The Cold Calling

XIII

Vic Clutton drove them back towards the town centre. It was dark. Maiden hadn’t thought about death for nearly ten minutes. It was a start.

‘Your poor eye.’ She stroked his hair back, put her fingers on his forehead. ‘State of the health service. A few years ago, they wouldn’t have discharged you like this.’

‘Where’s Mr Curtis?’ He leaned his head back on the parcel shelf, closed his eyes under her hand.

‘Everybody’s allowed one mistake.’

‘Only one?’

‘Mr Curtis was a commodities broker.’

‘And you got tired of being a commodity.’

‘He liked to handle a variety of commodities.’

‘What a loser,’ Maiden said.

‘Thank you.’

They turned into Old Church Street and then left into Telford Avenue.

‘Here?’ Vic Clutton said. It was Suz-Emma’s idea that Vic should assist Maiden to gain access to his flat to pack some clothes, spare chequebook, whatever.

‘Fine.’ Maiden didn’t want to move. Possibly ever.

‘Let’s not hang about.’ Vic slid the Sierra into the kerb. ‘Em, you keep a serious eye open. Any problems, honk twice, all right? Little short ones, bip, bip. Not just a police car, any car.’

‘Especially any car,’ Maiden said. ‘Especially if it’s a biggish Rover.’

‘Whatever he says,’ Vic said. ‘Shake yourself, Mr Maiden, let’s get this sorted.’

From the glove compartment, Vic took gloves. Soft leather motoring gloves which he put on. Plus a small tool kit in a canvas pouch. Plus a little torch.

‘When we get in we don’t put lights on, all right, Mr Maiden? And don’t take too much out. One suitcase. Otherwise it looks like a bleeding robbery.’

Maiden got out, noticed Emma doing a little smirk. ‘Nothing criminal, Bobby. It’s just like hiring a locksmith.’

Maiden still felt about five feet from his brain.

‘Bump on the head’s a funny thing,’ Vic said conversationally, not whispering, as they let themselves into the yard behind the flat. ‘You read about people, their whole personality changes, sorter thing. Previous to this, I’ve never seen it at first hand.’

‘You don’t know what I was like before.’

‘I know you were a copper. This ain’t the way a copper does it, he loses his keys.’

‘Wasn’t my idea.’

‘No. Full of ideas, little Em. Well.’ Vic lowered his voice. ‘Seems like you’re in trouble, Mr Maiden. Somebody wants your balls on a saucer. Where you gonna go? I mean after tomorrow.’

‘Somewhere at least fifty miles away. Maybe more.’

Vic shut the yard gate behind them, screwed the latch back. It was very dark in the yard. There was one light above them on the third and top floor. Curtains drawn. Vic stood with his back to the gate.

‘Look, Mr Maiden. Something I want to get out the way, sorter thing.’ Lowering his voice considerably. ‘The boy. It was me planted the stuff on the boy.’

‘Dean?’

‘He was dealing, he was using … He wouldn’t listen. I put the stuff in his motorbike. Smack. A lot. Enough to get him off the streets. I give him to Beattie. For Riggs. Only regret it wasn’t soon enough. As it turned out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Maiden said. ‘How it turned out …’

‘Yeah, well, remand centres are bad places. They can get you that way. If you’re already jittery. I just didn’t see no alternative at the time. Could’ve worked for Tony, he didn’t wanna know. Wouldn’t listen to me. Big man, you know?’

‘As I recall,’ Maiden said, ‘three other mavericks got lifted not long after Dean. Cowan … Sharpe … Tommy Singh?’

Vic looked momentarily uncomfortable.

‘All very surprised to find they had a few ounces around the house, in their cars, wherever. No surprise to Parker, though. No surprise to Riggs.’

‘If you had any proof, Mr Maiden, we wouldn’t be discussing it.’

‘And not a protest from any of them. Especially not after what happened to Dean.’

‘Now look. Don’t think I never considered it. Don’t think the issue was never raised with Tony.’

‘And Tony said?’

‘Tony said it was bollocks.’

‘Maybe Tony doesn’t know. Wouldn’t be the first time somebody on remand got an assisted passage. Screws don’t earn a fortune.’

‘You’re suggesting Riggs had him waxed?’

‘I’m suggesting nothing, Vic.’

‘All right, I don’t like Riggs. Too clever. Cut above. Important friends. One day he’ll dump Tony in the shit, walk away clean as a whistle like one of them bent Tory MPs. Yeah, like I said, I thought about it, but in the end I’m not buying.’

‘So you wouldn’t consider giving evidence.’

‘Oh, Mr Maiden, ever the humorist.’ Clutton walked up a couple of steps to the back door. ‘Right then. Good job you’re ground floor. Mortice, I take it.’

‘Three lever.’

‘Not very clever, area like this.’

‘I never cared enough.’

‘What they say about you. Wild card. Loose cannon. Not one of the lads. No-one likes a copper who’s not one of the lads. ‘Specially if he’s good at his job. Very dicey combination, that. Beats me what she sees in you.’

‘You’re fond of her, aren’t you?’

‘Like an uncle. Smart kid. University, the whole bit. Understands about her dad, what he does, don’t try to change him. But clean. Tony’s seen to it she’s clean.’

‘What a parent.’

‘She fancies you rotten, that’s the problem. In my view, a very serious problem. Comes over dead cool and street-smart, as you know, but the night we run you down, she’s all over the place. Beating her lovely breast, sorter thing. What I’m saying, Mr Maiden, I would hate any harm to come to that girl. I lost my boy. Lost him a couple of years before he did for hisself, that’s by the by. But if anything happens to that girl, you really are a dead man, you get the subtlety of what I’m saying?’

‘Victor,’ Maiden said, ‘all I want out of Emma is somewhere to sleep for one night, no complications. Then I’m gone.’

‘Make sure you are.’ Vic bent over the lock, feeling his way with his gloved hands. ‘Hello. Well, well.’

‘Problem?’

‘Saves us a job. In one respect.’

He stepped back, flicked his torch briefly at the lock and then off again. Long enough for Maiden to see splintered wood.

‘Somebody must’ve read about you being indisposed, sorter thing. I don’t know what society’s coming to.’

‘Hardly worth going in now, then.’

Surprised at himself. There was no feeling of anger or violation. The flat had belonged to someone else. Someone who was dead, so it didn’t matter. Bobby Maiden felt very strange. An image floated into his head of a streetlamp going on and off; he heard the buzzing sound it made.

He shivered.

‘You want to go in, anyway, Mr Maiden?’

He didn’t want to. ‘OK. I’ll grab a few clothes. No burglar would bother with my clothes.’

‘After you, then.’ Vic pushed back the door. Maiden went into his tiny kitchen, where the only lights were the ones you could see through the small, high window. It smelled musty. It smelled of cigarette smoke. Suzanne’s perhaps. Except she couldn’t have had more than one, and that was … how many nights ago? No, somebody had been in here for some time.

He decided he ought to make the effort.

‘I think I’ll put a light on after all, Vic.’

‘Make it quick, then. Shit! ‘

Maiden’s hand hadn’t reached the switch before all the lights came on, the room flooded with glare and movement.

He saw flat eyes in a shaven head. Denims. The guy kicking a table out of his way as he advanced on Maiden. Fat hands around a crowbar. Another one behind him.

‘That him?’

‘Yeah.’

The crowbar went back, knocking cups off the shelf over the drainer.

‘Do it.’

Maiden raised an arm, but not fast enough and the crowbar smashed into the side of his head and he fell, seeing the bar going back for another one, before a steel toecap took away his sight.