Never Die in January (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Scholefield

  Scales’ award party had been held in the canteen at Cannon Row. Thirty or forty officers with their wives or girlfriends had attended, and a congratulatory speech had been made by an assistant commissioner. Scales had been toasted in sparkling wine by everyone except his mother, who had toasted him in Perrier water.

  It had been an uneasy affair. Usually an award party, like a retirement party, was an excuse for a bash where everyone got drunk and started groping eachothers’ wives or girlfriends, or the women police officers. But with Scales clutching his tomato juice, and his mother her Perrier, it was like having two spectres at the feast.

  Scales, with his bony face and hair combed across his balding skull, had always reminded Macrae of a death’s head. Mother resembled son. She was grey and gnarled with thin bloodless lips and reminded Macrae of parishioners of the Free Presbyterian Church of his Scottish childhood who frowned on anything to do with pleasure.

  It was into this staid scene that Macrae and Frenchy burst. They were late, and it was obvious that both had been drinking.

  “What’s this?” Macrae had said, sniffing the cheap sparkling wine which Scales had produced. “It smells like camel’s — ”

  “Evening, George.” Wilson hurriedly inserted himself between Macrae and Scales.

  “Where’s the Scotch?”

  “Why don’t you have a nice glass of sparkling Liebfraumilch instead?”

  “Fuck that. Here Les, you mind Frenchy for me. And no touching, laddie.”

  He went out of the room and Wilson could see Scales’ head turn to watch him.

  “George likes his whisky,” Frenchy said.

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m partial to most things.”

  He gave her a glass of wine, which she sipped modestly, her little finger raised.

  Wilson’s shifty eyes travelled up and down her body. Jesus Christ, how did George do it? Here Wilson was, under the eye of Beryl, his wife of nearly twenty years, who wore curlers and cotton gloves to bed, and here was Macrae, shagging this voluptuous piece who seemed to be on the point of bursting out of her skimpy clothing.

  Macrae came back with a flask, poured himself half a glass of neat whisky, said, “Slainté,” took it in one swallow, and said, “That’s a wee bit better.”

  Wilson lost Macrae and Frenchy for half an hour. When he saw them again he went cold.

  Scales had disappeared — as he later discovered, to fetch his mother’s coat and scarf — and Macrae, with the better part of a flask of whisky inside him, on top of what he had drunk earlier, was being sociable to Mrs Scales.

  As Wilson tried to reach them, he heard Macrae say, “There’s nothing like a good hot vindaloo…”

  “And he usually asks for chilli sauce to go with it,” Frenchy put in.

  “I like to sweat below the eyes when I eat curry,” Macrae said.

  “I must be getting home,” Mrs Scales said, looking round desperately for her son.

  “I’m perspiring right now,” Frenchy said.

  “They have the heating up too high,” Macrae said. “Take your jacket off, love.”

  “Kenneth’s gone off to fetch my things,” Mrs Scales said for the second or third time.

  “And find them he will, ma’am,” Macrae said with a little bow. “He is a detective.”

  He held Frenchy’s glass as she removed her coat. All she was wearing underneath was a lacy top of some fine flesh-coloured material. It was so transparent that at first glance Wilson thought she was naked. Her two large breasts became the focus of his attention as they did to several other police officers standing nearby.

  They were, indeed, superb objects, Wilson thought. Although larger than average they stood out proud and firm without aid of bra, the jutting nipples penetrating the lacy fabric like two inquisitive pink noses.

  In the immediate neighbourhood a silence fell. It was deeply admiring.

  Macrae, like some sculptor who has just unveiled his masterpiece, turned to Mrs Scales, and, indicating Frenchy’s lovely bust, said, “Magnificent, aren’t they? I’ve always maintained that there’s nothing as sad as a drooping tit.”

  Mrs Scales’ lips became a thin white line. Her son pushed his way through the mob with her coat and she thrust her hands into the sleeves.

