A Fistful of Knuckles

by Tom Graham

  Annie thought for a moment, then said: ‘You know what? I can see a posh lass going for him, one who’s excited by a bit of rough.’

  ‘Stella from the gym’s hardly posh.’

  ‘There’s nothing between them two. A hoity-toity type – educated … I can see a lass like that going for the guv. And him going for her.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Annie, I’d prefer to leave the curtain well and truly closed across the guv’nor’s sex life.’

  Sam straightened his back, pushed all hesitation aside, and slipped the key into the door lock. When he clambered behind the wheel, he could feel that the driving seat still bore Gene’s heavy, rounded imprint.

  He hit the ignition and the engine sprang into life.

  ‘It sounds different when Gene does it,’ he said. ‘More … aggressive.’

  ‘You’re imagining it. It really is only a car, Sam.’

  He nosed the motor out of the derelict factory, passed through a series of drab, rundown streets and began working his way through the city traffic. The Cortina had never been driven so carefully and considerately. It seemed to want to lurch forward, like a dog pulling at the lead – but Sam didn’t say anything, because he knew exactly how Annie would respond.

  ‘Are you still having bad dreams?’ he asked as he drove.

  ‘On and off. I try not to think about them. What about you?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘What’s happening do you think, Sam? Are we going slowly potty together?’

  ‘Not if I can help it, Annie.’

  Sam pictured Patsy O’Riordan, bristling with his demonic, inhuman tattoos – and then he imagined a cell door clanging incontrovertibly shut, sealing that monstrous creature off for ever.

  Nothing is going to happen to Annie. I won’t allow it. Whatever the hell it is that’s out there, I’m going to lock it away along with Patsy O’Riordan. They can rot together in a maximum security cell. Me and Annie, we’re the future.

  ‘I think we’re both going to be sleeping a lot easier in the near future,’ said Sam.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Annie.

  ‘Just a hunch – you know, the way coppers get hunches.’

  ‘Don’t be mysterious. What are you getting at?’

  Sam looked for the Test Card Girl as he drove, expecting to see the little brat popping up on a pavement or sauntering by on a pelican crossing. But there was no sign of her.

  ‘I’m not sure I can even put it into words,’ he said. ‘Just a … a good feeling.’

  Annie laughed. It wasn’t a cruel or condescending laugh, or a mocking laugh, or a laugh of exasperation. It was just a laugh. An honest laugh. An Annie laugh. Sam could not have asked to hear a more heart-warming sound.

  ‘Sam, I don’t know what you’re on about!’ she smiled at him. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand you lot.’

  ‘What do you mean ‘us lot’?’

  ‘You! Men. Fellas. The way you talk and that. The way you think … if you can call it thinking.’

  ‘We think,’ said Sam, a little defensively. ‘We think more than your lot ever give us credit for.’

  ‘And what is it you fellas think about, eh? Boobs and brmm-brmms and Brian flippin’ Clough.’

  ‘If I lumped all women together in a big cliché like that, you’d be the first to protest,’ said Sam. ‘Men talk about boobs and brmm-brmms and football, Annie, but that’s just the surface. You’ve got to look behind the words to catch the meanings. It’s like poetry.’

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything!’ Annie hooted.

  ‘Take Gene, for instance,’ Sam went on. ‘You think he’s a caveman, don’t you.’

  ‘I’m not the only one. You think he is too.’

  ‘Of course. On the surface. And, to be fair, quite a way under the surface too. But if you were to go down really deep, right to the core of the man-’

  ‘Journey to the Centre of the Guv,’ suggested Annie.

  ‘-you’d be surprised at what you’d find. And don’t look at me like that, Annie, I mean what I’m saying.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. That’s what makes men so funny. But tell me, Sam – if I dug deep and reached the secret core of Gene Hunt, which is a pretty horrible thought, what would I find there that would surprise me?’

  Sam felt the wheel tug beneath his hands. The engine gave a fit and a start and a sudden angry cough – then continued to run smoothly. It was almost as if the Cortina was aware of them, was listening in, was … No, no, he wasn’t going to start thinking like that. Such thoughts were the first steps on the pathway to madness.

