The Best British Mysteries III

Four Calling Birds by Val McDermid

You want to know why what happened last Wednesday night at the Roxette happened at all. You have to go back twenty years. To the miners’ strike. They teach it to the bairns now as history, but I lived through it and it’s as sharp in my memory as yesterday. After she beat the Argies in the Falklands, Thatcher fell in love with the taste of victory, and the miners were her number one target. She was determined to break us, and she didn’t care what it took. Arthur Scargill, the miners’ leader, was as bloody-minded as she was, and when he called his men out on strike, my Alan walked out along with every other miner in his pit.

We all thought it would be over in a matter of weeks at the most. But no bugger would give an inch. Weeks turned into months, the seasons slipped from spring through summer and autumn into winter. We had four bairns to feed and not a penny coming in. Our savings went; then our insurance policies; and finally, my jewellery. We’d go to bed hungry and wake up the same way, our bellies rumbling like the slow grumble of the armoured police vans that regularly rolled round the streets of our town to remind us who we were fighting. Sometimes they’d taunt us by sitting in their vans flaunting their takeaways, even throwing half-eaten fish suppers out on the pavements as they drove by. Anything to rub our noses in the overtime they were coining by keeping us in our places.

We were desperate. I heard tell that some of the wives even went on the game, taking a bus down to the big cities for the day. But nobody from round our way sank that low. Or not that I know of. But lives changed forever during that long hellish year, mine among them.

It’s a measure of how low we all sank that when I heard Mattie Barnard had taken a heart attack and died, my first thought wasn’t for his widow. It was for his job. I think I got down the Roxette faster than the Co-op Funeral Service got to Mattie’s. Tyson Herbert, the manager, hadn’t even heard the news. But I didn’t let that stop me. ‘I want Mattie’s job,’ I told him straight out, while he was still reeling from the shock.

‘Now hang on a minute, Noreen,’ he said warily. He was always cautious, was Tyson Herbert. You could lose the will to live waiting for him to turn right at a junction. ‘You know as well as I do that bingo calling is a man’s job. It’s always been that way. A touch of authority. Dicky bow and dinner jacket. The BBC might have let their standards slip, but here at the Roxette, we do things the right way.’ Ponderous as a bloody elephant.

‘That’s against the law nowadays, Tyson,’ I said. ‘You cannot have rules like that any more. Only if you’re a lavatory cleaner or something. And as far as I’m aware, cleaning the Gents wasn’t part of Mattie’s job.’

Well, we did a bit of a to and fro, but in the end, Tyson Herbert gave in. He didn’t have a lot of choice. The first session of the day was due to start in half an hour, and he needed somebody up there doing two fat ladies and Maggie’s den. Even if the person in question was wearing a blue nylon overall instead of a tuxedo.

And that was the start of it all. Now, nobody’s ever accused me of being greedy, and besides, I still had a house to run as well as doing my share on the picket line with the other miners’ wives. So within a couple of weeks, I’d persuaded Tyson Herbert that he needed to move with the times and make mine a jobshare. By the end of the month, I was splitting my shifts with Kathy, Liz and Jackie. The four calling birds, my Alan christened us. Morning, afternoon and evening, one or other of us would be up on the stage, mike in one hand, plucking balls out of the air with the other and keeping the flow of patter going. More importantly, we kept our four families going. We kept our kids on the straight and narrow.

It made a bit of a splash locally. There had never been women bingo callers in the North-East before. It had been as much a man’s job as cutting coal. The local paper wrote an article abut us, then the BBC turned up and did an interview with us for Woman’s Hour. I suppose they were desperate for a story from up our way that wasn’t all doom, gloom and picket line. You should have seen Tyson Herbert preening himself, like he’d single-handedly burned every bra in the North-East.

The fuss soon died down, though the novelty value did bring in a lot of business. Women would come in minibuses from all around the area just to see the four calling birds. And we carried on with two little ducks and the key to the door like it was second nature. The years trickled past. The bairns grew up and found jobs, which was hard on Alan’s pride. He’s never worked since they closed the pit the year after the strike. There’s no words for what it does to a man when he’s dependent on his wife and bairns for the roof over his head and the food on his table.

