The Cold Calling

I

Three years later, the autumn night he died, Bobby Maiden was drinking single malt, full of this smoky peat essence. Put you in mind of somewhere damp and lonely. Moorland meeting the sea, no visible horizon.

The whiskies were on the house, all five of them. Could be the same went for the woman. Who was starting to look more than OK, the arrangement of her too-black hair coming apart in a tumble, sexy as a bathrobe falling open. Face white, lipstick a luminous mauve, all very Gothic. When you hadn’t been in this situation for quite a while, you tended to forget what an over-scented lady in a pasted-on black frock could do when she was concentrating.

‘So, Bobby …’ Shaking out a fresh cigarette. ‘Your old man was one too, then.’

Five whiskies. About right for explaining how the old bastard shafted him.

‘A real one,’ Maiden said. ‘Not many left. As he’d keep telling you. A Plod. Village copper, deepest Cheshire. I mean, there’s nowhere very deep in Cheshire any more, but there was then. Police Sergeant Norman Maiden. Never Norman. Certainly never Norm. Not with the uniform on. Question of respect, madam.’

Well after midnight now. Just Maiden and this woman called … Susan? … in Tony Parker’s nasty new club in the grim, concrete west end of Elham. How this had happened, he’d arranged to meet Percy Gilbert, Snout of the Year, 1979. Be worth your time, Mr Maiden, no question. No-one else in Elham CID had any time, never mind money, for Percy these days. But it was Bobby Maiden’s weekend off, so nothing lost. Nothing at all. Sadly.

But the bugger hadn’t shown. Maiden had ordered a Scotch, and the barman wouldn’t take any money — special introductory offer for new members, the drink’ll be brought to your table, sir. On these soiled streets, a police warrant card bought more drinks than American Express, but he didn’t think the barman knew him. Next thing, the woman’s arriving with a tray, claiming to be Parker’s niece, from London.

By this time, the gears are whirring, cogs clicking into place. A nicely oiled mechanism starting up. The sound of Tony Parker making his move.

Mr Un-nickable. Mr Immunity.

Maiden deciding to roll with it, see where it led.

‘… course, all the kids were terrified of this flesh-eating dinosaur in the tall hat. He had the human race divided into three: the police, the evil toerags and the Public who were grateful for your protection and showed a bit of respect. So there was only one role for a real man and, particularly, for Son of Plod. Thing was, Su …’

Suzanne. That was the name. But, remembering it, he’d forgotten what he was going to say.

Suzanne put down her vodka and orange, kind of thoughtful. What had she asked him, to start him off about Norman Plod? What’s a sensitive guy like you doing in the police? Maybe. Couldn’t remember.

One thing about Suzanne: she was professionally unknown to Maiden. That is, not one of Tony Parker’s regular slags. Plus, she had a certain bizarre style.

‘There was some poet, Bobby … wrote this really deep-down truthful line. Tennyson, Keats, one of those. I don’t go much on poetry, but … “Your mum and dad, they always fuck you up …” Something like that. Wordsworth, would it be?’

Maiden ogled the ceiling. ‘That would be before or after he wrote about the fucking daffs?’

‘Nah, what I’m saying, a man like him …’ Suzanne leaned her head back, blew out smoke. ‘I can see, a man like your dad, why he wouldn’t want you to be a painter or nothing like that.’

And then you get out of your nancified art college, what happens then, eh? Norman Plod, gardening in police boots and ragged old police shirts. What you gonna do for readies then, with no government grant to prop yer up? Eh? Eh?

Maiden realized he was doing his Norman Plod out loud.

Artists? Parasites, lad. Nobody wants ‘em till they’ve snuffed it. Live off the State and sponging off their mates. Go bloody mad, cut their ears off.

‘Cut their ears off.’ Maiden shook his head. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

‘Right. Yeah.’ Suzanne’s white face bobbing like a Japanese doll’s. ‘I think I heard of a guy that happened to.’

‘Fancy.’ Was this woman real?

