Just the Job, Lad Page 13

  ‘There’s no need for any of that, mate. Now, are you going to answer my question?’

  ‘Am I hell!’ He was off his saddle now, straddling the machine and trying to give me the hard stare. There wasn’t a lot of him. He was maybe five foot seven, and slightly built. Take away his bleached hair and there wasn’t much to make him stand out in a crowd. ‘Have you got a bloody reason for stopping me? ’Cos otherwise I’m off.’

  ‘Well, firstly you’ve got no lights on your bike, mate.’

  He puffed his chest out and started to come towards me. He reminded me of a little bantam cockerel. ‘Oh for f***’s sake. You really are a f***ing joke.’

  I took off my glasses and slowly, deliberately, put them on the bonnet of the car. Small as he was, I had a feeling that this could easily turn nasty. At the same time, I was sending him a clear signal that I wasn’t going to back down, even if he decided to get violent. Ed came and stood beside me. He was reading the situation the same way I was. This guy was showing all the signs of someone who was about to kick off. His chin was jutting forward, his fists were clenched and he’d leant the bike against the wall that separated the road from the river.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I suggest you calm down, right now, or I may have to arrest you under the Public Order Act for using foul and abusive language and threatening behaviour.’

  It had the desired effect. Blondie now came up with what he thought was a reasonable explanation as to why he was out and about at this time. ‘Look, I’ve just had a falling out with my girlfriend, right? I’m just out to cool off and get some fresh air. I don’t need this crap.’

  Nice try, I thought. ‘Right, well the quicker we get this sorted, the quicker you’ll be on your way. Now, I’m going to search you. Just stand still and show me the palms of your hands . . .’

  I had every right to search him. He might have been carrying a weapon, stolen goods, drugs, anything. But he didn’t like it. They never do. The only thing with this guy was, he was cocksure of himself. As he had every right to be, because he was clean. Clean as a bloody whistle. I managed to hide my disappointment. He made no attempt to disguise his anger.

  ‘What did you think you’d find, you bloody Nazi? Can’t a bloke ride his bike around town these days without being harassed? Eh? Wass your frigging problem? I could sue you, y’know.’

  ‘Well, everything seems to be in order, mate.’ I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. I was a simple country copper looking for brownie points, remember? ‘If I could just make a note of your name and address,’ I said. I wondered whether seeing the traffic car turn around on the bypass had stopped him completing a deal. Was that what was needling him? Or had they completed a transaction? If so, where was the merchandise, or the money? Not only was he carrying no cash whatsoever, he didn’t even have a mobile phone with him. That struck me as very suspect. Who ever goes out at night without a phone and some cash? As I noted down his details, his manner changed.

  ‘Well,’ he sneered, ‘at least you’ve got some paperwork to show the boss, eh? Make you feel you’ve earned your corn for the night, does it? You wanna get a proper job, you do. Or aren’t you bright enough?’ He tapped his head and pulled a sort of monkey face. This was good. As far as he was concerned, he’d got one over on me. But in the broader context of our ongoing investigation, we’d learned a little bit more about him, pieced together another bit of the jigsaw – especially if the traffic officer got that car’s number and we were able to trace it. Baker, on the other hand, was still unaware of what we were doing. As far as he was concerned he’d been stopped and searched by a village plod. He’d given away nothing, and was going to be laughing all the way home.

  I have to say I was gutted when I got back to base and found that the traffic car had drawn a complete blank on the BMW. They’d never seen it again, let alone got its number. I felt as if we’d almost gone backwards, but I was reassured when we had our next meeting with Birdie. We reviewed the information we’d managed to gather. It was now quite plain that this man was a bigger operator than we’d first thought. Birdie told us he was alerting the chief superintendent to take the case to the next area meeting, where they would discuss the possibility of bringing in the Regional Crime Squad and setting up some kind of surveillance operation.

  The net wasn’t exactly closing, but it was certainly being laid out very carefully, and it was covering a wider and wider area. Sooner or later Baker would get himself caught up in it.

