Just the Job, Lad Read online

  I looked around at the large sacks of feed, the shrink-wrapped stacks of dog food that lined one side of her kitchen. ‘Looks like an expensive hobby.’

  ‘It is. But . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Someone has to do it. And besides, it makes me happy.’ She stood up. ‘I should think you need to be getting along, don’t you?’

  ‘If there’s no more tea to drink I reckon I’d better,’ I said. ‘But listen, I’m very glad to have got in touch with you. I do come across injured animals from time to time – or have people calling in, reporting them – and it’s not always easy to raise someone who knows what to do for the best.’

  ‘Well, make a note of my number. I’m on call twenty-four seven whether I like it or not. If you ever need any help, you know where I am. If you call me out at three in the morning it won’t be the first time.’

  There are times, and this had been one of them, when doing my job didn’t seem like work, at all. In fact, as I drove back into town I found myself thinking how very lucky I was to have a job where no two days were the same, where you keep coming across new and interesting people – and learning things. That’s the great thing. You’re always learning. Never bored.

  There didn’t seem to be a lot happening that day, and by about lunchtime I decided I might as well go back to base and see whether Stuart the SOCO had come up with anything at the badger site.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But here’ – he showed me the photos he’d taken. ‘Might be useful to have on file.’

  ‘OK, matey. Fingers crossed, eh?’ I only had an hour left of my shift, so I decided I might as well make a start on sorting out all my incidents and crimes on the computer. I’m not a big fan of modern technology. It certainly has its benefits, but when it comes to record keeping, for some reason it always seems to take twice as long as when we did it with a pen and paper. Ah well, I thought, maybe I’ll go through my work trays instead. Looking for my notes from the wildlife course that morning had reminded me that they weren’t exactly in apple-pie order. Being a bit of a hoarder, I didn’t like throwing anything much away. Bulletins, monthly updates, magazines: you name it. It could all come in useful some time.

  I used to have a mate who worked in the civil service. He said there were two ways of going about a major sort-out such as I was planning. Plan A was to go through every piece of paper and diligently read it, then decide where to file it – and grow old and grey in the process. Plan B was to decide that life really was too short, check the date on every item and if it’s older than three months, bin it. Unfortunately, in the police Plan B is not an option. Very little can be just thrown away, and most things have to be filed on completion and kept for seven years. With my trays looking like an artist’s impression of an explosion in a paper recycling plant, option C came to mind – to pop it all back in and tackle it another day.

  Half an hour later I was back in the parade room, telling myself I really needed to set some serious time aside to sort out my paperwork once and for all. But right now I was more concerned with the handover. With a bit of luck the late-turn guys would be in shortly and we could begin. There’s a sort of unwritten rule in the police force that you always show up a bit early for work, in order to let the previous shift get off on time. It also gives you time for the odd bit of banter. Thommo was the first to show up, and I was just going to start taking the mickey out of him about his right arm, which was now out of plaster, when my mobile rang.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Ronnie, mate. Ronnie Leach.’

  ‘Now then, lad. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Er – I’ve a bit of information, like.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘It’s – well, it . . .’ He sounded muffled, and the line wasn’t the best. ‘I just thought you’d want to know, like.’

  ‘I might, Ronnie. Depends what it’s about. Are we talking racing tips, or more important matters?’

  ‘No, this is serious stuff, Mike. Can we – er, can we meet up somewhere?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘Listen, where are you? You in town?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve just been visiting me mum. I’m in Wentworth Street.’

  ‘Right. Well I’ll be away from here in a bit. How about Malton station café? You know the place? It’s right on the platform there.’

  ‘Station café? Aye, what time?’

  ‘Make it a little after two. Say a quarter past.’

  ‘See you then.’

  I was slightly taken aback when he rang off so abruptly. Normally he likes to prolong our conversations, to the point where I have to cut him off. I was starting to have hopes for Ronnie. We’d known each other way back in primary schooldays. We lived less than a mile apart, but we’d taken very different paths in life. It was only a year or two since I’d had to arrest him for theft – and then there had been the little matter of the milk disappearing off doorsteps out at Wintringham – but as far as I was aware he’d stayed out of trouble the past couple of years. Like a lot of petty criminals, he wasn’t bad – not bad at heart, as you might say. He was more what you’d call feckless, which I never really understood, because he was bright enough. Certainly did better than me at school, as a rule, without ever having to work at it. But he’d never had what you’d call a proper job. Always bits and pieces, seasonal work, driving, labouring, short-term engagements on the side for people who paid cash in hand. A few days here, a weekend there. And, not surprisingly, some of the people he’d got to know over the years, first as a stable lad and then as a jockey, later as a regular in the bookies in town, would occasionally operate on the wrong side of the law. But he was a man who, I was convinced, would never do anything with malice in his heart. And, when you think about it, that’s more than you can say for some of our so-called law-abiding citizens.

  I got to the café in plenty of time and ordered one of their excellent homemade cakes to go with my coffee. The place was almost empty, just a couple with a child sitting near the door. I took a table as far from them as I could. The guy at the counter had a radio playing, so it was ideal for a confidential chat.

