Just the Job, Lad Read online

  ‘It all points to him being into something pretty bloody lucrative,’ I said. ‘I mean, to be walking around with that much cash. Strewth.’

  ‘Question is,’ Fordy said, ‘what do we do now? Could we mount a surveillance operation?’

  ‘Well, Fordy lad.’ Des stretched his arms out and rested his hands on the back of his head. ‘At this moment in time, we don’t have enough intelligence to even consider involving the surveillance team.’

  Fordy cleared his throat. ‘What about applying for a warrant to search his house?’ he said.

  Amanda shook her head. ‘The first question we’ll be asked is, is there enough to go on? I mean, evidence? It’s all speculation so far. The man has a lot of cash. It’s not against the law. Given what we’ve got at the moment Inspector Finch, as keen as he is, wouldn’t grant you permission to apply for one.’

  ‘What about going to that financial investigation team at the tax office?’

  ‘Possibly, Fordy, but that’s a last resort. We want to see what he’s up to first.’ Des turned to me. ‘You know how it is Mike. We need to build a clearer picture and start gathering evidence to see what we’re on with.’

  We sat there in silence for a few moments, all four of us. Des was tapping his pen on his pad. Fordy was looking at me as if he thought I was going to come up with the answer. Amanda was leaning forward and idly scrolling through something on her computer screen. For some reason my mind wandered back to a case I’d worked on in London, quite a few years earlier.

  A fellow officer – his name was Pat Dunne – was shot dead on duty, in Clapham. It was an awful case, absolutely dreadful, and it wasn’t actually resolved until years later. When the killing took place I’d recently left Battersea, where I’d been on the robbery squad, and joined the TSG, or riot police. I still knew a lot of locals on my old South London patch and I had a lot of live contacts among the black community. The detective superintendent who was put in charge of the murder investigation had headed up Operation Trident, an attempt to take out the Yardie gangs who were infesting our part of the capital – and maybe this was what made me think about the old days, because one of the techniques he’d employed suddenly seemed relevant to what we were dealing with right now.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘there’s a system for dealing with this. I learned it back in London, on a murder investigation.’

  ‘Go on,’ Des said.

  ‘What we need is an Anacapa chart.’

  ‘Anacapa? I’ve heard of it,’ Amanda said. ‘Never used it though.’

  I grinned at her. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you see – you start mingling with humble PCs and you never know what you’re going to learn.’

  The Anacapa chart is simply a diagrammatic representation of all the lines that connect a central figure – in this case our friend Mr Baker – with his associates. You take a sheet of paper, or a whiteboard, or an entire wall if you have one to spare, and you stick your main suspect at the centre – that is, put his name in a bubble. Then you draw lines outward, like a spider’s web, connecting him to all the people he deals with. Then, as more intelligence comes in, you are able to plot connections between people within that network. And slowly, it starts to make sense: where the main activity is, who the main players are, what are the most regular lines of communication, and so on. The pattern of communication. That’s the theory of it, at any rate.

  ‘We could start with Baker’s telephone bills,’ I said.

  ‘Right, research who his contacts are and who they’re calling. I get it.’ Des was into this straight away, and so was Amanda. She was already on her feet, pulling posters off the wall in front of her. ‘I’ll stick a chart up here,’ she said. ‘Yep, leave it with me. The good thing is, Inspector Finch has agreed that Des and I should spend some time on this. We’ll get together towards the end of the week, shall we?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like a plan. Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘While you two are on with that, shall I get him flagged?’

  ‘If you could, it’d save me a job.’

  ‘Right then, me and Fordy will get on with it. I’ll make sure none of the regional teams are already looking at him. I’ll also get a marker on him at all ports. Might as well get Customs involved, what with his meeting with the Dutch lorry-driver. By the way, did we get anything back on that lorry?’

  ‘Nothing untoward,’ Des said.

  The meeting broke up with us all feeling a little spark of optimism – at least, that’s how Fordy and I felt. And all the way home I was thinking about the case. What if this guy Baker was the dealer we were seeking? As I drove up the lane I had a feeling that maybe, just maybe, we were starting to get somewhere. So arriving at Keeper’s Cottage was a little like being put under a cold shower. Soapy and his mate had made quite an impression on the house, but as far as I could see they were going backwards rather than forwards.