  “Good night to you, dear lady,” Macrae said with his little bow. But Mrs Scales did not reply.

  Now, recalling the incident with a shudder, Wilson looked at the big man. His face was beginning to sag a little, his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a kind of seediness about him that men without a live-in woman often developed.

  In this conflict between the two men Wilson found himself caught in the middle. He didn’t like Scales, but that was beside the point. Scales had been sent to Cannon Row to do a job — to cut expenditure mainly — but also, as he was fond of repeating, to drag the Met into the twenty-first century.

  The problem was that Macrae was distinctly twentieth, someone who had been frozen about 1978 when the Met did its own thing and to hell with public opinion.

  The dear dead days of yore, as Macrae had named them. Well, as far as Scales was concerned they were dead and buried too.

  A couple of years ago Wilson would have backed Macrae against Scales. Now he wasn’t so sure. The tide seemed to be running against the big man.

  “What d’you know about a villain called Stoker?” Macrae asked.

  “That cowboy from the Angel?”

  “The same.”

  Wilson was known as the memory man. Just as there were football fans who could tell you how many left-handed Methodists had played for Manchester United in 1968, so Les Wilson could tell you the ages and middle names of everyone connected with the Great Train Robbery. Macrae could just about see a light switch on behind Wilson’s eyes.

  “He put one of our lads in hospital a couple of years back. Hit him with a tyre lever.”

  “And before that?”

  “The usual. Joy riding, then nicking cars to order. Robbery. Burglary. Why?”

  “I just wondered.”

  Wilson scowled at him. Macrae never “just wondered” about anything. “You going to tell me?”

  “Nothing to tell. He’s living with Artie Gorman’s widow, Molly.”

  “I met her once. Good-looking woman. She must be years older than him. Never knew what she saw in that little bookie.”

  “Artie? He was all right.”

  “Come on, he was as bent as a safety-pin.”

  “What about Stoker? Any recent form?”

  “Not that I know of. Anyway, if you did a CRO search you’d know yourself. By the way, didn’t Scales want you to go on a computer course? You should, you know. Make your record look good.”

  “Do me a favour, Les.” He moved to the door.

  Wilson said, “If you had your way we’d go back to file cards and wind-up clocks. Time marches on, George.”

  “So they tell me.”

  She liked the flat, she said, but there were problems.

  Problems? He thought she’d agreed, that’s why he’d removed the To Let sign.

  No, she hadn’t agreed. He’d been mistaken there.

  He was in his mid- thirties, she thought, of medium height. She had noticed he wore built- up heels, otherwise he would have been no taller than herself. He was light- skinned and wore a heavy moustache and was quite sharply dressed in a soft grey suit and mauve shirt. His tie was flowered.

  He was making a statement about himself. His clothes said he was youngish and trendy. The moustache lent severity to a face that might otherwise have been weak. It said: I may be an estate agent who has to eat shit in these hard times, but don’t let that fool you.

  What were these problems, then?

  Well, there was the damp in the bathroom, the timescale, the dripping taps, there was worn and torn lino in the kitchen.

  He jotted all this down. Part of him, she thought, was unctuous, part aggressive.

  He was sure everything
could be worked out.

  Oh, but that wasn’t all.

  They went through the flat, she picking on detail, he making notes.

  She asked him about the previous tenant.

  She had been young, he said. It was a tragedy.

  What had she died of?

  He didn’t know, only that it had been sudden.

  Here?

  No, no. In hospital. Certainly not here.

  They walked from room to room.

  The price, she said, was unrealistic in these hard times.

  He didn’t like that. She knew it would reduce his commission to go lower.

  The price was the price, he said. He had no instructions to bargain.

  In that case she’d pass on this one. There were others in the area.

  Well, hang on, he didn’t say he wouldn’t try. He’d see what he could do. Speak to the owner.

  He knew the owner?

  Well, not the owner exactly, but the owner’s representatives. He would phone them. Why not drop round to the office later, see if there was any news.