  ‘Now then, Mike.’ Ronnie had slipped in without me noticing and was standing there looking hesitant, as if he was waiting for permission to take a seat.

  I motioned to the chair. ‘Sit down,’ I said. I put my hand in my pocket and took out my loose change. ‘Cup of tea? Coffee?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘No,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘I haven’t got long.’

  ‘Right then, so what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got some information that might help you. But’ – he looked around the café – ‘I don’t want to get – I mean, no involvement, right?’

  ‘Listen Ronnie, first things first. It’s not something you’re involved in is it?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that.’

  ‘Are you in any bother?’

  ‘No, Mike. I’m doing OK. The old straight and narrow, you know what I mean? In fact, I’ve even got myself a little part-time job in York.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Er – it’s in the tourist industry, you might say.’

  I could tell by his manner that he didn’t want to discuss it there and then. Besides, we had more important things to talk about. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘so why don’t you let me know what’s on your mind and then we can work out what’s best to do about it.’

  ‘OK then.’ He put his elbows on the table, cast a look at the family across the other side of the café, and leaned forward. ‘There’s a lad . . .’ he said, and paused.

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘He’s dealing in them ecstasy tablets.’

  ‘Go on mate, sounds interesting.’

  ‘Well, this lad ain’t the brightest pebble on the beach, right? I mean, he had a job selling papers on the streets of York once over, and he got the heave-ho from that. So I’m thinking there must be someone behind him. If he is dealing.’

  ‘W
hat sort of quantities is he knocking out?’

  ‘That’s the point. The word is, it’s just a few, nothing big time. But I think he’s just a frontman for somebody much bigger.’

  ‘So this lad then. What do they call him?’

  Ronnie held up his hands. ‘Mike. No names, no pack-drill, right?’

  ‘OK, fair enough. So what are you trying to tell me, Ronnie?’

  ‘Well.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘This is just me putting two and two together, like, and I could be all to cock . . . but there’s a lad in town who’s been away for a year or two. I think he was out in Spain, or maybe it was Greece. Bit of an operator. Never had a proper job. Not the type.’ Ronnie gave a nervous sort of laugh. ‘Bit like me, really. Except that he always had a few quid to spend. He’s only twenty-six, twenty-seven, and suddenly he comes back and he’s absolutely bloody loaded. I was in the Spotted Cow a few days ago and I saw him take his wallet out. Bulging, it was. Crammed with notes.’

  ‘Might’ve been payday,’ I said. ‘Or maybe he got lucky on the horses.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The car he drives. One of them VW Golfs. Not the standard model, but a VR6. Turbo-charged. Alloy wheels, customised plates. Twin chrome exhausts.’ He paused, then added, ‘Bright bloody purple. I mean . . . Isn’t that what they call making a statement?’

  I didn’t tell him that Ed and I had spotted just such a car just a couple of weeks earlier. I was too busy reminding myself not to jump to conclusions. ‘Anything to connect him with this mate of yours who’s dealing?’

  ‘He’s not a mate. He’s just someone I’ve been told about, that’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I was pretty sure Ronnie was trying to protect someone. Maybe he was trying to stop whoever it was from getting into big trouble. ‘So this guy in the purple VW,’ I said. ‘You got a name for him?’

  ‘Aye, I have. They call him Baker. Jed Baker.’

  ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘No idea. But I don’t think he’s living in Malton.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘You’d know him if you saw him. Tanned – like he’s been under a sun-lamp. And he’s dyed his hair bright blond. Sort of spiky, it is. Otherwise he’s pretty average. Medium height, medium build. Always has a nice clean shirt on. Not a cheap one either. Fancies himself with the ladies.’

  ‘Ronnie,’ I said, ‘why are you telling me this? What’s in it for you?’

  Ronnie looked at me, kind of puzzled. ‘Look, we’ve all done a bit of stuff in our time. Well, most of us anyway. But it was small-scale, people growing it on windowsills. It was what you did back then, and you moved on. But now . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody drugs everywhere, and then you see these big-time operators moving in and you know sooner or later some poor kid’s going to pay for it, maybe with his life. Besides, me-laddo’s a flash twat.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘And us country lads, we don’t like that, do we?’

  I couldn’t help grinning at that. ‘You in a hurry?’ I asked him.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Yeah. Two-forty Goodwood. I’ve got one running with most of my worldly wealth riding on him.’

  ‘Ronnie, lad, there’s only one winner in that game, and you know who it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, but remember what old Mr Bridges used to say to us back in primary school?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, Ronnie.’

  ‘Some people never learn. And when he said it, he always seemed to be looking at me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and it’d be a pity if you proved him wrong, wouldn’t it? Go on then. We’ll talk later, I dare say.’

  In modern-day policing we have a number of ways of obtaining intelligence. They range from Crimestoppers and registered police informants to members of the public and simple, old-fashioned observation by coppers themselves. The days of meeting your snout down the pub and slipping them twenty quid have long gone, along with The Sweeney and Gene Hunt. As soon as you get into police informants you’re looking at reams and reams of policy documents and procedures that have to be followed. You not only have to have completed the official handling course, but you have to meet your informants in the company of another officer and log every conversation. The safeguards involved now are never-ending. But I was on safe ground with Ronnie. He was a casual acquaintance and wasn’t seeking reward. However, I would need to keep Inspector Finch updated and make sure that Ronnie wasn’t giving me information for some ulterior motive, such as revenge – or to set somebody up. If I found out this was the case our casual meetings would have to be formalised.