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’ I shouted as I got out of the car. Soapy was on the roof, sitting astride the topmost timber, stacking up ridge tiles. There was a scaffold tower against the side of the house, the lawn was littered with bits of old laths and broken tiles, and there, on my log, the one that Nick and I had hauled out of the wood, the one that Ann and I liked to sit on at the end of a long day to hold hands and wind down, sat a skinny youth with a tea-cosy hat on his head and an iPod in his hands, his head bobbing to the beat of his music. ‘Oi!’ I said, marching towards him, ‘how about letting a man have a sitdown when he comes home from a hard day’s work?’

  No answer. He was completely oblivious to my presence.

  ‘Give ’im a little tap with one of them laths, cock-bod!’ Soapy was grinning at me from his rooftop perch.

  I was about to take him at his word when the youth spotted me, stood up and started rearranging the mess on the lawn.

  ‘All right?’ I asked.

  He grunted something and carried on trying to look busy.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Soapy shouted.

  ‘Where?’ I answered. ‘Nearly where?’

  ‘Stripping t’old roof, cock-bod. Next up we’ll attack your chimney. Gotta take her down brick by brick and put her back together again. It’s that bloody great crack we found.’ He paused to light a cigarette, then slapped a hand against the pale brickwork. ‘Time I’ve finished, you won’t recognise her.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I said. ‘Just you make sure it ends up the same shape as it started out, that’s all.’ I approached the back door, then called up to him, ‘I’ll be inside. Studying.’

  ‘You go and enjoy yourself, Mike. I’m telling you, this job couldn’t be in better hands.’

  I sat in the reclining chair and opened the first of my revision books. Before I started I checked the time. Half-past two. Right, I’d give it an hour, take Henry for a walk, then give it another half-hour. Then I’d see about getting some tea ready for when Ann came home. No point overdoing it. You can only take in so much.

  As I’ve said before, I’ve never been much of a student. Spent most of my schooldays larking about. Bikes and girls, that was me. I excelled at both, and, as the teachers liked to tell my parents, I had the potential to go on to A-levels. They just wished I’d apply myself to maths and English with as much enthusiasm as I did the other stuff. My problem was that I just couldn’t concentrate for any length of time. It was the sitting still that did for me. I’m talking about academic subjects now, not girls and bikes. I always have to be up and doing something, or I get distracted by what’s going on outside – in this case the rhythmic tapping of Soapy’s footsteps as he hopped up and down the roof with the ridge tiles.

  I yawned, looked at my watch and saw that the second hand had completed one full revolution. Only fifty-nine minutes and I could get out with Henry. And suddenly I was aware of him whining from his kennel. That’s another problem I have: I’m always aware of what’s going on around me rather than what I’m reading. Where the hell is a decent pair of earplugs when you need them, I was thinking.
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  I was just, finally, getting my teeth into a section entitled ‘The Duties of a Sergeant’ when the peace was shattered by the sound of music. If you’d call it that. Whoever was singing was seriously ticked off about something, and wanted the world to know about it. I slung my book on the floor, got out of my chair and headed for the door. That lad was about to discover what anger really sounded like.

  But the lad was nowhere to be seen. Instead I found Soapy, leaning against the chimney, eyes closed, neckerchief over his head, with a great chunky CD player blasting out some sort of gangsta rap.

  I picked up a small lump of lime mortar and lobbed it up at him. As it hit the chimney and broke into fragments, he opened his eyes and reached out a hand to stop himself sliding down the roof. ‘Soapy!’ I shouted. ‘Gimme a flaming break, will you? I’m trying to read in there.’

  ‘Sorry, cock-bod.’ He turned it down. ‘That better?’

  ‘Marginally,’ I said. ‘Where’s your lad?’

  ‘Santa’s little helper?’ he said. ‘I’ve sent ’im home, mate. Shan’t need ’im while we start mixing cement.’