Look, Norman said, back from the Conservative Club, flattening a tube of flake white with his size nines. Do yourself a favour. Get rid of this nancy shit. Else they’ll think you’re a poof. Think you’re a poof, lad!

‘What a bastard. Did you?’

‘What?’

‘Get rid of it.’

‘No. Just went undercover.’

And still was. There were nights now when he was painting through till dawn: pale, minimal, imaginary landscapes, not much more than air and light. Paintings of the white noise in his head. Not, in fact, a long way from the cutting-off-the-ear stage, when you thought about it.

‘What do you paint?’

‘Places. Feelings. Usual crap. Never sold one. Never tried. Copper’s little hobby, who needs it?’ Me, I need it, he thought. There’s nothing else. Isn’t that terminally pathetic?

Suzanne smoked in silence for a few seconds, then she said, ‘So you wanted to paint and he was determined you were going to trail in his big footsteps. Where was your mother all this time?’

Bobby Maiden stared into his glass.

‘In heaven.’

You know what happens to them, coppers like Maiden, the sensitive ones … Two possible career projections. Either they go to the top faster than they deserve…

This was Martin Riggs, Divisional Super now, talking to veteran DI Barry Hutchins at the CID Christmas binge. Barry just loved to tell this story, especially loved telling Maiden, who — unforgivably — avoided the Christmas binge. Barry had taken a retirement deal, worked for Group Four Security now, so he could say what he liked.

… or else they crack up, Riggs tells Barry. Top themselves. Look at the situation. He’s thirty-five, still a DI. Goes off to the Met, can’t stand the heat, and he’s back after a year. In this job, Barry, if you want to get on, you don’t come back.

This was very true. You certainly don’t come back when the new boss is someone you happened to run into in London, in circumstances that convinced you he was bent.

‘You still got them, Bobby?’

‘Huh?’

‘Your paintings.’ Her eyes were opaque.

‘Oh.’

‘Only I wouldn’t mind seeing them,’ Suzanne said.

He choked off a laugh into the whisky.

‘Let me get this right. You’re saying you would like to come up and see my etchings?’

‘Whatever.’ Suzanne ground her cigarette into the ashtray and reached across the table for her bag.

‘You mean now?’

Got to think, got to think.

‘All right then,’ he said. ‘I’ll just pop to the bog.’

Alone in the gents’, Maiden slapped cold water on his face.

OK. Think.

Owen Anthony Parker, entrepreneur. Fairly new in town. Cheery, beaming Londoner making a fresh start in the provincial leisure industry. Looks dodgy as hell, but no record. In no time at all, Parker has two clubs, one lowlife, one upmarketish, and five pubs. Public figure, hosts charity evenings. Thanks to Mr Parker, Elham General Hospital has its long-battled-for new body-scanner.

Also, thanks indirectly to Mr Parker, the recently opened drug-dependency unit has a whole bunch of extra clients.

Tony Parker. Mr Immunity.

Why?

Well, several people have a good idea. And somebody in CID has to be fully in the picture.

Maiden dried his face on a paper towel. Too many whiskies for this, really.

Still. See what happens, then. Suzanne.

By the time the minicab dumped them outside the blackened Victorian block at the bottom of Old Church Street, where it meets the bypass, her perfume was everywhere. At first it was sexy, then it became nauseating. Maiden always got sick in the back of cars.

Thigh to thigh, they hadn’t talked much. He hadn’t made a move on her — he still had some style. Plus, there was the problem that the quiet, grizzled cabbie just might have been the father of a kid nicked for dealing crack three months back. A kid who’d sworn the bastards had planted the stuff. Clutton. Dean Clutton.

‘This is nice, Bobby.’

‘It’s just a nice front door.’ Sorting drunkenly through his keys. ‘Not nice at all inside.’

Might not have been Clutton’s dad; too dark to tell, really. He unlocked the communal door with the lacquered brass knocker and five illuminated bell pushes.

Dean Clutton had hanged himself in his cell while on remand, this was the thing. Before Maiden got a chance to talk to him.

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ Suzanne said wistfully, long fingers playing with the collar of her black silk jacket.

‘What?’