To tell you the God’s honest truth, there were days when it was a relief to get down the Roxette and get to work. We always had a laugh, even in the hardest of times. And there were hard times. When the doctors told Kathy the lump in her breast was going to kill her, we all felt the blow. But when she got too ill to work, we offered her shifts to her Julie. Tyson Herbert made some crack about hereditary peerages, but I told him to keep his nose out and count the takings.

All in all, nobody had any reason for complaint. That is, until Tyson Herbert decided it was time to retire. The bosses at Head Office didn’t consult us about his replacement. Come to that, they didn’t consult Tyson either. If they had, we’d never have ended up with Keith Corbett. Keith Cobra, as Julie rechristened him two days into his reign at the Roxette after he tried to grope her at the end of the evening shift. The nickname suited him. He was a poisonous reptile.

He even looked like a snake, with his narrow wedge of a face and his little dark eyes glittering. When his tongue flicked out to lick his thin lips, you expected it to have a fork at the end. On the third morning, he summoned the four of us to his office like he was God and it was Judgement Day. ‘You’ve had a good run, ladies,’ he began, without so much as a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. ‘But things are going to be changing round here. The Roxette is going to be the premier bingo outlet in the area, and that will be reflected in our public image. I’m giving you formal notice of redundancy.’

We were gobsmacked. It was Liz who found her voice first. ‘You cannot do that,’ she said. ‘We’ve given no grounds for complaint.’

‘And how can we be redundant?’ I chipped in. ‘Somebody has to call the numbers.’

Cobra gave a sly little smile. ‘You’re being replaced by new technology. A fully automated system. Like on the National Lottery. The numbers will go up on a big screen and the computer will announce them.’

We couldn’t believe our ears. Replacing us with a machine? ‘The customers won’t like it,’ Julie said.

The Cobra shook his head. ‘As long as they get their prizes, they wouldn’t care if a talking monkey did the calling. Enjoy your last couple of weeks, ladies.’ He turned away from us and started fiddling with his computer.

‘You’ll regret this,’ Liz said defiantly.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, a sneer on his face. ‘Oh, and another thing. This Children in Need night you’re planning on Friday night? Forget it. The Roxette is a business, not a charity. Friday night will be just like every other night.’

Well, that did it. We were even more outraged than we were on our own behalf. We’d been doing the Children in Need benefit night for nine years. All the winners donated their prizes, and Tyson Herbert donated a third of the night’s takings. It was a big sacrifice all round, but we knew what hardship was, and we all wanted to do our bit.

‘You bastard,’ Julie said.

The Cobra swung round and glared at her. ‘Would you rather be fired for gross misconduct, Julie? Walk out the door with no money and no reference? Because that’s exactly what’ll happen if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head.’

We hustled Julie out before she could make things worse. We were all fit to be tied, but we couldn’t see any way of stopping the Cobra. I broke the news to Alan that teatime. Our Dickson had dropped in too – he’s an actor now, he’s got a part in one of the soaps, and they’d been doing some location filming locally. I don’t know who was more angry, Alan or Dickson. After their tea, the two of them went down to the club full of fighting talk. But I knew it was just talk. There was nothing we could do against the likes of the Cobra.

I was surprised as anybody when I heard about the armed robbery.

I don’t know why I took this job. Everybody knows the Roxette’s nothing but trouble. It’s never turned the profit it should. And those bloody women. They made Tyson Herbert a laughing stock. But managers’ jobs don’t come up that often. Plus Head Office said they wanted the Roxette to become one of their flagship venues. And they wanted me to turn it around. Plus Margo’s always on at me about Darren needing new this, new that, new the next thing. So how could I say no?