  When she did go back it was done; not easily, he said, but done. A meeting of minds in these hard times.

  Since Eddie died Gladys had developed a pattern. First of all she checked the lock on her front door, then her back door. Thank God Eddie had had deadlocks fitted. She had wondered at the time whether they should have asked permission from Mr Geach, the housing manager. It stated in the contract that no alterations, structural or otherwise, could be made in the flats without permission. It was well known that Mr Geach hardly ever gave permission.

  “What if he doesn’t let us?” Eddie had said. “To hell with him.”

  Eddie had always been like that, she thought. Strong. Decisive. It was the way he drove a car. Knew every street, every short cut. You couldn’t tell Eddie anything about driving in London. Even Mr Macrae said that, and he never, or hardly ever, praised anyone. That’s what Eddie had told her, and she believed it.

  And now he was gone! Her eyes filled with tears. They seemed to do that constantly nowadays. She couldn’t stop herself.

  “Come on, Gladys,” she said to herself through bulldog. “Get a move on.”

  As she checked the locks she was glad Eddie had never asked permission. What if Mr Geach had said no?

  “We’d have been unprotected. Both of us.”

  She checked the lock on the back door and then began to drag the kitchen table across the floor. She wedged it against the door and put the two kitchen chairs on top of it. Then the bread tin. Then several pots and pans.

  If they tried to come in that way they’d first of all have to push the table out of the way. The chairs would fall, so would everything else. The noise would be enough to wake the dead and it would give her time to call the police.

  When she was satisfied with the kitchen she began to work on her bedroom. She brought in the telephone on its long cord. Filled the kettle. Saw that her sandwiches were on the bedside table, that the TV and radio were plugged in. That bulldog was on the windowsill.

  She closed the bedroom door, bolted it, and dragged the foot of the bed against it. Then she opened the wardrobe, brought out her chamber pot, and put it under the bed.

  By the time she had done all this she was exhausted. But the place, as far as she could make it, was secure. It was not quite four o’clock in the afternoon and Gladys was getting ready for bed.

  CHAPTER VI

  This was the time Macrae missed Eddie Twyford. Stuck in a traffic jam in Baker Street. If Eddie had been driving they would (a) not have got into the traffic jam at all, he would have known some short cut that would have taken them clear of it, or (b) if they had got stuck they would have had an argument about why and so passed the time. Or Macrae would have lit up a slim panatella and opened the Daily Telegraph and ignored the whole business.

  As it was he couldn’t do any of these, not even the cigar, for the packet was in his overcoat and that was on the back seat with all the other bits and pieces — old newspapers, old cardigans, old this and that — which had been flung on to the back seat over the years and forgotten.

  The traffic moved and Macrae moved with it. His thoughts remained on Eddie and Gladys. He was sorry for her, but, as he had told Silver, what the hell was he supposed to do about it? You made your decisions in life and you had to accept them.

  He remembered how happy Eddie had been to get one of the low-rental flats on the Green Leas Estate. At that time Macrae’s second wife Mandy had recently left him and had been granted maintenance for herself and the two kids and he had been envious of Eddie and his cheap accommodation, his one and only wife, his childless life. It had been in such contrast to his own existence.

  And now look what had happened.

  You could never tell who was going to be the lucky punter. Not that Macrae considered himself lucky; not with his financial problems.

  What the bloody hell did Stoker want?

  The last time he had gone to Artie Gorman’s house, the little bookie had been dying. Well, now he was dead. So why was Stoker still there? That’s if he was still there. And why had he become Molly’s mouthpiece?

  The house was in Gospel Oak. It was double fronted and stood in its own garden. Had to be worth a fortune, Macrae thought, even in a recession.

  Molly came to the door. “Hello, George. Come in.”

  He had always fancied Molly. She was in her forties. Blonde, brassy, but genuine. Now he hardly recognized her. She was dressed in a miniskirt and long boots, her hair was dark, had a henna sheen and was done in a mass of crimped curls. Her skin, with the unmistakable bloom of a sunlamp on it, looked leathery in the hard winter light.