  Chapter 7

  Good Cop, Bad Cop

  ‘You’ve got the place as good as new,’ I said. It had been an absolute age since I was up at Baz and Jackie’s place. ‘Last time I was here there was still muck and rubbish everywhere you looked.’

  ‘Aye, there was. Thanks to them bloody fire-raisers.’

  I looked around the yard. It was more or less empty, apart from a stack of pallets piled neatly against the side of the old machinery shed where the combine-harvester stood ready. Baz had been cleaning it, and water was still dripping from its yellow bodywork. The whole place looked remarkably spick and span. The collection of used car batteries and worn tyres, which, for as long as I’d known Baz, had been hurled in an unruly heap against the side of the big barn, were all tidied away in a corner next to his vintage Land Rover. A length of plastic hose was coiled under the standpipe, and a pair of old pot sinks outside the house were overflowing with blue and red petunias.

  ‘Took us a time, but we’ve got her lookin’ sommat like.’ He nodded towards the barn. ‘The insurance company stood us a new roof on that, so I s’pose some good came out of it in the end.’

  ‘Wasn’t fun while it was happening though, was it?’

  I followed Baz back towards the house. As we kicked our boots off at the back door he shouted out, ‘You got that kettle on, lass?’ Baz knew I was after a brew as well as a bit of a catch-up.

  ‘Tell you the truth, I was surprised to find you home,’ I said. ‘I only popped by on the off-chance.’

  ‘You’re lucky to find me in, lad. I was going to go to town – market day, like. But’ – he slung his jacket on the hook behind the door – ‘things are flat just now.’

  Baz sat himself down and pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, ‘and never mind that lazy old thing. Never caught a mouse in its life.’ I tipped the cat off, pulled the chair over to the table and joined him, just as Jackie came in.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘We were starting to wonder whether we’d ever see you again.’

  ‘Been busy, Jackie. You know what it’s like in my job: you’re here there and everywhere. And we’ve had a bit of excitement ourselves.’

  ‘Who? You and Ann?’

  ‘Had a crack in the chimney. Didn’t find out till the rain came in. Brought the ceiling down and now the whole roof’s to replace.’

  ‘It’s a good job it’s not your house, eh?’

  ‘That’s another story,’ I said. ‘I tell you what, though – blooming builders, you have to watch ’em like a hawk.’

  ‘Aye.’ Baz was unfolding his Yorkshire Post and looking at me over the top of his glasses. ‘They’ll sit in your kitchen all bloody day if you let ’em. And eat you out of house and home. Nearly as bad as policemen.’

  Jackie laughed. ‘Don’t listen to him, Mike.’

  ‘I never do, miserable old . . .’ I sniffed the air and rubbed my hands together. ‘Am I imagining it, or has something just come out of the oven?’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Baz said from behind the paper.

  ‘How did you guess?’ Jackie said. ‘Redcurrant muffins. Trayloads of them. We had more currants than we knew what to do with this year.’

  ‘And guess who had to pick the buggers?’ Baz said.

  ‘Now Barry, you know how you’ve been moping about this last week or two. You needed something to keep you busy. You said so yourself.’

  ‘I thought this was your busy time,’ I said. ‘Reckoned you’d be out harvesting
by now.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? First week in August, like.’ Baz shook his head. ‘But it’s been a funny old year, you know. Cold spring, then that warm spell, and then the wet. What’s happened is, the corn came through and started ripening, then there was another growth spurt. We’ve all new shoots that’s still green in amongst them that’s ready.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Never heard of that before. So what do you do about it?’

  ‘Why, we do the best we can. Been spraying wi’ Roundup.’

  ‘Roundup? I thought that wiped out everything it touched.’

  ‘Green stuff, aye. That’s the point. You kill off the new growth and harvest what’s ripe.’

  I shook my head. ‘Tell you what, Baz, I’d rather have my job than yours.’

  ‘Course you would, lad.’ Jackie had just placed a mug of tea and a plate of warm muffins on the table, and was gesturing to me to get stuck in. ‘All you do is drive around in that vehicle of yours and sup tea all day.’

