifed by a Paki in a pub brawl. I got ’it by a young bird in a Lada. She was Brahms and Liszt. Just the luck of the draw.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I conceded. ‘But I don’t believe you’re being straight with me, Jimmy. Look at it from my point of view. Two old pals, you and Johnny, have the key to a ton and a half of gold. All you have to do is go and dig it up. Then you could live in luxury, anywhere in the world, for the rest of your naturals. Are you seriously asking me to believe that you didn’t compare notes? Pull the other one, Jimmy.’

  ‘Johnny’s story died wiv ’im, Mr Priest. I swear it.’

  ‘And I’m the Princess of Wales.’

  We sat watching each other across the table. The landlord came and took my empty glass, giving us a look that said, ‘If you aren’t drinking, piss off.’

  ‘Can I go?’ McAnally asked. ‘I’ve work to do.’

  ‘How old are you?’ I said.

  ‘Fifty-three.’

  ‘Fifty-three and still dreaming of the big time, Jimmy.’ I waved a hand round. ‘This is it, Jimmy. This is reality. You’re as far as you’ll ever get, and so am I. I’ll retire soon, make do with my pension. You’ll sell your fish for a few more years, then retire to your little bungalow with Mrs McAnally. Surely that’s better than living on the Costa del Crime or somewhere, drinking yourself to death, never sure when the knock’s coming on the door. It’s time to abandon the pipedreams, Jimmy, and accept your lot in life. I’d say it wasn’t a bad lot. Plenty I know would be glad of it, and I’m talking about policemen.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I got a good ’un when I married the missus. We weren’t evil, Charlie. It was a way of life if you were born where I was. I did a bit of fieving, some receiving, that’s all. I’ve paid me debt. Never had noffing to do wiv Hartog-Praat, I swear it.’

  ‘So what was Morgan’s half of the message?’

  ‘I told you. It died wiv ’im.’

  I hadn’t wanted it to go this far. I fingered a beer mat, wiped the wet circle my glass had left. When the table was as clean and dry as it would ever be I said, ‘N-CIS have you down as the driver, Jimmy. That makes you an equal partner.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he groaned, his face whiter than the cod fillets his wife had been preparing.

  ‘A twenty would make it unlikely you’d ever come out again. As long as Childs knows where the gold is and keeps shtoom it’ll be full terms for everyone. Like I said, your file is mighty thick. I’ll tell you something, though.’ I leant forward. ‘N-CIS are always on the lookout for bigger premises, just because of all the paperwork. You know all about the price of property in London, I imagine. A big file like yours, they’d just love to lose it. A little bit of cooperation, Jimmy, and I could ask them to stamp NFA on the front cover. Next time they had a clear-out, it’d be thrown in the skip. I can’t guarantee someone wouldn’t find it on a rubbish dump near the Epping Forest, but it couldn’t hurt you anymore.’

  ‘NFA? What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘No…further…action.’

  A little bit of the old twinkle came back. ‘And that would be…that?’

  ‘No promises, but I can’t see why not.’ Especially as we didn’t have anything on him. The fat file I’d told him about was half a line in Cliff Childs’ curriculum vitae.

  Through the open door I could see the landlord polishing glasses. ‘Fancy that beer now?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, please. Pint o’ bitter.’

  I fetched two while he did some thinking. Sometimes it pays to give them no time, keep the questions coming, pile on the pressure, but Jimmy was a professional. His instinct would be to clam up completely. I wanted him to realise that he had nothing to lose by talking to me.

  I placed the glasses on beermats on the table. ‘Thought you lot drank light and dark, or some other muck,’ I said, sitting down.

  ‘Nah. ’Aven’t you heard? We got Tetley’s now.’

  ‘Civilisation has reached you,’ I declared, taking a long appreciative draught. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So what was the purpose of the third visit, eighteen months ago?’ I asked him.

  ‘He got in touch wiv me,’ he began.

  ‘Childs?’

  ‘No. This bloke you say is called Davis. I really didn’t know ’is monicker.’

  ‘But he knew where to contact you.’

  ‘Yeah. That was part of the deal.’

  ‘And what did he want?’

