by Tom Graham
‘The slimy jock from the kiddies’ clink? Course I do!’
‘He’s involved in this.’
‘How?’
‘It’s … complicated.’
‘I thought it might be. Have we got grounds to nick him for something? Please say yes.’
‘He’s dead, Guv. Like Darby over there, like Walsh. Gould killed him.’
Gene frowned. ‘None of this is helping me.’
‘I was in contact with McClintock. I can’t go into the details …’
‘Too complicated?’
‘Way too complicated, Guv. But the short version of the story was that we were working together to get Gould. But Gould got him first. I think, before he died, he got a message to Annie, told her to go somewhere – God knows where – and that’s why she’s vanished.’
‘This is complicated,’ Gene mused, narrowing his eyes. He fished out a fresh cigarette, sparked it up, drew on it deeply and let the smoke drift from his nostrils.
‘Annie,’ he said at last. ‘She’s in trouble, right?’
‘Yes, Guv. Big trouble.’
‘But the bastard what did this –’ – he indicated the remains of Pat Walsh behind them – ‘– did for McClintock the same way, and now wants to do the same to her?’
‘That’s about the long and the short of it, Guv.’
‘Then help me. Help her. Tell me something. Give me something we can go on. You do know more than you’re letting on, Sam, and I don’t how complicated it is, just tell me. Tell me, Tyler!’
‘Earles …’ Sam said, looking past Gene’s shoulder.
‘Earles?’
‘Duke of Earles.’
Gene’s eyes lit up: ‘Duke of Earles! Duke of bloody Earles! That was it! I KNEW I flamin’ knew it!’
He span round, following Sam’s gaze. And there it was, emblazoned across a torn poster advertising the nearby stock car races, a poster they had seen dotted all over the city for the last few days – the 'big-name' racers were Dougie Silverfoot, Tarmac Terry, and three-time medal winner Duke of Earles.
Gene suddenly loomed over Sam, intense and focused, and growled, ‘What’s the betting on this one?’
‘It’s got to be worth a punt,’ said Sam.
‘You reckon?’
‘What else have we go to go on?’
‘Chuff all, that’s what.’
‘Then let’s go speak to him. We know he’s in town, we know where he is. Let’s do it.’
‘Aye,’ said Gene, his eyes narrowing, the fire burning anew in his blood. ‘Aye, let’s do it.’
Without another word, Gene turned and strode manfully back towards the scrum of police. Sam followed him, his mind full of thoughts of Annie, his heart aching with concern for her, but his intellect telling him to keep it together, not to let his feelings cloud his judgment, keep in on the trail of Gould and nail that bastard one way or another.
Gene rounded up Chris and Ray.
‘Listen up,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a brainwave. Earles. And Duke. The names in them diaries that Tyler reckoned weren’t worth squat. I reckon they refer to the same bloke – and that bloke’s Duke of Earles, the stock-car driver.’
‘Of course!’ Chris cried loudly, and when everybody shh’d him he dropped his voice and whispered, ‘Of course. Duke of Earles. Brilliant. Oh, Guv, you’re a genius.’
‘It don’t offend me to be reminded,’ growled Gene, shamelessly. Sam decided to let him have his moment, however undeserved. ‘Me and Tyler are going to go straight over and have words with this fella. If he’s connected to Carroll and Gould and all that mucky shite from the sixties then, rest assured ladies, we will coax the whole story out of him. Oh yes indeedy. And while we’re doing that, I want you two to get out there and track down our ex-colleague WPC Pancakes. Find out where she’s toddled off to.’
Ray’s face went hard. He stopped chewing. He did not look happy.
‘Shouldn’t we be dealing with police matters, Guv?’ he grunted.
‘This is a police matter,’ Gene growled back at him. ‘Tyler has reason to think she’s in line for the same treatment as Walsh and them others. I have no intention of letting that happen. So stick your personal grudges in your pocket, Carling. Stick ’em along with the unwashed hanky and the packet of johnnies you’ll never get the chance to use. Whether Bristols is on the team or not don’t mean squat. There’s a killer out there, a right nasty one, and if Tyler’s right then he’s got it into his loopy-loo brain to get Cartwright. Copper or civvy, she’s still a citizen of this city, and we have a duty of care to her, even if she is a hormonal, flat-bubbied shrew with a voice like a Clanger on helium.’