  ‘If you dug deep into the guv’nor, I’ll tell you what you’d find,’ said Sam. ‘Hope.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘And fear. And compassion. And rage and forgiveness and arrogance and respect. And everything else. But above all, hope, Annie. A boundless sense of hope.’

  ‘For what? For Britt Ekland to shimmy into his bedroom and drop her nightie?’

  ‘That’s not fair, Annie, we’re all hoping for that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s not a hope for something, but a hope in something. He has hope in us, Annie – in you and me, and the team at CID, and all those millions of people out here – he has hope in human beings. Because I tell you, he’s not a DCI for the money. There’s something else drives him, like it drives all good coppers if you look hard enough. Why does he tear round these streets, risking his neck day after day? Why does he nick villains? Why does he uphold the Law? It’s because he has hope in this world, Annie. It means something to him. It means everything to him. He loves the world, Annie. He loves it.’

  ‘Well!’ said Annie, still smiling. ‘That was a speech. A typical man speech. And I’m not sure what to make of it all. Perhaps it holds true for Gene, but not for all fellas.’

  ‘It might do, more than you’d ever believe,’ said Sam. ‘Even Patsy O’Riordan.’

  ‘How can you say that, Sam? He’s a thug! You’ve seen what he does to that poor lass Tracy. There’s no love or hope inside of him!’

  ‘Precious little, I agree. But there’s holes in him, Annie. I’m not talking about the bullet-holes in his belly. I mean the holes where love and hope and decency and kindness ought to be. And those holes hurt him, Annie, far more than he would ever, ever let on. Maybe that’s why he fights other men, and batters Tracy, and covers himself in tattoos. I don’t know. But I do know he’s desperately unhappy, and desperately afraid, like all macho man who carry on like he does.’

  ‘I see,’ said Annie, looking slyly at him. ‘You’re coming on all philosophical because I said all you boys ever think about is birds and motors and winning the World Cup. Okay, you’ve put me in my place. I was wrong. You’re all highly complex and intellectually deep and emotionally complex, even knuckle-draggers like Patsy and the guv’nor. I’m impressed. I’m over-awed. I’m excited and attracted and can’t wait to drop my nightie for you all. There – happy now?’

  It was Sam’s turn to laugh.

  They reached the drab, grey block of the police HQ and tucked the Cortina safely in its accustomed parking spot to await the return of its fallen master.

  ‘Look at us,’ said Annie, smiling across at him as the engine fell silent. ‘You and me, all alone the in the guv’s favourite motor. Whatever would I do if you took advantage of me?’

  ‘You’d scream, and run a mile.’

  ‘Only if you started banging on again about the depths of the male psyche.’

  ‘Maybe I should start banging on about something else, then.’

  Annie shrugged, and waited. Sam leant across and kissed her – politely, on the cheek, as if testing the waters. It was very gentlemanly.

  But suddenly, he felt her hands on him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him roughly towards her.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘wasn’t a kiss. This, on the other hand …’

  She showed him how it was really done.

  When at las
t he was free to speak, Sam said to her: ‘You said more just then, Annie, than I could ever express in mere words.’

  ‘You fellas, you don’t half talk some cobblers,’ said Annie, and she clambered out of the Cortina.

  In the privacy of the Lost & Found Room, Sam called Chris, Ray and Annie together. To have convened this meeting in Gene’s office, with Sam installing himself behind the guv’s desk, would have sent the inflammatory rumours flying, and the incident room was too noisy and full of distraction for a meeting of this kind. Lost & Found offered the perfect neutral space.

  ‘You all know why I’ve called you here,’ said Sam. ‘We need to review our surveillance technology. I’m going to be wired for sound on Sunday night and I want absolute assurance that the equipment is reliable and discreet. We need the most up-to-date, state of the art gadgets we can lay out hands on. Ray – what can you give me?’

  ‘I’ve brought me selection of hi-tech goodies,’ Ray said, and plonked a tatty cardboard box on the table. He rummaged inside, the said proudly: ‘Cop a gander at this beauty, boss! The Grundig!’

  He produced a portable tape recorder the size of a mansize box of tissues. It had big red buttons sticking out the front of it.

  Sam stared blankly at it.

  ‘Well, don’t look at it like it’s just let off,’ said Ray, defensively.