  I left the café with Ronnie and watched him scuttle off towards town and the bookies. Then I drove home, watching the sky and hoping the weather would hold. I’d planned to spend the afternoon tidying up the garden, starting with the grass. Normally I leave it fairly coarse, partly because of Henry’s tendency to dig holes everywhere, partly out of pure idleness, but Ann had been getting onto me – and, looking at it as I got out of the car, I could see what she meant. The buttercups were out in force, the dock leaves were flourishing, and the whole garden was dotted with dandelion clocks. The trouble was, the skies had been darkening since before I left work, and already a few large drops of rain were splattering against the windscreen, accompanied by a rumble of thunder over towards the Vale of York. Oh well, I thought, maybe this is a clue from above: time for me to get into those books and start out on the long road towards promotion.

  I went into the house, grabbed a waterproof and took Henry for a quick stroll. It tends to calm him down. But we’d got no further than the end of the lane when the storm broke. Suddenly it was chucking it down, and Henry, who hates thunder and lightning rather more than he loves exercise, was quivering from head to tail. Back at the house he tried to slip in through the back door. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘In the kennel with you.’ Nothing I like less than the smell of wet dog around the house.

  I dried my hair, picked up the books, took a large apple out of the fruit bowl, switched on the light and sat myself down in the old recliner that Ed had palmed off on us when we moved in. Shabby it may have been, but by heck it was comfortable. And despite Ann’s threats to sneak it off to Oxfam, I’d managed to hang onto it. In fact, she’d used it as one of her bargaining points when she was trying to persuade me to take this promotion business seriously. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘if I come home and find you sitting in it with the telly off, and the books open, I’ll reprieve it. Providing you’re awake,’ she added. She drives a hard bargain, does Ann.

  I like a good book. Especially if it involves travel, fishing, warfare or football. And when Ann and I ever get a night off together, especially in the winter, we do like to sit by the fire reading for an hour or so, with a large glass of wine. Trouble is, after a long day at work I always – always – nod off after a couple of pages. Then when I wake up I have to start all over again. I picked up the books Ann had given me. Not much here in the way of escapist entertainment, I muttered to myself. Just solid, down-to-earth law and criminology. I flipped through the titles, fully aware that my pulse was not exactly racing. PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act; the Codes of Practice; the Human Rights Act and – a subject guaranteed to have me snoring like a chainsaw – traffic law.

  I’d only dozed for ten minutes or so when the sound of the rain lashing against the windows brought me back to consciousness. That and the cold water pitter-pattering onto my head and trickling down my neck.

  ‘What the bloody . . .!’

  I leapt out of the chair. The book on traffic law fell onto the floor, and as I looked up at the ceiling I saw a huge bulge that seemed to tremble under the weight of water inside it. As the lightning flashed outside I grabbed hold of my chair. I timed it to perfection, just managing to drag it out of the way before there was a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the cottage walls and trigger the inevitable bursting of the bubble. A cascade of mur
ky water dropped to the floor, followed by a several lumps of sodden plaster – and the light-shade. As the tide lapped around my slippered feet I looked up at the ceiling, or rather the hole where the ceiling used to be. Water was trickling from splintered laths. A length of grey PVC cable was dangling from a beam. On the end of it was a naked hundred-watt bulb, flickering on and off before dying with a damp ‘pop’. For a moment the room was plunged into semi-darkness, then another flash of lightning illuminated a stream of water that was running down the chimney-breast and forming a pool in the tiled hearth.

  ‘Great,’ I muttered as I sploshed my way to the windowsill, picked up the phone and dialled Algy’s number. ‘Come on,’ I said as it rang a third and a fourth time. ‘You’re surely not out in this.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Algy, it’s Mike.’

  ‘Who did you say? I can hardly hear you, I’m afraid. Blasted thunder.’

  ‘It’s Mike!’ I shouted. ‘Keeper’s Cottage. We’ve got a major, major problem here.’

  ‘Lights gone, eh? Ours have too. Surprised the jolly old phone’s working. I dare say they’ll get ’em on again before too long though. Frightfully good, these electricity board chappies.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Algy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You remember sending Soapy down to check for a leak in the roof?’

  ‘Yes, he gave it a glowing report.’

  ‘Well, he’s got some bloody explaining to do. Me front-room ceiling’s just collapsed and flooded the place. There’s fresh rainwater running down the chimney-breast as I speak, our brand-new carpet’s submerged, and I’m sodding wet through.’ As I reeled off a catalogue of disasters I suddenly stopped and shuddered. Oh hell. I hadn’t even looked upstairs yet. ‘Algy,’ I said, ‘I’ll call you back. Hang on though – why don’t you get hold of Soapy and send him down. Then I can kill him with me bare hands.’