Ray started up: ‘Guv, I’m just saying my time’s better spent –’
‘I don’t want no more deaths!’ Gene roared at him. ‘And I don’t want no more back chat! We find Cartwright, we find our killer, you see how it works?’
Sam had an image of Annie alone and terrified somewhere, waiting in fear for the dark shadow of Clive Gould to come sweeping towards her. But if she wasn’t alone – if there was back up; if there was manpower – then surely that would count for something?
‘And see what you can find out about House Master McClintock,’ put in Sam. ‘You both remember him. He’s connected to this. And … I should perhaps have mentioned this to you before but he’s dead too.’
‘McClintock?’ frowned Ray.
‘Murdered,’ said Sam.
‘Murdered?’ gasped Chris.
‘Yes. McClintock. Murdered.’ Sam spelled it out for them.
‘It’s complicated,’ said Gene. He exchanged a glance with Sam. ‘Don’t think about it too much, your noggins’ll pop. Now stop gawping, get out there, and find ex-WPC Jugs – pronto!’
Sulkily, Ray said, ‘yes, Guv,’ and together with Chris, headed off.
Gene strode straight for the Cortina.
‘Trot along, Tyler, time is of the proverbial,’ he called over his shoulder.
Jack Sargood swayed towards them, notebook in hand, a bottle of very cheap Scotch poking out of his filthy coat pocket.
‘Ah, DCI Hunt!’ he said. ‘More dead folks turning up? Not a very good show, is it. Not losing control of the city, are you? Chief Constable might have a few things to say, mmm, don’t you think so, mmm?’
Gene caught him full in the face with a haymaker. The hat flew from his head as Sargood crashed down into the mud.
‘And you can quote me on that,’ Gene barked, flinging open the door to the Cortina.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: DUKE OF EARLES
The stock-car stadium was only a ‘stadium’ in the loosest possible sense of the word. It was a circular dirt track, lined with old tyres and overlooked on two sides by rickety bleachers that looked so wretchedly constructed and rotten that Sam wondered how they supported their own weight, let alone that of a full crowd of spectators.
Battered, filthy jalopies were careening round the track, their engines screaming and howling, great blasts of petrol fumes farting from their shuddering exhausts. Each banger was marked with a number painted inside a red circle, and most of the cars also had the driver’s racing name emblazoned on the bonnet.
‘There,’ said Gene. ‘Number ninety-two. That’s our man.’
He pointed at the lopsided wreck of car number ninety-two. It had the name Duke of Earles painted sloppily on the ruined remains of its bonnet.
‘Let’s hope we’re not on a wild goose chase,’ said Sam.
‘We’re not,’ Gene replied resolutely. ‘Trust Uncle Genie. We’re bang on target.’
The cars down on the track were merely warming up, testing their engines and chassis to see if they were up to the serious smash-and-crash to take place that evening. They started peeling off from the dirt track and pulling up, the jump-suited and crash-helmeted drivers clambering out of the car windows.
Gene and Sam headed over to Earles’ car where it now sat, parked by a teetering tower of bald tyres.
‘Duke!’ Gene calle
d, flashing his police ID. ‘The boys in blue want a ride in your motor.’
Earles climbed from his car and pulled off his crash helmet. He was a tall, narrow man, shapeless and upright like a young tree, with a shaggy beard grizzled with grey. He tucked the helmet under his arm like an astronaut and looked down at Sam and Gene.
‘CID? And what can I do for you gentlemen?’
‘You’re Duke of Earles?’ Sam asked.
‘That’s what it says on me motor,’ Earles replied. ‘Harry Earles to the tax man. Duke to everyone else.’
‘But not to us,’ Gene growled. ‘How long you called yourself Duke?’
Earles shrugged: ‘Donkey’s years.’
‘Since the mid-sixties?’
Now, Earles’s expression changed. He became guarded, wary. He said carefully: ‘Aye. Maybe. About then.’
‘Then we need to talk,’ Gene said. ‘Properly.’
‘You know I’m straight as a die these days,’ Earles said. ‘I’m a racer now. All that mucking about with the wrong ‘uns, I’ve put it all behind me.’