  Sam sighed: ‘We’re conducting an undercover operation, Ray, not an interview. That thing’s the size of a bloody house brick!’

  ‘House brick?’ retorted Ray. ‘This baby’s the smallest recorder on the market. Look, even the tapes are tiny.’

  ‘Dead tiny!’ Chris agreed, impressed. ‘I never seen tapes so tiny! That is tiny!’

  ‘See? Chris understands. Don’t turn your nose up, boss, it’s dead new.’

  ‘And Grundig’s a quality brand,’ put in Chris.

  ‘And how precisely am I going to conceal it?’ Sam asked. ‘Shove it in my pocket and hope no one notices?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ray. He stuck the Grundig under his jacket and then tried to act natural.

  ‘I can see a bulge,’ said Sam. He ignored Chris’s sniggers and added: ‘The Grundig’s a real doozy, Ray, but we need undercover surveillance equipment that can’t be seen from the moon. What else have you got?’

  ‘Well, there’s always the thingy,’ said Ray, rummaging again in the box.

  ‘The whaty?’

  ‘The thingy.’

  He pulled out a metal box, the size of a box of kitchen matches, with coloured wires sticking out of it every which way.

  ‘There you go – the thingy,’ declared Ray, holding it up like it was a dead insect. ‘I thought we had a couple more of ‘em.’ He hunted about in the box, to no avail. ‘Nope. Somebody must’ve buggered ‘em and slung ‘em out. They’re a bit flimsy.’

  ‘A bit flimsy?’ said Sam. ‘Ray, I’ve seen tougher cobwebs than this.’

  ‘At least it’s small,’ volunteered Chris.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ray. ‘You can hide it under your shirt. Pin it to your tit or whatever. Walk about all day with it on, no one’ll clock it.’

  ‘But does it actually work?’

  ‘On and off,’ Ray admitted with admirable honesty. ‘Don’t play with the wires, it breaks the solder. And don’t shake it. Or get it wet.’

  Ray fished about in the cardboard box again and this time produced a random assortment of Eveready batteries. He tested a 7 volt one with his tongue, then fitted it into the body of the bug.

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘All juiced up.’

  ‘Is it in full working order?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well, can we test it? Where’s the receiver?’

  Ray hauled out a huge lump of metal and plastic strapped together with duct tape. He fiddled with the massive on-off knob, and static began to hiss from the round grill on the front.

  ‘Go on Boss, give it a blast.’

  Sam counted one, two, one, two into the thingy. His words emerged from the grill on the receiver – crackling and distorted, but just about audible.

  Chris’s eyes shone: ‘Oh, yes! It’s like James Bond, this!’ And in the voice of Q he added: ‘Pay attention, 007. There’s a poison dart concealed in this wristwatch. Mind out that you don’t shoot it up your jacksie when you’re having a wipe. It nacks like a bitch, take it from me.’

  Sam looked flatly at him: ‘Thank you, Christopher. But if we can just momentarily return to the world of the grown-ups, I need to know if this tatty bit of fourth form electrics is the best equipment we’ve got.’

  ‘We’re CID, guv, not Tomorrow’s World,’ said Ray.

  ‘Isn’t that the truth,’ Sam sighed. ‘Well – we’ll just have to work with what we’ve got.’

  ‘Like the actress said to the bishop,’ put in Chris. And grinning, he waited in vain for the laughter. The silence slowly wiped the grin from his face.

  ‘Right then,’ said Sam, ignoring him. ‘I’ll conceal this ‘thingy’ beneath my shirt. Ray – Chris – you two sit in the car nearby, recording everything on the Grundig. Make sure all the equipment works, boys. I don’t want the electrics going phooey on us.’

  ‘Yes, Guv. I mean Boss,’ Ray and Chris said in perfect unison.

  ‘And remember,’ Sam went on, ‘be on standby to either rush in and help me arrest Patsy, or else send a warning to Annie that O’Riordan’s on his way back. It’s vital, boys, it’s vital that Annie can rely on you, absolutely, one hundred and fifty percent. Her life might depend on you getting word to her in time. Is that clear?’

  ‘We should arrange for back-up,’ put in Ray. ‘Get some uniformed boys on standby in case things kick off.’