‘You start your married life all fresh and clean, get yourself a nice, tidy little home together …’

‘It was a little Georgian-style semi. In Baslow Road. Yeah, it was nice. For a while. And tidy.’

Except for the night Liz had impaled four canvases, one after the other, on the pointed newel post at the top of the stairs. One after the other, with a stiff, crackly, ripping sound. That was when he’d taken the chance of a transfer to the Met. A new start, somewhere neither of them had connections, where they’d need to rely on each other.

As it turned out, Liz had hated it. Hated her job at the huge, crazy London hospital. Liz wanted to come back. There was a vacancy for a DI in Elham Division; he’d walked into it. Back with the old crowd. Who resented him. Naturally.

‘Baslow Road,’ Suzanne mused. ‘I wouldn’t know where that is. Being a stranger.’ She followed him inside and he felt for the light switches, flipped all three, but only one greasy yellow bulb came on.

‘You’re right.’ Suzanne’s nose wrinkling as she took in the state of the hallway. ‘It is a bit of a shithole. You OK, Bobby? You’re not going to throw up, are you?’

He said, ‘You’re not serious about this, are you?’

‘Course I’m serious. Why I came,’ Suzanne said. ‘Come on, let’s see them.’

‘All right.’ Despite the half-dozen whiskies, Bobby Maiden, on the last night of his life, was feeling almost shy as he propped the biggest canvas against the TV.

This was weird. He couldn’t figure this out at all. Started out like a direct approach, now it was just very strange.

Just as coppers in the Met above a certain rank could expect an invitation to join the Masons, in Elham there’d be a friendly, innocent overture from the Tony Parker organization. It was like a recognition of status. Almost above board.

Because Maiden stayed off the police social circuit, it had been a long time coming. But now it was here, and it was strange.

‘Little haven you’ve created here.’ Suzanne ran a finger along the art books. Grinned. ‘Bobby’s burrow.’

Maiden propped the other pictures against the table legs. Acrylics. And some watercolours, because there was less mess and they were easier to conceal if anybody turned up. Nobody at the nick had ever known about it.

‘Hey,’ Suzanne said. ‘Not what I was expecting. Where is it, Bobby? Morocco?’

The big canvas had a full moon like a lamp over sand dunes.

‘Formby.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘The Liverpool Riviera. Costa del Shite.’

‘You make it look dead exotic. You’re an imaginative guy, aren’t you?’

‘What the defence lawyers say to me. Look, you don’t really want to see this crap. I thought we-’

‘I like the way you’ve done the colours of the sandhills. Like you can see colours in places the rest of us can’t.’

Her coat was off and her hair had come all the way down. It was cold, as usual, in here and she had her arms entwined around her, pushing her breasts together. He shuddered with an unsuppressible spasm of longing. All wrong, of course. The very last thing you did was let them into your private life. If you could call this dump private, or what he had here a life.

‘… or is it Wainwright?’

‘What?’

‘Guy who painted those night pictures,’ Suzanne said. ‘Greenish. With, like, full moons. They were Liverpool and industrial kind of places too, only he made them look dead romantic. Atkinson Wainwright? Tony’s really into him. He’s got three or four now. A couple, anyway.’

‘Grimshaw,’ Maiden said knowledgeably. Tony Parker was into Atkinson Grimshaw? As well as prostitution, gambling and drugs?

Suzanne said, ‘Course, seeing this guy’s dead, his pictures are worth a stack, like your dad said, and a good investment. Still, Tony buys new things as well. If he likes them.’

‘And then he has the artist killed to make it worthwhile. You want some coffee? Wine?’

Suzanne smiled. ‘He might like these. Might well like them.’

He went still.

‘The moon and the sand,’ Suzanne said. ‘Tony’d go for that one, certainly.’

The moon in the painting wobbled in the deep, green sky. Maiden was gripping the edge of the table as a voice from somewhere said, Careful. Be cool. Flush her out.

‘Forget the pictures,’ he said. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ Which made no sense; it was a ground floor flat.