I knew as soon as I walked through the door it was going to be an uphill struggle. There was no sign of the new promo displays that Head Office was pushing throughout the chain. I eventually found them, still in their wrappers, in a cupboard in that pillock Herbert’s office. I ask you, how can you drag a business into the twenty-first century if you’re dealing with dinosaurs?

And the women. Everywhere, the women. Everywhere the women. You have to wonder what was going on in Herbert’s head. It can’t have been that he was dipping his wick, because they were all dogs. Apart from Julie. She was about the only one in the joint who didn’t need surgical stockings. Not to mention plastic surgery. I might have considered keeping her on for a bit of light relief between houses. But she made it clear from the off that she had no fucking idea which side her bread was buttered. So she was for the chop like the rest of them.

I didn’t hang about, I was right in there, making it clear who was in charge. Got the promo displays up on day one.

Then I organised the delivery of the new computerised calling system. And that meant I could give the four calling birds the bullet sooner rather than later. That and knock their stupid charity stunt on the head. I ask you, who throws their profits down the drain like that in this day and age?

By the end of the first week, I was confident that I was all set. I had the decorators booked to bring the Roxette in line with the rest of the chain. Margo was pleased with the extra money in my wage packet, and even Darren had stopped whingeing.

I should have known better. I should have known it was all going too sweet. But not even in my wildest fucking nightmares could I have imagined how bad it could get.

By week two, I had my routines worked out. While the last house was in full swing, I’d do a cash collection from the front of the house, the bar and the café. I’d bag it up in the office, ready for the bank in the morning, then put it in the safe overnight. And that’s what I was doing on Wednesday night when the office door slammed open.

I looked up sharpish. I admit, I admit, I thought it was one of those bloody women come to do my head in. But it wasn’t. At first all I could take in was the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun, pointing straight at me. I nearly pissed myself. Instinctively I reached for the phone but the big fucker behind the gun just growled, ‘Fucking leave it.’ Then he kicked the door shut.

I dragged my eyes away from the gun and tried to get a look at him. But there wasn’t much to see. Big black puff a jacket, jeans, black work boots. Baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, and a ski mask over the rest of his face. ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut,’ he said. He threw a black sports holdall towards me. ‘Fill it up with cash,’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It’s in the safe. It’s got a time lock.’

‘Bollocks,’ he said. He waved the gun at me, making me back up against the wall. What happened next was not what I expected. He grabbed the computer keyboard and pulled it across the desk. Then he turned the monitor round so it was facing him. With the hand that wasn’t holding the gun, he did a few mouse clicks and then a bit of typing. I tried to edge out of his line of fire, but he wasn’t having any. ‘Fucking stand still,’ he grunted.

Then he turned the screen back to face me and this time I nearly crapped myself. It was a live camera feed from my living room. Margo and Darren were huddled together on the sofa, eyes wide. Opposite them, his back to the camera, was another big fucker with a shotgun. The picture was a bit fuzzy and wobbly, but there was no mistake about it. Along the bottom of the picture, the seconds ticked away.

‘My oppo’s only a phone call away. Now are you going to fill the fucking holdall?’ he demanded.

Well, I wasn’t going to argue, was I? Not with my wife and kid facing a shooter. So I went to the safe. It hasn’t got a time lock. Head Office wouldn’t spend that kind of money. We’re just told to say that to try and put off nutters like the big fucker who was facing me down in my office. I was sweating so much my fingers were slipping off the keyboard.

But I managed it at the second go, and I shovelled the bags of cash into his bag as fast as I could.

‘Good boy,’ he said when I’d finished.

I thought it was all over then. How wrong can you get?

‘On your knees,’ he ordered me. I didn’t know what was going on. Part of me thought he was going to blow me away anyway. I was so fucking scared I could feel the tears in my eyes. I knew I was on the edge of losing it. Of begging him for my life. Only one thing stopped me. I just couldn’t believe he was going to kill me. I mean, I know it happens. I know people get topped during robberies. But surely only if they put up a fight? And surely only when the robber is out of control? But this guy was totally calm. He could afford to be – his oppo’s gun was still pointing straight at Margo and Darren.