  ‘We don’t want things to kick off,’ said Sam. ‘We want to keep it as low key as possible. The more manpower we draft in, the more chance Patsy or one of his lads will get the wind up, and then this whole thing will have been for nothing. Let’s just keep this operation streamlined, yes? We’re CID, we can handle this. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Sam turned to Annie: ‘Are you happy with this arrangement?’

  Annie looked down at the array of electrical rubbish scattered about on the table in front of her. The colour drained slightly from her cheeks. She said: ‘It’s not the equipment I’m putting my trust in – it’s my colleagues.’

  ‘Quite right. I hope you two boys are listening,’ said Sam, looking across at them intently.

  ‘We’re listening, boss,’ said Ray. He nudged Chris with his elbow.

  ‘What? Oh, aye, yeah, me too,’ piped up Chris. ‘Listening like a hawk.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: WIRED

  Sunday evening. A wretched, grey evening was settling over the city, against which Terry Barnard’s Fairground hurled out its lights and noise and music as if raging against the dying of the light.

  From inside an unmarked car parked on the very edge of the open ground where the fairground was pitched, Sam peered through a rickety pair of police binoculars. Beside him, in the front passenger seat, sat Ray; squeezed together in the back were Chris, Annie, and Spider.

  ‘Business as usual at the fair,’ said Sam, surveying the scene. ‘Looks like a few bits and pieces are already being packed up – the fair moves on tomorrow morning, first thing.’ He scanned across. ‘There it is! The arena for the fight.’

  He passed the binoculars to Ray, who squinted through them, nervously chewing his gum.

  ‘Away to the left – four caravans, parked up into a square,’ said Sam.

  ‘I see ‘em, Boss.’

  Ray offered the binoculars to Spider, but Spider made no move to take them; he was as silent and withdrawn as before, focused in on himself, utterly self-contained. In contrast, Chris was bouncing in his seat excitedly, his head full of 007 and daring commando raids. He grabbed the binoculars and mucked about with the focus.

  ‘This is hopeless!’ he whined. ‘Why can I see two lots of everything?’

  ‘T
ry it with one eye closed,’ said Ray.

  ‘I don’t want to do it with one eye closed,’ Chris complained. ‘They’re binocs. You do binocs with both eyes. You don’t see James Bond doing binocs with one eye, do you? You think he’d pull all them birds doing binocs with one eye?’

  Ignoring him, Sam turned to Ray: ‘You’ve got the receiver ready to go?’

  ‘Aye, boss.’

  Ray produced the bulky receiver from beneath the passenger seat and twiddled the knobs. Feedback howled out of the loudspeaker grill, making everybody wince – even Spider – and Ray instantly switched it off.

  ‘Well, at least that shows it’s got batteries,’ said Sam. He fidgeted with the microphone taped uncomfortably to his chest. ‘Are you sure it’s not obvious I’m wired?’

  ‘Dead sure, boss,’ said Ray. ‘Honest, you can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Annie? Tell me.’

  ‘He’s right, boss,’ said Annie, leaning forward. ‘You’d never know.’

  ‘You guys had better be right,’ said Sam, arranging his shirt over the mic. ‘If Patsy spots this wire, I’m in trouble.’

  ‘We’ll be hanging on every word, boss,’ Ray assured him. ‘First hint of trouble, we’ll be right there.’

  ‘But that’s just it, Ray, I don’t want any trouble. We don’t want any trouble. Let’s get through this evening with as little violence as possible, okay? And that goes for you, Spider. This isn’t a fight. It’s a police operation. You’re not going up against Patsy, you’re there to provoke him into saying something incriminating. Right?’

  Spider stared straight ahead.

  ‘I said right, Spider?’

  After a few moments, Spider nodded, very curtly, just once.

  ‘Chris, give the binocs to Annie.’

  ‘I’m still playing with them,’ murmured Chris, holding down one eyelid with his finger.

  ‘Chris!’

  Reluctantly, Chris handed them over.

  ‘Patsy’s caravan is right over there,’ said Sam, indicating where Annie should look. ‘It’s easy to pick out because it’s spotless. Little net curtains on the windows. Flowers in the vases.’