‘No, I reckon …’ Suzanne stood back from the moon picture, pursing her lips. ‘I reckon, a picture like that, Tony would give … what? … seven grand? It’s the moon that does it. Tony’s ever so partial to a full moon.’

He saw, for the first time, the mocking intelligence in the smoky eyes.

‘Cash, of course,’ Suzanne said coolly.

He started to laugh.

‘So Tony wants me on his wall.’

He couldn’t decide whether it was ridiculously naive or totally brilliant. Five whiskies said brilliant.

‘And what do I have to do?’

Suzanne sat down. She chose the wooden garden chair by the gas fire, maybe making a point about the unnecessary frugality of his lifestyle.

‘You really his niece, Suzanne?’

‘You really an artist? See, I’m authorized to negotiate with artists. Policemen … that might be open to misinterpretation.’

‘What’s he looking for?’ His head felt as if it was floating away from his body. ‘Bit new to this game.’

‘Game, Bobby?’

‘Blind eye? Friend at court?’

Seven grand … not a bad base. Seven grand could get you out of here. Seven grand could get you into a rented cottage somewhere damp and lonely. Seven grand could-

Christ, you can’t help thinking about it, can you? Seven grand for a painting, take the money and run, run, run…

‘And maybe in a couple of months’ time,’ Suzanne said blandly, ‘if you were to come up with something else Tony wanted …’

‘Like?’

‘You’re the artist.’

‘Why don’t you spell it out?’ Maiden said easily. ‘We’re both grown-up people. Who else has he got on the wall? Biggish wall, is it?’

‘Look.’ She stood up, smiling at him, kindly, like an auntie. ‘Been a long night, lovey. You must be completely shagged out. You have a nice think about it. You know where to find me.’

Picking up her silk jacket from the block pine coffee table, he moved towards her, knocking over the moon picture.

‘Who else besides Mr Riggs?’ he said.

Shit. Couldn’t believe he’d said that. Too much to drink. Could feel it slipping through his hands like a fish, now, swimming away into the murk.

‘I just wouldn’t like to do anything the boss would seriously disapprove of.’

Disastrous.

‘I’m not following you, Bobby.’ Slinking into the jacket, tucking her hair down the collar, shouldering her bag.

He put his hand over hers on the door catch, noticing that the last light in the communal hall had finally expired, a dead bulb with a dark halo of cobwebs on a frayed wire.

‘Night night, Bobby.’ Suzanne’s voice was lower and harder as she detached his hand from the door. ‘All right?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The night is positively embryonic. And you are-’

Aw, forget it. You blew it. Worse still, you left yourself wide open.

Members of the jury, the defendant has claimed that he took this woman back to his flat ‘to show her my paintings …’

Stupid.

The day before he retired from the Job, Barry Hutchins had said to Maiden, Some divisions, you find being a tiny bit bent is strongly advisable. Just a spot of oil on the wheels, a tweak on the steering.

Let’s face it, most coppers are introduced to it not by villains but by other coppers. Starts in a small way, like being shown which cafes on your beat will give you a free coffee, which restaurants operate a twenty per cent police discount.

Problem I found is, you never quite know whose toes you might be treading on by not accepting a bung. Know what I mean? You’re walking a tightrope in this town, now.

He stood inside the door, listening for the sound of her feet in the hall. She hadn’t gone.

‘Suzanne?’

He opened the door wide. No sound out there but his own voice dancing around the walls. But she hadn’t gone.

‘Suzanne?’ Maiden called softly into the darkness of the lobby. ‘Just confirm something for me, would you?’

No reply.

‘Tell Tony thanks very much, but why would he need me when he’s got Riggs?’

Once you’d soaked your boats in paraffin, you might as well apply the match.

Martin Riggs. Hotshot from the Met brought in to clean up seedy little Midland town. On a promise. Super’s job if he does well, when old Stan White retires. And Riggs does extremely well, hoovering up a bunch of dealers, pimps, small-time hard men in no time at all.

‘Suzanne …?’

Nothing. But he felt an odd tingle in the dark air.

Always struck him as curiously coincidental that Riggs and Parker should arrive in town around the same time.

