Wasted Years

Forty-Four

Millington had been so chipper that morning, the idea had flirted across his wife’s mind that he might be having an affair. It was partly the sparkle in his eye, partly the appetite with which he’d wolfed down his muesli and dried fruit without as much as a pulled face or an offhand reference to the tastelessness of skimmed milk. He had rinsed his bowl, brought her a second cup of tea without being asked, brushed her cheek with a kiss that was forceful enough to make clear he’d trimmed his moustache that morning.

When she wandered out into the hall, he was brushing the shoulders of his jacket on its hanger and whistling what sounded suspiciously like “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.”

“See that James Last’s on at Concert Hall again this summer,” Millington said. “Maybe I should get us a couple of tickets?”

“After last time, Graham, I should hardly thought you’d have wanted to go again.”

Last time, the woman behind had tapped Millington’s wife on the shoulder and asked her in quite a loud voice if there wasn’t something she could do about her husband’s snoring.

“Oh, aye, restful, though, weren’t it?” He slipped on his coat and headed for the front door. “Possible, bit on the late side tonight. Pint or three after work. Business, like.”

“Yes, Graham,” she said, “whatever you say.”

Blimey, Millington thought, getting into the car, what’s eating her? Face like one of them frozen dinners before it sees the inside of the microwave.

He was in the CID room, close to the door of Resnick’s office before his superior arrived, loitering with intent.

“All right, Kevin,” ten minutes later Resnick’s voice audible from the stairs, “first things first. Let’s take a look at last night’s files.”

“Sir.”

“Morning, Graham. Bright and early.”

Naylor had been in since before seven, the early shift, one of his tasks to organize all messages received during the night into national or local, another to ensure the log showing the movement of prisoners was up to date. He carried these files over towards Resnick’s office now and Millington held out his hand.

“I’ll take those in, lad. You could do worse than set tea to mash. Okay?”

Naylor shrugged and did as he was told.

Millington placed the files on Resnick’s desk, then closed the door by leaning his back against it.

“On to something, Graham?” Resnick asked with a grin. His sergeant could hang on to a secret about as long as a small boy could harbor a fifty-pence piece.

“This chap I’ve been meeting for the odd pint down in Sneinton. Strictly small time, like I’ve said, but knows a few of the bigger boys. Or likes to let on as he does.”

“Which is it?” Resnick asked. Up to the present he’d found it hard to take either Millington’s low-grade grass or Mark Divine’s high-flown theories about Eurovillains too seriously.

“Got a bit cheesed off last night, he were standing there scoring drinks out of me left, right, and center and what he’d offered, so much hot air. I told him, come up with something new, something we can use, or he could find someone else to do his drinking with.”

“And?” Resnick prompted. Sitting behind his desk and watching Millington’s face, he could taste the anticipation.

“Rains,” Millington said, unable to prevent himself from smiling.

“He put up his name?”

“Along of one or two others.”

“No doubt about it?”

By now Millington’s face was positively beatific. “DC Rains, late of this parish.”

“DC no longer.”

“A long way from it, so it seems.”

Initial elation over, Resnick’s mind was racing. “I thought he was abroad?”

“So he was. Still is, by all accounts. Northern Spain, well away from your hoi polloi. According to my friend, he isn’t above flying over to take care of a little business.”

“What business is he in these days, our ex-colleague?”

Millington was enjoying this enormously. “Much the same as before, apparently, only from what would you say, a different perspective.”

Resnick was on his feet. “Do we know this is anything more than malicious gossip? After all, easy to spread stories about someone a thousand or so miles away.”

“What made it gel for me,” Millington said, “remember that blagger was mixed up with Prior? More than a passing interest in armed robbery himself, though he played that down at the trial. Did his best to set it all at Prior’s doorstep, planning, shotgun, the lot.”

“Churchill?” Resnick said.

“Frank Churchill.”

“He’s in this as well?”

“According to what I was told last night, him and Rains’ve stayed in touch more or less ever since.”

Darren had wasted half the day looking for Keith. First off, he’d waited for him at the usual cafe, but Keith never showed; the best part of an hour hanging around the square, wandering in and out of various amusement arcades. When finally he’d rung his old man to find out what the hell Keith was playing at, Rylands had told him he had no idea where Keith was, he had left the house about half-nine or ten, never saying a word.

Well, okay. He’d get this done on his own.

The shop was up Carlton Hill, one of those places piled floor to ceiling with stuff people have no further use for-toasters, radios, steam irons, manual typewriters, video recorders that would neither record nor play; the pavement outside boasted refrigerators and electric fires, cookers with rust-encrusted rings, a wheelchair that was chained to the wall to prevent the local kids commandeering it for joyrides down the hill.

The owner was a sixty-eight-year-old woman called Rose, whose sister had scarcely been out of the wheelchair the last four years of her life. She viewed Darren with a proper suspicion, uncertain if he was going to try to sell her something stolen or order her to empty the till.

Darren picked up an antique Teasmade and gave it an exploratory shake. The matron at the home had boasted of owning one of those, though he’d never seen it. There’d been other lads, older and bolder, who claimed they had.