  I tapped the side of my head. ‘Hey, I might look like I’m taking it easy, but this thing, mate, it’s always ticking over. Always on the go, that’s me. People think I’m lozicking, but what I’m really doing is intelligence-gathering.’

  ‘Well, you gather your intelligence while you can, Mike’ – Baz leaned forward and helped himself from the plate – ‘’cos I reckon you’ve got some stormy weather up ahead, your lot.’

  ‘How’s that, Baz?’ I mumbled, my mouth full of muffin. ‘By heck, these are good, Jackie.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike. I’ll maybe wrap some up for you to take home.’

  ‘So you haven’t heard about the rally?’

  ‘What rally’s that, Baz? Not another vintage car job, is it?’

  ‘He means the Countryside Alliance,’ Jackie said.

  ‘Aye, they’re planning a big march down in London. I’m off, and I know one or two others that’s going. They reckon to be lobbying parliament. They’re talking about getting a coach, some of ’em.’

  ‘This is all about the hunting ban, I take it.’

  ‘Aye. Bloody politicians.’

  ‘Still, that’s in London,’ I said. ‘Won’t affect us, I shouldn’t think.’

  Baz put his paper down and finished off his tea. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mike lad. Them politicians, I’m telling you, they’ve made an error of judgement on this. A serious one. And what I reckon is, there’s going to be more protests all over t’country.’

  I was about to interrupt, but he stopped me. ‘Aye, and don’t be surprised if you see a bit of bother on your own doorstep. You ask me, I’d say some of the hunts are going to go out regardless of what t’law says.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but it isn’t the law yet. It’s still got to go through parliament.’

  ‘It’ll go through all right,’ said Baz. ‘You see if it doesn’t. Majority such as they have there’s nobody to oppose it. And once it does, and once people decide to defy it . . .’

  I groaned. ‘So we’ll be having pro-hunt, anti-hunt . . .’

  ‘Aye, and more of them sabotage merchants.’ Baz shook his head. ‘You could be in for a lively time, lad. You see if I’m not right.’

  I thought about Baz’s warning as I made my way back to town. He was probably right. The feeling I’d encountered among the people on my beat was that the government was taking on something bigger than they realised. Not everyone in the countryside was a supporter of the hunt, and only a minority were actually involved in it, but it seemed to me that there was a resentment building up that went much deeper than the single issue of hunting with dogs. People who had no particular interest in it were seeing this as an attack on a way of life – their way of life. It was a case of city people, perhaps not very well-informed of how the countryside works, trying to change a culture that had deep, deep roots going back through the centuries. It had all the makings of a classic them-against-us situation.

  I drove up onto the top of the wolds before I headed back towards town. I went by way of Wharram Percy, along the single-track, unfenced road that takes you towards the brow and gives that fantastic view across the Vale of Pickering to the moors. To one side of me they were harvesting wheat, the combine thrumming its way to and fro in a cloud of dust, with bits of chaff flying in the breeze. I pulled up and watched as the driver poured his load into a bright-red trailer, silhouetted against a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. I thought about what it must be like to be a farmer, and after all the ups and downs of the year, the good weather and the bad, to see those mounds of golden ripe corn going into the bins and to know that it had all come to fruition. Not a bad life, surely?

  The field to the other side had already been stripped clean, and the plough had just started work on the barley stubble, which glowed a warm golden yellow in the sunlight. It reminded me that the poachers would soon be out in force, making the most of the stubble-fields before they were ploughed under. Another few weeks and the next crop would be in and then everything would soon come bright green again, but for now there was just a single ribbon of dark damp earth, slicked by the ploughshare and flecked with chalk, with the usual flock of seagulls wheeling above it.