And what an amazing clean-up rate. The Elham Messenger loved it. STREET-CRIME DOWN AGAIN. Loved him. POLICE CHIEF’S DRUG WAR PAYS OFF.

‘Everybody’s happy, Suzanne. Dealers working for one boss. Job security, long as nobody gets too greedy. And the toms … better working conditions, more respectable pimps. Much healthier all round.’

‘Not for everybody, Bobby. Not for you, the way you’re going on.’

Even though it was still September, the lobby had a late autumnal damp-plaster smell.

‘Listen, Bobby. Just listen.’ Her voice was different. ‘Do yourself a favour. Shut the fuck up and make yourself scarce. You’re playing well out of your league. Can you-’

Silence.

Like she was afraid of being overheard.

He switched off the light in the flat and slipped outside, found a patch of shadow and snuggled into it.

Click, click of heels. Suzanne making for the front door. He slid after her, back to the wall.

Think.

Riggs will have confirmation now: Maiden knows. Maiden doesn’t like it. Maiden’s not up for a buy-off in regular instalments. Maiden’s not one of the lads. Maiden is well under the feet.

‘Bobby.’ Suzanne’s voice, very low. ‘Look. Go back in your flat and lock the door. You know what I’m saying?’

He could see her shape now, in the doorway.

‘Bobby?’ From outside. ‘I’m not kidding. I like you, OK? I like you, you stupid sod. Can’t you get a transfer or something? Jesus, what a fucking mess.’

Footsteps fading.

Aye, go on, nancy, lock yourself in … go back to your painting.

Not any more, Norman.

Maiden came out quickly in a crouch. Didn’t make for the steps, edged instead around the side of the building where a short passageway ended in an iron gate. Bad move if that was where they were waiting but unless they’d checked out the building by daylight they wouldn’t be.

Nobody grabbed him. His relief came out as a rough sob. He stayed in the passage, breathing in its acrid stale-piss air, until he heard her heels moving down the steps.

At which he moved out into the overgrown, iron-railed garden.

Because, God help him, he wanted to know who was waiting for her.

He crept down the steps.

Seeing Suzanne for the last time when she passed beneath a sodium streetlamp, he felt a confusing pang. How could he possibly …?

Without the Gothic make-up? In different circumstances? Just the two of them, somewhere damp and lonely?

The street was very still. Rundown Victorian villas turned into flats or boarded up. A derelict pub. No parked cars — double-yellow zone.

Maiden came quietly down to the pavement. The streetlamps shimmered in oily puddles, the tarmac still pitted from a laying of new drains. No sign of Suzanne. He stepped off the kerb to peer further up the street.

Out here his head was clearing. Pleasanter now. He began to stroll up the road, hands in his pockets, the essence of peat coming back to him. Damp and lonely. Funny thing, now Liz was gone, now he could go where he liked, he just hadn’t. He’d stayed in Elham, sorting out burglaries and domestic murders, occasionally going out with unsuitable women, building up the Tony Parker file on his home computer.

Waiting for a break. Waiting for something to give. Wondering how it could all have gone so wrong. Thinking that if he could just nail Parker and Riggs he’d walk away from it.

After fifteen wasted years.

He stopped. There she was again. Across the street, under a dodgy streetlamp which kept flickering on and off, and even when it was on it wasn’t fully on, so you could almost see the filament in the bulb, a worm of blue-white light. She was standing under the lamp and seemed to be going on and off like the light; you saw her and then you didn’t.

There was a roar. Two flat discs of greasy yellow spinning out of Telford Avenue. Turning to blinding white when they came round the corner.

Suzanne screamed, and it was strange; her voice, in extremis, sounded bizarrely refined.

‘Oh Christ, Vic, no, for fuck’s sake …’

The voice diverted him for a moment.

The wrong moment.

In the very next moment, his last conscious moment, two tail lights like dirty red pimples wobbled and blurred before a great and welcome silence came over him like a big, soft blanket.

At 2.37 a.m., Detective Inspector Bobby Maiden died in hospital.