‘Sure you have, Harry,’ grinned Gene. ‘Now take us to your boudoir and let us have a play with your big end. Get moving.’
With a sigh, Harry loped ahead of them, striding along on his long, stick-like legs. He led them round the back of the bleachers to a row of lock-up garages, one of which was his own. Inside was a chaotic mess of engine parts and car tools.
‘Well this is charming,’ said Gene, casting his eye over the clutter and filth.
‘At least it’s legit,’ Earles said defensively. ‘It’s racing money what pays for all this. I tell you, gentlemen, I’m a good boy these days. Keep my nose very clean. So if it’s insider information you’re after, I’m going to have to disappoint you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll be disappointing anyone this afternoon,’ said Gene, picking up a heavy wrench and toying with it. ‘I think the very last thing you’re going to be is a disappointment.’
Sam found the atmosphere inside the lock-up oppressive and disturbing. The stink of petrol, the dull glitter of spilt oil on the concrete floor, the chains hanging from the ceiling – it all reminded Sam of the garage where Tony Cartwright had died, and where McClintock had been consumed in flames. It brought back all those awful memories of terror and death, of Tony Cartwright hanging upside down above a vat of sump oil, pleading for his life, begging Gould to spare him for the sake of his wife and daughter.
These terrible memories put a fire in Sam’s blood. He felt his temper rise, but he controlled it.
‘Mr Earles,’ he said, ‘we want information about a man called Clive Gould.’
Harry laughed. ‘The only information I can give you is the name of the churchyard where he’s buried. He’s been dead these five years.’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Sam.
Harry shrugged.
‘Come on, Harry, it’s all off the record,’ said Gene, sauntering towards him, still holding the wrench. ‘Nobody’ll know you spoke to us. You’ll be safe.’
‘He’s dead,’ Harry said again.
‘The name Earles crops up, every month, in the desk diaries of one DCI Carroll,’ said Sam. ‘Later on that name changes to Duke, but it’s just as regular – first week, every month.’
‘I did driving work, no secret there,’ said Harry. ‘I made deliveries to CID.’
‘What sort of deliveries?’
‘This is years ago, officers, I can’t remember.’
‘Oh come on, Harry, don’t play us daft.’
‘I’m being straight with you!’ Harry pleaded. ‘I made deliveries to DCI Carroll. Money. I think it was money.’
‘You think?’
Harry’s shoulders sagged. ‘I know it was. Money from Mr Gould. I used to work for him as a driver. He used to have this young lad did a spot of driving for him, but something happened – an accident or summat – and he got me in as a replacement.’
‘A young lad?’ Sam asked. ‘Was his name Perry?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, honestly. It was a lifetime ago.’
Perry. Sam could recall him very clearly, with his slicked-back hair, slim-jim tie and razor-sharp black suit. He had been the one who drove Tony Cartwright and McClintock to the House of Diamonds, the gambling parlour owned and run by Clive Gould. He had seen himself as having a bright future in the burgeoning Gould empire, but he had died in the same fire that had claimed Cartwright, McClintock, and two of Gould’s heavies.
‘This money you were delivering,’ said Gene. ‘Bribes, was it?’
Harry Earles looked ready to bolt. His eyes were flicking around the garage, looking for a quick exit.
‘We’re not interested in you, Mr Earles, we’re interested in Clive Gould,’ said Sam. ‘You worked for him, you delivered his payoff payments to CID, you must know something about the man. Where is he? Who’s with him?’
Harry Earles clasped both hands beseechingly over his heart. ‘I can only tell you so many times. Gould’s dead, and I don’t know nothing.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gene. ‘We’ve tried it the soft and fluffy way. Now let’s try the way of the Genie.’
But before Gene could make a lunge with the wrench, Harry Earles scrambled away, nimble as a monkey. His eyes were wide with fear.
‘You have to believe me, I’m straight these days, I don’t hear nothing, I don’t see nothing!’ He appealed to Sam. ‘Call him off, officer, please, I’m an innocent man.’
‘Nobody “calls off” Gene Hunt,’ said Sam, and Gene seemed to preen himself at the sentiment. ‘Cast your mind back, Harry. Ten years. There was a fire. A man died. A police officer called Tony Cartwright. He was murdered.’