  I was in a reflective sort of mood when I drove into the yard in Old Maltongate. It was about one o’clock and I’d be going home shortly. I wasn’t downbeat or anything, just . . . thoughtful. I suppose it was seeing the harvesters at work and realising that the year was, in a sense, already starting to wind down. There are things to delight in all year round in the countryside, it’s just that they always seem to come round sooner than you expect. One minute it’s midsummer and you’re sitting out in broad daylight till half-ten and eleven o’clock, then before you know it you’re having to come inside at half-past eight and the grass is soaked in dew on a morning. My old grandad used to say the years went faster and faster as you got older, and I was starting to see what he meant.

  ‘Now then, Mike.’ I was back at the station, still meditating on the passage of time, when Chris Cocks called out to me from the desk.

  ‘What is it, Sarge?’

  He hesitated, looking a little awkward, as though he was about to say, ‘I don’t know how to put this, but . . .’

  ‘Inspector Finch wants to see you, matey; in his office, now.’

  ‘Oh. Righto then. Any idea what it’s about?’

  Chris just shook his head. He knew all right, but wasn’t going to say. I went straight to his office and tapped on the door.

  ‘Ah, Michael.’ It was never a good sign when the inspector called you by your proper name. Usually it was ‘Mike’ or, if he had something serious to say, ‘Pannett’. I stood there and waited while he fished a slim folder out from one of his document trays.

  ‘This man’ – he had the folder open and was running his finger down the top sheet of paper – ‘this man Simmonds.’

  ‘Big John,’ I said.

  ‘Ye-es, Big John Simmonds.’ Birdie looked up. ‘Er, do take a seat.’ I sat myself down. I didn’t like the look of this.

  Birdie shut the folder and looked right at me. ‘He’s lodged a formal complaint against you.’

  ‘Against me, sir? For what?’

  ‘He says you verbally abused him, that you called him, and I quote, a piece of scum. Is it true?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Heat of the moment, was it?’

  I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking back to the incident, trying to remember. Had I lost my cool? Had I said something really stupid? No, I didn’t think I had. The guy had been under arrest, in handcuffs, job done. I’d looked him up and down, thought about what he’d done to a poor lad half his weight, and told him, quite calmly, what I actually thought. Maybe it was unnecessary, but was it cause for a formal complaint?

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t a heat of the moment thing at all. I was fully aware of what I was saying. I’ve known this guy for some time. When he has a drink he can behave like – well, like I said, a piece
of scum, sir.’

  ‘Well, that might be the case, Mike, but do you not think it would have been best to keep it to yourself?’

  I paused for a moment. I was thinking back to my Met days and the old sweats who always told you to say nothing. ‘I don’t think I want to expand on the subject at this time, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Mike, you know how it is these days. I have of course had to refer it to the complaints department. I dare say you expected as much.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, sir, I didn’t.’ I was actually quite taken aback, and not at all happy about the prospect of being investigated by the complaints team. I’d had my share of dealings with them in the Met. Down in London, you expect complaints. You arrest anyone and they’re straight on to a solicitor claiming wrongful arrest. Or that you’ve abused them, either verbally or physically, or planted something on them. Anything they think they can get away with, usually just to be difficult and to try and cloud the issue when they know bloody well you’ve got ’em bang to rights. Basically they put you on the back foot, and you have to satisfy the enquiry team that you didn’t do whatever they’ve accused you of. Partly as a consequence of this culture, a lot of modern-day policing is, to put it bluntly, about ‘covering your arse’. That’s why we have custody suites wired for sound and vision, CCTV fitted to cars and vans, and have a system that ensures all telephone calls and radio communications to control rooms are taped. It’s why we have ‘black boxes’ fitted to police vehicles, procedures for not having single officers in situations such as searching where all sorts of accusations could be made. It’s all about lessening the likelihood of a complaint being made, and to strengthen our hand in terms of refuting it when one is made. It’s a tedious and expensive business, and not always simple. More often than not it still boils down to your word against theirs, and the outcome is never certain. It’s not something you like to have hanging over your head, but these days it’s an occupational hazard.

  ‘I would think the complaints department will be in touch shortly, Mike,’ the inspector said. ‘I’ll be serving the formal notice on you fairly soon.’