So I fell to my knees.

Just thinking about what came next makes me retch. He dropped the gun to his side, at an angle so the barrel dug right into my gut. Then he unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock. ‘Suck my dick,’ he said.

My head jerked back and I stared at him. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. ‘You what?’

‘Suck my dick,’ he said again, thrusting his hips towards me. His half-hard cock dangled in front of my face. It was the sickest thing I’d ever heard. It wasn’t enough for this fucking pervert to terrorise my wife and kid and rob my safe. He wanted me to give him a blow job.

The gun jammed harder into me. ‘Just fucking do it,’ he said.

So I did.

He grabbed my hair and stopped me pulling back when I gagged. ‘That’s it. You know you want to.’ He said softly, like this was something normal. Which it wasn’t, not in any bloody sense.

It felt like it took a lifetime for him to come, but I supposed it was only a few minutes. When I felt his hot load hitting the back of my throat, I nearly bit his cock off in revulsion. But the gun in my chest and the thought of what might happen to Margo and Darren kept me inside the limits.

He stepped back, tucking himself away and zipping up. ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said.

I couldn’t lift my head up. I felt sick to my stomach. And not just from what I’d swallowed either.

‘Wait half an hour before you call the cops. We’ll be watching, and if there’s any funny business, your wife and kid get it. OK?’ I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

The last thing he did before he left was to help himself to the tape from the video surveillance system that is fed by the camera in my office. In a funny sort of way, I was almost relieved. I didn’t want to think about that tape being played in the police station. Or in a courtroom, if it ever came to it.

So I did what I was told. I gave it thirty-five minutes, to be on the safe side. The police arrived like greased lightning. I thought things would get more normal then. Like The Bill or something. But it was my night for being well in the wrong. Because that’s when things started to get seriously weird.

They’d sent a crew round to the house to check the robbers had kept their word and released Margo and Darren. They radioed back sounding pretty baffled. Turned out Margo was watching the telly and Darren was in his room playing computer games. According to them, that’s what they’d been doing all evening. Apart from when Margo had been on the phone to her mate Cheryl. Which had been more or less exactly when I’d supposedly been watching them being held hostage.

That’s when the cops started giving me some very fucking funny looks. The boss, a DI Golightly, definitely wasn’t living up to his name. ‘So how did chummy get in?’ he demanded. ‘There’s no sign of forced entry at the back. And even though they were all eyes down inside the hall, I doubt they would have missed a six-foot gunman walking through from the foyer.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It should all have been locked up. The last person out would have been Liz Kirby. She called the session before the last one.’

By that time, they had the CCTV tapes of the carpark. You could see the robber emerge from the shadows on the edge of the carpark and walk up to the door. You couldn’t see the gun, just the holdall. He opened the door without a moment’s hesitation. So that fucking doozy had left it unlocked.

‘Looks like he walked straight in,’ Golightly said. ‘That was lucky for him, wasn’t it?’

‘I told you. It should have been locked. Look, I’m the victim here.’

He looked me up and down. ‘So you say,’ he said, sounding like he didn’t believe a word of it. Then he wound the tape further back so we could see Liz leaving. And bugger me if she didn’t turn round and lock the door behind her.

‘How do you explain that?’ he said.

All I could do was shrug helplessly.

He kept the digs and insinuations up for a while. He obviously thought there was a chance I was in it up to my eyeballs. But there was fuck all proof so he had to let me go in the end. It was gone four in the morning by the time I got home. Margo was well pissed off. Apparently half the crescent had been glued to their windows after the flashing blue lights had alerted them that there was something more interesting than Big Brother going on outside their own front doors. ‘I was black affronted,’ Margo kept repeating. ‘My family’s never had the police at their door.’ Like mine were a bunch of hardened criminals.

I didn’t sleep much. Every time I got near to dropping off, I got flashbacks of that sick bastard’s cock. I’ve never so much as touched another man’s dick, not even when I was a kid. I almost wished I’d let the sad sack of shite shoot me.