  ‘I’d to fix up a visit to see Cliff Childs. Tell him that this bloke in Yorkshire could offload some of the stuff at a good price. Cliff had to phone him, and when he did, any numbers mentioned would be pounds per ounce. That’s all.’

  ‘And you assumed they were talking about gold, not drugs?’

  ‘Yeah, it was gold all right.’

  ‘So you and Morgan didn’t find it?’

  He chuckled and lifted his glass. I watched the level fall as his head tilted back, the froth sliding down the inside. ‘Nah,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Didn’t stand a friggin’ chance.’

  ‘So what was Morgan’s half of the message?’

  ‘Uh!’ he exclaimed, a faraway smile on his face as he realised he was about to relinquish a dream. ‘Five yards in, at five yard intervals. That’s what it was.’

  ‘Five yards in, at five yard intervals?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And the other half was the martyrdom of St Sebastian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So where did you look?’

  ‘Where didn’t we? We rang directory enquiries until they recognised our voices. “Not friggin’ you again,” they’d say. St Sebastian didn’t have many churches named after him, fortunately, and no pubs, but we could have been talking about anywhere between London and Yorkshire. It was hopeless. Then this happened.’ He raised his gammy leg. ‘Bit later, Johnny was killed. I decided I’d just ’ave to be patient, see what they offered me for being their running boy.’

  ‘Or what your cut was for being the driver,’ I suggested.

  ‘I wasn’t on the job, Mr Priest,’ he insisted.

  ‘If you say so. Do you reckon there are a few people out there, waiting to get their hands on the stuff?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Are you happy that Johnny’s death and your accident weren’t related?’

  ‘Yeah. This bird what ’it me was coming up a slip road the wrong way. You couldn’t plan anyfing like that.’

  ‘Mmm. Probably not,’ I agreed, lifting my glass and draining the last of my pint.

  ‘So what ’appens now?’ he asked. He sounded scared. I’d revived too many ghosts.

  ‘I’ll go home,’ I replied. ‘Type up my report. I’ll have a word with N-CIS suggesting your file be quietly disposed of, as you have been very cooperative, and hopefully, we’ll all live happily ever after. You’ve got it made h
ere, Jimmy,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got it made. Why don’t you accept it?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, Mr Priest. Trouble is, the grass is always greener at the other side of the wall, innit?’

  ‘That’s because of all the shit that’s there.’ I took a CID card from my wallet and signed it, saying, ‘If you think of anything else, let me know. Thanks for your help, Jimmy, and look after yourself.’

  The original plan was to eat in Brid but I wanted to get back, so I skipped lunch. It might be the seaside, but experience had taught me that their fish and chips are not as good as ours. The fish has still been frozen in a factory ship, somewhere off Cape Farewell, and they cater for a passing trade. I listened to Classic FM on the journey back to Heckley, and thought about Jimmy and his cryptic clues. They were meaningless to me, but he could have been bullshitting. I had a suspicion that he would quietly sell his little business and sneak away to fresh pastures, without his name over the door. That’s what I’d have done, in his shoes.

  Maud was coming down the stairs as I went up them. ‘Hi, Maud,’ I greeted her. ‘Looking for me?’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Yes, I’ve left you a note with Sparking plug.’

  ‘You mean old Grumpysod? Coming back for a coffee?’

  ‘No, if you don’t mind. I want to be off early. We’ve identified all the Jones boys accounts, so I’ve left you a breakdown. Oh, and while I was at your desk I took a message from a PC Young. He’s our new DVLC Liaison Officer. Could you ring him, please?’

  ‘Oh, right. Wonder what he wants.’

  Sparky was sitting at the word processor, typing a report. ‘Hello, Dave,’ I said. ‘Where’s this message from Maud?’

  ‘I left it on your desk,’ he replied. ‘Can I have a word, Charlie?’

  ‘Sure.’ This was Sparky at his most formal. I hung my jacket behind the door and pulled a chair out, alongside him.

  ‘I, er, heard about the car, the Jag,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I nearly cried when I saw it, but I soon put it in perspective. That reminds me — I need to collect a claims form. Don’t suppose you’ve heard if the SOCO has had a look at it, have you?’