  She put up her cheek to be kissed and he saw the expression in her eyes. She knew what he must be thinking: mutton dressed as lamb.

  “What’s it all about, Molly?”

  “Gary wants to see you.”

  “Gary? Oh, Stoker. He said you wanted to see me.”

  “Well…he’s the one, really. He’s looking after my…our business interests.” She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “He’s out in Artie’s old office in the garden.”

  “Hang on a sec. Let me get something straight. Is Stoker handling your business affairs?”

  “Yes, George.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to have a word.”

  “In here then.”

  She took him into her drawing-room. It was all flock wallpaper and original Tretchikoffs and shrieked of money badly spent. She indicated a sofa covered in grass-green velvet, but he shook his head.

  “How long have we known each other, Molly?”

  “What’s this, all our yesterdays?”

  “It’s got to be fifteen years. I mean you married Artie — ”

  “Nearly twenty years ago and he was twenty years older than me. What’s it all in aid of?”

  “I’m bothered about you. I’m seeing something I don’t like.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, George.”

  "Pm a policeman. I think like a policeman. Lads like Stoker are my meat and drink.”

  “Only when they’ve done something.”

  “Oh, he’s done lots, Molly. Let me tell you — ”

  She put her hands to her ears. “Stop it!”

  “Molly!”

  “Stop it! Stop it! I don’t want to hear.”

  He pulled her hands away and held them for a moment in one of his. “You’re going to listen. At least I owe Artie that. I suppose you’re living with Stoker.”

  When she didn’t reply, he said, “That’s your business, but I think you should know the sort of man he is. A few years ago he broke the arm of one of our lads. Uniformed PC in Hackney. This young laddie had only been on the force a short while and he comes across Stoker loading stuff into a car about three o’clock in the morning. So he asks him what it’s all about and Stoker takes a tyre lever to him. Then bends his arm back so it breaks at the — ”

  “I don’t want to hear! An
yway I don’t believe it.”

  She sat down suddenly.

  “You don’t believe it because you don’t want to believe it. But it’s true.”

  He paused, then said, “Listen, Molly, you don’t need people like Stoker around.”

  “What do you know about my needs? Nothing! Not a bloody thing!”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But I always thought how lucky you and Artie…”

  “Don’t go on about it.”

  “But it’s true. You were lucky. I envied you your marriage.” She smiled bitterly. “Did you?”

  “I know Artie was a wee bit bent. But not like Stoker.”

  “Gary’s made me happy, George.”

  “Happy? How?”

  “Artie was impotent.”

  “Oh.”

  “You asked. I told you.”

  “And that’s all it is? Sex?”

  “All? You must be getting old, George.”

  “Listen, Artie brought Stoker in as a minder. To mind you while he went about the business of dying. He told me” so himself. Told me he didn’t want you vulnerable to any bloody cowboy who might grab you and hold you to ransom. Stoker’s as thick as two planks.”

  “You can stop it now, George.”

  “Looking after your business affairs! Christ!” He paused, shaking his head in disbelief, then said, “Artie must have left you well provided for. Stoker will have the lot. You think he’s living with you because he loves you? Forget it. People like Stoker don’t — ”

  She rose suddenly. “That’s enough!” Her face was stiff with anger. “Gary’s waiting for you.”

  Artie’s office was at the end of the back garden. It was more a Tyrolean chalet than a garden hut and all it lacked was a pair of chamois horns above the door. Stoker was sitting in Artie’s chair behind Artie’s desk. His feet were stretched out so he could show off his cowboy boots. The rest of him was denim and gold chains.

  “Molly tells me it’s you who wants a chat,” Macrae said. “If I’d known that I wouldn’t have bothered to come.”

  Stoker looked younger than Macrae had remembered. There were several scars on his face and hands, not big ones, but enough to give a hint of violence.