‘Please, this is all big league stuff, I was just the driver!’ Harry pleaded. Gene went for him a second time, and again Harry skipped clear. ‘Yes, I remember the fire, but it was before I started for Gould!’
‘That fire’s still burning,’ said Sam, his temper rising again as he thought of Tony Cartwright’s agonizing death, and the pain and horror that lay in store for Annie. ‘It’s still burning, Harry, and you’re going to help put it out whether you damn well like or not!’
Furiously, Sam grabbed Earles by the collar of his filthy jump-suit and slammed him hard against a wall. Tins of Castrol GTX went clattering all over the floor.
‘Talk to me, Harry!’
‘I drive bloody stock cars! Gould’s dead! What do you want me to say?!’
Sam flung him into a heap of oily engine parts. Harry sprawled about, grimacing, trying to get back on his feet. But Sam was on him, twisting his arm sharply up his back, making him cry out. Gene stood back and appraised Sam’s technique like a judge at a wrestling match.
‘I said talk to me, Harry!’
‘Argh! You’re breaking my arm!’
‘He’s doing it deliberately,’ Gene put in helpfully.
‘Talk, Harry, talk! Where’s Gould?!’
‘Six feet under in a wooden bloody casket!’
This time, Sam sent him crashing head first into a fold-out metal box full of grimy tools. Harry lay groaning on the floor, nursing his arm, trying feebly to haul himself up to his knees.
‘I’m glad to see you’re at last embracing the precepts of progressive community policing, Tyler,’ said Gene, lounging against a wall.
‘We don’t have time to play games, Harry!’ Sam snapped, standing over Earles. ‘This is life and death. This is more than life and death! So stop screwing about and tell me where Gould is – or God help me I’ll ...’
Sam grabbed a metal rod and clashed it deafeningly against the floor, inches from Harry’s head.
‘I don’t know nothing!’ Harry howled.
‘Talk!’ ordered Sam.
‘I can’t!’
‘You don’t have a choice!’
‘He’ll kill me, officer!’
‘Not before I do! Now talk, damn you, talk!’
Sam hurled the metal rod against the wall.
Harry cringed and whined.
‘Don’t hurt me no more!’ he whimpered.
‘Don’t listen to him, Tyler!’ Gene said. ‘He’s luv-luv-luvvin’ it!’
But Sam had no stomach for beating a grovelling, unarmed man, not any more. His fear for Annie had driven him to attack Harry Earles. He was painfully aware that every minute that passed – every second – Gould would be another step closer to Annie.
Panting, Sam turned away, and looked down at his hands. They were stained with oil and traces of blood. He felt shame.
‘It was all a put-on,’ muttered Harry Earles, still hunched in the floor, braced for more blows. ‘Things were getting hot for Gould, so he arranged his own funeral. God, I even drove the hearse. But it was all for show. He moved out to Liverpool, said he was going to get involved in the music business or something like that. What did I care?’
‘But his past’s come back to haunt him, hasn’t it,’ said Sam.
‘Looks like it,’ sniffed Harry. ‘Some woman copper started asking questions. Awkward questions. Mickey Carroll came to see me. He was frightened. Him and some others, they were all up to their necks in what went on back then. He wanted to speak to Gould, thought I might still have contact with him.’
‘Why did he want to speak to Gould?’ Sam asked.
Harry Earles hesitated, then said warily, ‘You got to promise not to hit me.’
‘God, you’re pathetic,’ scoffed Gene, rolling his eyes.
‘We won’t hit you,’ Sam promised. ‘Why did Carroll want to get in touch with Gould?’
‘There could only be one reason,’ Harry said in a whisper. ‘Him and the other old coppers, they were going to frame him. They knew full well he was still alive, that he’d changed his identity and gone to ground. He was in the perfect position to sit back and let them take the rap for that constable’s death back in the sixties if it all came out in the open. Who could touch Gould for it? He was dead! He was immune.’
‘So Carroll, Walsh and Darby were planning on making sure that all the blame for PC Tony Cartwright’s murder would be squarely on Gould’s shoulders,’ said Sam. ‘What were they going to do, expose him as being alive? Then appeal to us boys in CID to close ranks, to make sure they were in the clear and that it was Gould who took the full rap?’