Everything I am, I owe to my mam. She taught me that I was as good as anybody else, that there was nothing I couldn’t do if I wanted to. She also taught me the meaning of solidarity. Kick one, and we all limp. They should have that on the signs that tell drivers they’re entering our town, right below the name of that Westphalian town we’re twinned with.

So when she told me and my da what that prize prick Keith Corbett had planned for her and the other at the Roxette, I was livid. And I was determined to do whatever I could to stop it happening. My mam and da have endured too bloody much already; they deserve not to have the rug pulled out from under them one more time.

After we’d had our tea, Da and I went down the club. But I only stayed long enough to do some basic research. I had other fish to fry. I got on the mobile and arranged to meet up with Liz’s daughters, Lauren and Shayla. Like me, they found a way out of the poverty trap that has our town between its teeth. They were always into computers, even at school. They both went to college and got qualifications in IT and now they run their own computer consultancy up in Newcastle. I had the germ of an idea, and I knew they’d help me make it a reality.

We met up in a nice little country pub over by Bishop Auckland. I told them what Corbett had in mind, and they were as angry as me. And when I set out the bare bones of my plan, they were on board before I was half a dozen sentences into it. Right from the off, they were on side, coming up with their own ideas for making it even stronger and more foolproof.

It was Shayla who came up with the idea of getting Corbett to suck me off. At first, I was revolted. I thought it was grotesque. Over the top. Too cruel. I’ll be honest, I’ve swung both ways in my time. Working in theatre and telly, there’s plenty of opportunities to explore the wilder shores of experience. But having a bit of fun with somebody you fancy is a far cry from letting some sleaze like Corbett anywhere near your tackle.

‘I’d never be able to get it up,’ I protested.

They both laughed. ‘You’re a bloke,’ Lauren said dismissively. ‘And you’re an actor. Just imagine he’s Jennifer Aniston.’

‘Or Brad Pitt,’ Shayla giggled.

‘I think even Olivier might have had problems with that,’ I sighed, knowing I was outgunned and outnumbered. It was clear to me that now I’d brought them aboard, the two women were going to figure out a battle plan in which I was to be the foot soldier, the cannon fodder and the SAS, all rolled into one.

The first – and the most difficult – thing we had to do was to plant a fibre optic camera in Corbett’s lounge. We tossed around various ideas, all of which were both complicated and risky. Finally, Lauren hit on the answer. ‘His lad’s about twelve, thirteen, isn’t he?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘So I heard down the club.’

‘That’s sorted then,’ she said. ‘I can get hold of some games that are at the beta-testing stage. We can knock up a letter telling Darren he’s been chosen to test the games. Offer him a fee. Then pick my moment, roll up at the house before she gets home. She’s bound to invite me in and make me a cup of tea. I’ll find somewhere to plant the camera and we’re rolling.’

And that’s exactly how it played out. Lauren got into the house, and while Margo Corbett was off making her a brew, she stuck the camera in the middle of a dried flower arrangement. Perfect.

The next phase was the most frustrating. We had to wait till we had the right set of pictures to make the scam work. For three nights, we filmed Corbett’s living room, biting our nails, wondering how long it would take for mother and son to sit down together and watch something with enough dramatic tension. We cracked it on the Monday night, when Channel Five was showing a horror movie. Darren and Margo sat next to each other, huddling closer as the climax piled up.

Then it was Shayla’s turn. She spent the rest of Monday night and most of Tuesday putting together the short digital film that we would use to make sure Corbett did what he was told. Lauren had already filmed me against a blue background waving around the replica sawn-off shotgun we’d used as a prop last series. It hadn’t been hard to liberate it from the props store. They’re incredibly sloppy, those guys. Shayla cut the images in so it looked like I was standing in Corbett’s living room threatening his nearest and dearest. I have to say, the end result was impressive and, more importantly, convincing.

Now we were ready. We chose Wednesday night to strike. Lauren had managed to get hold of her mam’s keys and copied the one for the Roxette’s back door. While the last session of the evening was in full swing, she’d slipped out and unlocked the door so I could walk straight in.