  Back in the house I sat down and re-opened the book. ‘The Duties of a Sergeant’, I read again. Then I put it back down. I was thirsty. Maybe if I had a cup of tea . . . But that would mean whistling Soapy up. You can’t go mashing tea and leaving out the workers, and the last thing I wanted was a half-hour break. So I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water and started all over again. When I got to the end of the first section I checked the time. Only forty-five minutes to go. I was dimly aware of a chip-chipping noise out there, a noise with a bit of a ringing to it, like someone hitting a cold chisel with a lump hammer. Every so often I’d hear a bit of mortar bounce down the roof, then a pause before it pinged off the scaffolding. Now and then a few grains of sand or lime sifted their way down the chimney. I was just starting to wonder whether Soapy ought to have sealed off the fireplace when there was a dull rumble from up on the roof, and a hideous grating sound that gathered momentum until a shower of soot, mortar, and broken bits of fire cement burst into the hearth and spilled out over the floor. There followed a cloud of dust, then a solitary brick. Finally, a cold chisel clanged off the fender and landed at my feet.

  ‘For God’s sake, Soapy! What next?’ I was up from my chair and outside, snarling, ready to do him some serious damage.

  The trouble with people like Soapy is that they always, somehow, disarm you. Sometimes they appeal to your better instincts. Sometimes they do it by being so completely hapless that you take pity on them. Sometimes they make you laugh. Looking up I could see that Soapy had had a narrow escape. He’d got his upper half wedged down the chimney and could easily have followed all that dust and rubble down the flue and into the sitting room. Only his legs were visible, and his rear end, complete with traditional builder’s cleavage. His feet were flailing helplessly at the air, and as I stood there, not quite believing what I was seeing, I heard a muffled, plaintive voice.

  ‘Mike, where are you mate?’

  ‘Hold steady!’ I shouted. I climbed up the scaffolding, onto the roof, and worked my way uncertainly up the roof-ladder to where he’d built a wooden platform around the chimney.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m gonna grab your legs and pull, yeah?’

  ‘Aye, go on.’

  I wrapped my arms around his legs and heaved. It was like pulling a cork out of a bottle. Out he came, his face blackened, his knuckles bleeding, and his red bandanna up around his ears. He plonked himself down on the platform, reached in his pocket for a cigarette, and wiped a piece of grit out of his eye. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘it’s no bloody wonder old Santa Claus only comes round once a year.’

  I did manage to get some studying done that day, but only after Soapy and I had cleaned up in the front room, sealed off the fireplace, and steadied our nerves with a cup of strong tea. But it wasn’t long before Ann came home, tired and hungry and wanting an update on what was for tea – and an update on the work in progress.

  Soapy, having got the chimney dismantled and roped a polythene sheet over it, told us he was going missing for a couple of days. He had another job to see to, and would start on the rebuilding the following week. ‘That suits me fine,’ I told him. ‘I’ve three night shifts coming up. I can’t be having all this noise and banging about when I’m trying to sleep.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Gets a bit hairy at times, doesn’t it? Life in the fast lane. Rock and roll.’

  ‘Get yourself home,’ I said. Then I turned to Ann. ‘Just let me put some clean clothes on,’ I said, ‘then I’ll treat you to a meal at the Jolly Farmers.’

  The pub was quiet that evening. Maybe it was because they’d had the quiz the night before. Maybe it was the weather, which was cool and breezy. Back-endish, in fact. Either way, it suited me. I’d had enough excitement for one day.

  ‘So,’ Ann said, as we waited for our food to arrive, ‘any thoughts on what we were talking about the other day? About going back to Algy and seeing whether he’s ready to reconsider.’

  I laughed. ‘Do we really want to buy a house that’s falling to bits?’

  She shook her head, as if she despaired of me. ‘You don’t get it, do you? What better time to talk business? Keeper’s Cottage is a thorn in Algy’s flesh. Every time Soapy goes back and reports a fresh disaster it’ll be more so. I’d be willing to bet he’ll be falling over himself to get rid of it.’

  ‘I thought he was emotionally attached to it. Wasn’t it part of his inheritance? Been in the family for generations and all that?’

  ‘No. He bought it about ten years ago. Thought he was going to make a pile on it. He just timed it wrong, that’s all. Bought at the top of a boom. In his own inimitable words, it was “a frightful clanger”.’

  ‘How d’you know all this?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I was round there trying to teach him to ride that blasted horse of his.’ She took a sip from her wine glass, and smiled a very knowing smile. ‘Take a tip from me. If ever you want to loosen someone’s tongue, wait until they’re perched on top of a frisky seventeen-hand horse with their feet stuck in the stirrups. Works like a charm.’