“You want to buy that?” Rose asked.

“What I want to buy,” said Darren, “is a shooter.”

“How’s that?”

“You know. A gun?”

The woman opened her arms and pointed around. “Find one among that lot, duck, sell it you with pleasure.”

Darren reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a thick pile of twenties and tens, “What I was told, anyone wanted something like that, you could arrange it. What’s it called? On commission.”

Rose pushed her hands down into her apron and sucked her top plate back against the roof of her mouth. “I’ll have to make one or two calls. You come back here in an hour or two.”

Resnick and Millington were in Skelton’s office. The elements had decided to turn the screw a little and after an oddly humid, muggy morning, rain was now rattling the window panes.

“What degree of involvement are we talking about here?” Skelton asked. He was standing with his back to the weather, the industrial landscape beyond his shoulders disappearing into mist. “How actively involved are we saying Rains might be? Is he planning these robberies? Difficult if he’s spending more time out of the country than in. Are we meant to assume he’s actually taking part? What?”

Resnick looked over at Graham Milhington.

“Er, afraid he’s not too clear as yet …”

“Your informant?”

“Yes, sir. So far he’s not gone into a lot of detail.”

“You think he might?”

Millington took his time in answering, “It’s possible, sir.”

“So, presumably, is the supposition that since you were pushing him hard for a name, he pulled one out of the hat? One he knew it would be difficult for us to check.”

Millington fidgeted on his chair. “Yes, sir. It could be, only …”

“This informant,” Skelton said, “you’ve used him before?”

“Once or twice.”

“And the quality of the information?”

Millington shrugged. “Fair to middling, I suppose you’d say.”

Skelton resumed his seat. “I’d prefer to say something a lot more positive than that, Graham, if I’m to stand behind this as a new line of inquiry.”

What had started out as a cracking day, Millington thought, was losing its sparkle by the minute.

“What happens if we haul him in, this bloke?” Resnick asked. “Lean on him?”

“Might yield something. Then again, might send him back into his shell.”

All three men fell silent and there were only the muted footfalls from other parts of the building, the hiccup of telephones, and the swirling beat of the rain.

“The original investigation, Charlie,” Skelton was moving paper clips around his desk blotter with the precision of a war room general, “when Prior and Churchill were brought to book, let me see if I’m remembering straight. A lot of the preparation of evidence for the DPP, testimony and the like, Rains was responsible for that.”

Resnick nodded. It had been Rains who had come up with the dates and places that had shaken Prior’s alibi; Rains who had dramatically produced details of planning meetings that had taken place in Prior’s house.

“And his connection with Churchill? Enough to imagine some kind of relationship might have been formed between them then?”

“Rains visited Churchill a number of times in prison, when he was on parole. That was when Churchill agreed to corroborate allegations that were still pretty much up in the air.”

“And bought himself a light sentence in return.”

Resnick nodded. Six years to Prior’s fifteen, released after less than three. Yes, Churchill had good reason to think cooperating with Rains was beneficial. Question was, how far had that benefit become mutual?

Skelton was on his feet again, pacing the room. Resnick responded to Millington’s wordless question with a light shrug of the shoulders and a quick sigh.

“You knew him, Charlie. Rains. Worked with him. You were a lot closer to him at the time than either Graham or I. Serious armed robbery-do you see him being involved in that?”

Resnick leaned forward in his chair. “The thing about Rains, one above all others, he was never afraid of pushing hard where others-myself included-would tend to hang back. No matter what else, I always had a grudging sort of respect for that.” Resnick sat back. “About the only thing I did have respect for. Find a weakness, use people, dump them-that was Rains.”

“So if he’s yet to dump Churchill?”

“He’s still using him.”

“And robbery, heavily armed,” Skelton probed, “he’d have no compunction about that?”

“If ever he reckoned the gains worth the risk, I don’t think the thing’s been invented Rains’d have one pennyworth of compunction about.”

The rain drummed and drummed and Skelton rested his head against the upturned fingers of his hand. Millington, sensing the way the wind was turning, allowed himself the beginnings of a smile.

“Okay,” Skelton said, hands now flat on his desk, “Graham, lean on this informant of yours just as far as you think you safely can, your own judgement. Meantime, we’ll chase Churchill up on the computer, last known addresses, whatever we can. Contact Interpol and the Spanish police and see if they can locate Rains, be nice to know where he is. If he’s been traveling here regularly it’s possible he’s been using an assumed name, in which case it might be the one he’s living under over there. Divine’s been checking the flight manifests for this French caper of his, much of the information we want should either be on file, or, better still, on disk.” He looked from one to the other. “Gentlemen, let’s keep this pretty much to ourselves for the time being, but meantime why don’t we run with it as far as we can?”

Both Resnick and Millington got to their feet and turned to leave.

“Graham,” Skelton said, calling him back. “Good work. Much more of this, we’ll run out of excuses to keep you where you are.”

Millington was so chuffed, he came close to colliding with the door on the way out.