It all went better than I feared. You’d have thought Corbett was working from the same script, the way he caved in and did what he was told. And in spite of my fears, the girls had been right. My body didn’t betray us.

I made my getaway without a problem and drove straight to Newcastle. Shayla got to work on the video, transferring it to digital, doing the edit and transferring it back to VHS tape again. I packed the money into a box and addressed it to Children in Need, ready to go in the post in the morning, then settled down to wait for Shayla.

The finished video was a masterpiece. We’d all been in Tyson Herbert’s office for a drink at one time or another, so we knew where the video camera was. I’d been careful to keep my body between the camera and the gun for as much time as possible, which meant Shayla had been able to incorporate quite a lot of the original video. We had footage of Corbett packing the money into the holdall. Even better, we had the full blow job on tape without a single frame that showed the gun.

The final challenge was to deliver the video to Corbett without either the police or his wife knowing about it. In the end, we went for something we’d done on a stupid TV spy series. I’d had a small part in a couple of years previously. We waited till he’d set off in the car, heading down the A1 towards our town. I followed him at a discreet distance then I called him on his mobile.

‘Hello, Keith. This is your friend from last night.’

‘You fucking cunt.’

‘That’s no way to speak to a man whose dick you’ve had in your mouth,’ I said, going as menacing as I could manage. ‘Listen to me. Three point four miles past the next exit, there’s a lay-by. Pull over and take a look in the rubbish bin. You’ll find something there that might interest you.’ I cut the call and dialled Lauren. ‘He’s on his way,’ I told her.

‘OK, I’ll make the drop.’

I came off the dual carriageway at the exit before the lay-by. I waited three minutes, then got back on the road. When I passed the lay-by, Corbett was standing by the bin, the padded envelope in his hand.

I sped past, then called him again a few minutes later. ‘These are the edited highlights,’ I told him. ‘I’ll call you in an hour when you’ve had a chance to check it out.’

He wasn’t any happier when I made the call. ‘You bastard,’ he exploded. ‘You total fucking bastard. You’ve made it look like we’re in it together.’

‘So we are, Keith,’ I said calmly. ‘You do something for me, and I won’t send copies of the tape to the cops and your wife.’

‘You blackmailing piece of shit,’ he shouted.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I didn’t know what to expect when I turned up that Thursday for work, but it wasn’t what happened. I knew about the robbery by then – the whole town was agog. I thought the Cobra would be pretty shaken up, but I didn’t expect a complete personality change.

Before I’d even got my coat off he was in the staffroom, all smiles and gritted teeth. ‘Noreen,’ he said, ‘a word please?’

‘How are you feeling, Mr Corbett?’ I asked. ‘That must have been a terrible experience.’

He looked away, almost as if he was ashamed. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Noreen, I might have been a bit hasty the other day. I’ve come to realise how much of the atmosphere at the Roxette depends on you and the girls.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t think of a single word to say. I just stood there with my mouth open.

‘So, if you’d be willing to stay on, I’d like to offer you your job back.’

‘What about the other girls? Liz and Jackie and Julie?’ I couldn’t have accepted if they weren’t in the deal.

He nodded, although it looked as if the movement gave him pain. ‘All four of you. Full reinstatement.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I managed to say Though what I really wanted was to ask him if he’d taken a blow to the head during the robbery.

He grimaced, his tight little face closed as the pithead. ‘And if you still want to do the Children in Need night, we could make it next Friday,’ he added, each word sounding like it was choked out of him.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I took a quick look out of the window to see if there were any pigs flying past, but no. Whatever had happened inside the Cobra’s head, the rest of the world seemed to be going on as normal.

And he was as good as his word. I don’t know what changed his mind, but the four calling birds are back behind the balls at the Roxette. I still can’t quite believe it, but as our Dickson reminded me, I’ve always said there’s good in everybody. Sometimes, you just have to dig deep to find it.