  ‘You crafty young . . . Anyway, where does this leave us? And what would we do about the roof? I mean, that’s not going to be cheap, is it?’

  ‘Why should it cost so much? You’ve got a bungling amateur on the job, and a hapless kid to carry his tools for him part-time – and the only material costs’ll be the mortar.’

  ‘Plus a few roof timbers,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, one or two. OK, there are a few costs, but basically they’re taking it apart and putting it back together.’ She leaned back in her chair. The food was arriving. ‘How about,’ she began, ‘how about telling Algy we’ll assume the cost of the work and deduct that from the price we’re offering. We buy whatever materials Soapy needs and pay him by the hour.’

  ‘Not sure about that,’ I said. ‘I mean, he spends half his time supping tea and nattering. How will we know what he’s up to when we’re not around?’

  ‘We’ll put him on a bonus then. So much if he completes to deadline.’

  ‘Right, and supposing he dashes through it, takes the money and then we find out he’s made a pig’s ear of it?’

  ‘Hmm. You’ve got a point there.’ She turned her attention to her steak. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes.

  ‘Now then.’ I’d suddenly had an idea. ‘He’s getting married, right?’ Ann nodded. ‘And remember when I told you how he was going on to me about the costs mounting up, and the date being put back?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘So, how about we barter with him? He does the job, and we sort out – I dunno, the catering, or the photographer? Payment in kind.’

  ‘I like it, my dear. But he’s not getting married for months.’

  ‘It’s next spring. By which time we’ll have had a full winter to t
est out the roof.’

  ‘Genius!’ Ann said.

  We clinked glasses. ‘I’ll put it to him,’ I said. ‘Then you can get Algy back up on Lord Nelson and explain why he has no choice but to accept our generous offer.’

  As we walked back home that night I was already looking forward to a nice quiet day to follow. No rubble coming down the chimney, and no rescuing hapless builders off the roof. A nice mid-afternoon nap, and off to work at half nine.

  Chapter 6

  Night Rider

  I’ve probably said it before, but it’s worth saying it again. I do not like bullies. Never have, and never will. Even when I was a child, I wouldn’t let anyone try it on with me. I’d always stand up for anyone who was having a hard time at the hands of someone bigger and older. My mother loves to remind me of an incident that took place when I was a little lad – very little; before I’d even started school. I can’t say I really remember it, although I’ve heard the story so many times that it feels as if I do, if that makes sense.

  I had a little tricycle, and I was pedalling it up and down the lane outside our house when a big boy came along and demanded a ride. I refused, and even when he punched me I stood my ground. So he punched me again, but I still wouldn’t give in, and in the end he went away. As my mum loves to recall, ‘You just wouldn’t give that trike up, Michael.’ Well, as I say, the memory is indistinct, but it rings true. I had a lot of my mother in me, and she’s always been a tough one herself. As was my dad, in his own way. He couldn’t stand bullies either. He always said, ‘The bigger they are the harder they fall. But remember, Michael, you have to get them to fall in the first place.’

  As well as having a stubborn streak I also had a sense of what was right and what was wrong. I hated injustice. I still do. So it wasn’t long before I was taking on the bigger kids, not so much to defend myself as to protect whichever little kid was in trouble. Later on, when I went to what was quite a tough secondary school – Joseph Rowntree, in York – I found that the city boys all wanted to pick on us country lads. They thought they were hard, and were going to prove it to us – and, I suppose, show off to their mates. Once or twice I saw young lads who lived near us being chased home by these supposed tough nuts, and I stepped in. Next thing I got a bit of a reputation as being someone who could be looked to to protect youngsters who were being bullied. People started coming to me for help. I think the difference in me was, yes, I was frightened of these big lads, but that never stopped me from getting involved. And maybe too I had a tough streak, or anyway some kind of inner strength that meant I just wouldn’t back down. Either that or I was plain stubborn. I didn’t like to fight and I certainly didn’t want to get hurt; but none of that seemed to matter to me when I was dealing with bullies. I had a burning sense that it simply wasn’t right for the nasty aggressive types to get the upper hand. It’s one of the reasons I joined the police: to right wrongs, to protect the vulnerable against aggressors.